Bound South

by Susan Rebecca White

  There was no doubt the man who looked so much like Daddy was Luke Meadows, the star of Salt of the Earth. And just from looking at his photo, I could understand why Missy wanted him back so desperately, even after he’d been gone for so many years. It was obvious the man had real charisma.

  I had to sit down on Charles’s bed I was breathing so hard. And my mind was spinning with questions: could Daddy have gotten Miss Winnie pregnant all those years ago?

  I thought to myself, Holy Christ. If Luke Meadows was actually Daddy’s son, and not the son of the man Miss Winnie married, the preacher, then that would make Luke Meadows my half-brother, and that would make Missy a cousin of Caroline and Charles.

  But no. It didn’t make sense. Because if Luke had been Daddy’s son, wouldn’t we have found out about it? Wouldn’t Miss Winnie have made sure Mother knew? Instead of giving Mother a gold necklace, wouldn’t she have taken the money Mother offered? And even if she refused the money out of pride, wouldn’t she at least have told Mother about Luke all those years later, when Mother ran into her at Sam’s Club?

  And isn’t it possible for two men—two white, Protestant men—to look similar to each other without being related?

  I put the photo back in the yearbook, put the yearbook in one of the brown cardboard boxes already filled with books, taped it shut, and stuck it in the attic with the mice. At dinner when John Henry asked me about my day, I mentioned nothing.

  But I had insomnia that night, my mind continuing to spin out questions: What if Luke is Daddy’s son? What does that mean? How should it affect our lives? Should it affect our lives? Is there not a statute of limitation on Daddy’s transgressions, on the ever-generating consequences of his having taken Miss Winnie for a convertible ride, so many years ago, on that gorgeous spring day? Considering that Luke was in no way raised as a part of our family, that no one even knows where he currently is, that Missy’s mother voluntarily cut off her connection with our family before Missy’s baby was born, and that before she did, my family’s involvement with theirs only caused them greater problems—a child born to a child!—does it matter that we might be related?

  During that sleepless night, for the thousandth time, I asked myself, Was there anything I could have done to change the trajectory of Missy’s life? I offered encouragement to her as a child. I loaned her mother money whenever she needed it. And after she went to Durham, I offered money for an abortion. I gave her mother a thousand dollars—a thousand dollars!—when she quit.

  But do I owe them more?

  Caroline would say that yes, I should offer all I have to give, regardless of DNA. I should treat Missy and her mother and her mother’s husband as family, simply because they were a part of our lives, and because Charles’s actions irrevocably altered theirs. Nanny Rose would have voiced an unequivocal no, damn the blood if it’s not legitimate. In Nanny Rose’s world, the only children that matter in one’s genealogy are those born safely within the confines of marriage, and preferably a marriage for which the reception was held at the Driving Club.

  And where does that leave me? Philosophically, somewhere in between Nanny Rose and Caroline. Also suspicious of interference. Afraid it will do more harm than good. Afraid of the old adage: “No good deed goes unpunished.” Wondering if maybe it’s time my family leaves the Meadows family in peace. A continued withdrawal, regardless of the damage previously wrought.

  (Though maybe some sort of trust fund for the child, for Grace? Arranged, perhaps, without the knowledge of my husband?)

  “Louise?” asks John Henry.

  “Yes,” I say, smiling, aware that I have been caught spacing out.

  “Would you like another glass of wine with your meal?” he asks.

  I look down and see that my hamburger has been set before me. I look up and realize that our waitress is standing by my chair, obviously having asked me about wine multiple times.

  “Sure,” I say. “I’m having the pinot. And may I also have a glass of iced tea? Unsweet with lemon?”

  “I didn’t realize people in the South drank anything but sweet tea,” says Sam as the waitress puts his bacon cheeseburger before him.

  “Well I must not be a real southerner,” I say, “because I can’t stand it sweet.”

  “Believe me, Mom, if anyone is a real southerner, you are,” says Caroline.

  “Mother was a sweet-tea drinker,” says John Henry.

  “She would put four cups of sugar in every pitcher. It was so good,” says Charles.

  “Was your mother a big sweet-tea drinker?” I ask Jack, who has been mostly silent.

  “My mother liked sweet tea but her staple was Coca-Cola, in the eight-ounce glass bottle.”

  “Not Co-Cola?” asks Stephen, with a smile. He shifts in his chair so the waitress can place a plate of prime rib with french fries in front of him.

  “Oh, you know that’s affectation,” I say, shaking salt on my own fries. “No one really says it that way anymore unless they’re trying to be southern.”

  “My mother mixed her Co-Cola with rum and drank her Coca-Cola straight,” says Tiny.

  Sam laughs and Tiny flashes me a look, which I interpret to mean, Encourage Caroline to keep this one around. Tiny adores anyone who will laugh at her jokes.

  “I love Coke in the eight-ounce glass bottles,” says Caroline. “I can sometimes find them at Safeway, but a six-pack costs about five bucks.”

  “I remember when you could get one for five cents,” says Stephen. He holds his martini glass up, signaling to the waiter that he wants another.

  “Five cents a six-pack?” asks Caroline.

  “Five cents a bottle.”

  I wait until I have swallowed my fry before saying, “I remember when people actually responded to RSVPs, wrote thank-you notes after parties, and didn’t have private phone conversations in public.”

  Clearly I have decided to cast my lot with the grumpy old ladies.

  “I smell imperialist nostalgia,” says Charles, in a singsong voice.

  I take a sip from my new glass of wine. “Sweetheart, how can I be an imperialist when I’ve never lived anywhere but in the United States?”

  “Ha!” Charles barks. “You think that it’s possible to be a wealthy citizen of the United States and not be considered an imperialist?”

  “Why don’t we hit the brakes on this train before it wrecks, and get back to our dinner?” suggests John Henry. The plate of food before him certainly looks worth getting back to, pieces of seasoned chicken stacked on top of one another, with a side of dirty rice.

  “Why don’t we get back to stories about Nanny Rose?” says Caroline. She is having the grilled chicken salad with peanut sauce. When she first ordered it I was tempted to tell her that even though it’s a salad, it’s not low-cal.

  I held my tongue.

  “I want to hear more about her,” says Sam. “She sounds like a real character.”

  I glance at John Henry, wondering if it irritates him to hear his deceased mother described as a character. He puts a big bite of chicken in his mouth. He doesn’t look too concerned.

  “You think the United States is an imperialist nation, don’t you?” Charles asks Sam.

  I cannot wait for my son to outgrow this confrontational phase.

  “I think it’s a complicated nation,” says Sam.

  “Like the South!” I say, trying once again to get Charles off subject. “Like Atlanta.”

  “Louise, honey, Atlanta isn’t the South anymore,” says Tiny, eating her ribs with a knife and fork. “It’s L.A. with no beach.”

  “You just read that somewhere,” I say. “Atlanta is the South. I’m drinking iced tea, right?”

  “Unsweet,” Sam and Caroline say at the same time.

  There goes one of their looks again.

  “I think the South might have died with Mother,” says John Henry.

  “Look away, look away…,” sings Charles.

  “Well I’m southern,” says Stephen, “and you
haven’t buried me yet. I still write thank-you notes and let people know whether or not I’m coming to their parties, and I don’t answer my cell phone in public unless it’s an emergency.”

  “That’s why we love you, darling,” says Tiny.

  “I just realized something,” I say. “I don’t think the South is dead at all. I think gay men have simply replaced the old southern matrons.”

  “I love it,” says Tiny.

  “Here, here,” says Stephen, lifting his martini glass.

  Charles is wearing his most scornful face. “Hello, Mom? I don’t really aspire to be an old southern matron.”

  “Attaboy,” says Jack, raising his beer bottle to Charles.

  Sam laughs again. “Y’all are such fun,” he says.

  I’m glad he perceives this conversation as fun, though Charles is actually making me a little tense.

  “People from California say y’all?” asks Tiny.

  “No, it’s just that Sam has an obsession with all things southern. He’s already made me take him to Krispy Kreme twice since we’ve been in Atlanta, even though there’s one near the San Francisco airport,” says Caroline.

  I wonder: if Sam is obsessed with all things southern, does that mean Sam might want to live in the South one day?

  “Okay, I have the true test of whether or not one is really southern,” says Caroline.

  “Is it whether or not you’re a racist?” asks Charles, sitting up straight and blinking his eyes like an earnest student.

  “For goodness’ sake, Charles!” I scold. “What a terrible thing to say.”

  I want to remind him that there are black people sitting at tables all around us and maybe he should be a little more sensitive. But Charles will jump all over me if I say that; he’ll say something about how my being uncomfortable talking about race in front of black people proves that I am a racist.

  I look to John Henry, but he is busy taking a swig of beer, probably to help alleviate his irritation with his son. I follow his lead and drain my glass of wine in one long sip.

  “I don’t mean to make a speech…,” says Sam.

  “But you’re going to anyway,” says Caroline, smiling.

  “From my experience working in a predominantly black public school in Oakland, I’m willing to say that it’s much, much tougher to be black in America than it is to be white. There are exceptions to every rule of course, but the bottom line is even if people don’t mean to be racist, our system privileges white people—at least, white people who aren’t really poor—and a lot of white people refuse to acknowledge that.

  “That said, I think some white southerners, because they are so aware of the South’s history, do acknowledge that. More so than, say, white people from New Hampshire, where I’m originally from. So, Charles, man, I hate to say it, but I don’t think whether or not one is a racist is a litmus test for southern citizenship. Now, whether or not it’s a litmus test for American citizenship might be a discussion worth having.”

  “‘Might be,’” says Caroline, laughing. “As if you don’t initiate that discussion every other day or so!”

  “I think Sam’s point is well made,” John Henry says, which is surprising, given that John Henry is usually more interested in discussing his own hard work than in acknowledging the privileges he has been granted. My guess is he’s just happy to have someone at the table who can win an argument with Charles.

  I’m tempted to ask Sam about the exquisitely dressed black people eating all around us, to see where they fit into his theory on race. What if you’re wealthy and black? Or what if you’re poor and white, like Missy? I’m not trying to be contentious. It’s a question I think about a lot, knowing that Atlanta is considered a mecca of opportunity for middle-and upper-class African Americans, but also knowing that many of those working menial jobs around the city, and the majority of homeless people I pass on the street, are black.

  Is the bottom line always money? Does wealth trump everything? I know that I certainly feel more powerful now that I’m earning money of my own.

  “There are plenty of white southerners who don’t acknowledge their privilege,” says Charles. “Or who do, but who only discuss race with white people.”

  He arches an eyebrow and looks at us all.

  “I’ve got to tell you, son,” says Jack, “I’m not big on discussing race with anyone.”

  “Is that right?” asks Charles, his voice oozing derision.

  “Can I please give my test that will reveal who at this table is a real southern dame?” asks Caroline.

  “I don’t think I’ll qualify, sweetheart,” says John Henry.

  Caroline smiles. “You’re absolutely right, Dad. You will not qualify. But for the rest of you, here goes. Pretend it is Thanksgiving and you have just enjoyed a multiple-course turkey dinner including two servings of cornbread stuffing, sweet potatoes with marshmallows, green beans almandine, and a big old piece of pecan pie with real whipped cream.”

  Good Lord, if that’s the way Caroline eats no wonder she has gained so much weight.

  Stop it, Louise, I tell myself.

  “After dinner you retire to your daughter-in-law’s living room, where your son and she and their two gorgeous, darling children all sprawl about, letting their food digest. You notice that sitting on the coffee table is a pretty wooden bowl with twelve perfectly ripe raspberries in it. You think to yourself, A nice juicy raspberry is just what I need to cap off my wonderful Thanksgiving feast. So you reach over and pop the raspberry into your mouth.”

  Oh! Suddenly I recognize the story she is telling, and I get a little jolt of excitement. It’s a good one.

  “But suddenly you are quite aware that the raspberry in your mouth did not grow on any bush. And there is nothing juicy or succulent about it. Indeed, it is hard and cold on your tongue, for it is made of painted porcelain.”

  “Twenty dollars a raspberry,” I add, interrupting Caroline. “Hand-painted.”

  “Oh no,” says Stephen.

  Caroline continues, “Once you realize that the raspberry you have placed in your mouth is porcelain, you look around the room and notice that your eleven-year-old granddaughter is staring right at you, and you are pretty sure she witnessed you eating the porcelain berry. So the question is, What do you do if you are a true southern dame?”

  I look around the table. John Henry looks confused. Jack is yawning. Charles is still glaring at Jack. Stephen and Tiny are on the edge of their seats.

  “Honey, you swallow that berry,” says Stephen. “Because if there’s no evidence that it ever went in your mouth, then your nosy little granddaughter can’t tell on you. And if she does, you just deny the charges. You claim that the one you ate was real.”

  “Yes!” cries Caroline. “Exactly! Nanny Rose looked right at me and then she swallowed the raspberry. I saw it go down her throat.”

  “Mother did that?” asks John Henry.

  “She did,” I say. “Caroline told me about it afterwards and when I counted the berries, there were only eleven in the bowl instead of the twelve I had originally purchased.”

  “She didn’t!” cries Tiny, clapping her hands and laughing.

  “Isn’t that perfect?” says Caroline.

  “You never told me that story,” says Sam.

  “I haven’t thought about it in years.”

  “I guess I’m not a real southern lady,” says Tiny. “I would not swallow glass just to get out of looking like a fool.”

  “Don’t look at me,” I say. “I would never have swallowed something that expensive unless it was caviar.”

  “I think it’s fair to say that none of us are dedicated to putting on as dignified a front as Nanny Rose was,” says Stephen.

  “To Mother,” says John Henry. “The last of her kind.”

  “Here, here!” I say.

  We raise our glasses and clink them against each other.

  Our separate yearnings lift and collide.

  Acknowledgments

/>   Thank you to Suzanne Gluck at William Morris for introducing me to the lovely and intrepid Shana Kelly, who read nascent drafts of Bound South and encouraged me to keep going. Shana, your enduring faith in me, and your willingness to read my work at all stages, contributed enormously to my ability to bring this book to fruition. You are a treasure, and Miss Ella is one lucky lady.

  Endless thanks to the amazing Trish Grader, whose highly developed sense of story and impeccable editing helped make Bound South the book it was meant to be. Trish, you were a pleasure to work with and I look forward to our next collaboration!

  A special thanks to the editors of the magazines and journals that previously published portions of this book: Youmna Chlala and Brent Foster Jones at Eleven Eleven; Agnes Scott College’s Lisa Alembik, who edited Blackbird on your shoulder: stories and other truths from the South; and Rebecca Burns and Paige Williams at Atlanta magazine.

  Had I not attended the graduate program in creative writing at Hollins University, I would probably still be dreaming of being a writer, instead of actually being one. Thanks especially to Wayne Johnston, for insisting that I allow the novel to find its own shape.

  The Hambidge Center provided a gorgeous refuge while I made the final edits on this book. Thanks especially to Bob, Debbie, and Ray, who are fast becoming my mountain family away from home.

  I am grateful for my wonderful group of friends, both near and far. Special thanks to the continual spiritual, psychological, and creative support offered by Kasey Foster, Laura Reynolds, and Katharine Powell. Thank you also to the members of my fabulous writing group, Sheri Joseph, Beth Gylys, Megan Sexton, and Peter McDade, who have inspired me with their talent and generosity, and who have helped me transfer my creative life—almost seamlessly—from San Francisco to Atlanta. And thank you so much to Susan Bridges, southern dame extraordinaire, who represents everything I love about Atlanta, and who has helped my creative journey in endless ways.