Authors: Virginia Brown
“Bitty thinks he’s just gone off with one of his women again,” I said. I hung my sweater on the rack and ran a hand through my hair to dislodge some of the rain that made it lie close to my scalp like a red and gray squirrel. More than once, I’ve caught Brownie staring at my head as if his enemy, The Squirrel, masquerades as my hair. That dog is absolutely fixated on squirrels.
Mama followed me into the living room where Daddy sat watching CNN on the main screen, with an old movie flickering on the small picture-in-picture. I’ve never quite figured out how people can be facile enough to watch two television shows at the same time. It’s all I can do to stay focused on one, and even then, I find myself forgetting the plotline before it’s halfway finished.
“Do you think so, Eddie?” Mama asked, and Daddy looked up from the TV.
“Think what?”
“That Philip Hollandale has run off with a woman again and isn’t really dead.”
Daddy shrugged. “I wouldn’t put much past that shyster. He’s liable to do almost anything.”
“Makes you wonder how he ever got elected, doesn’t it,” Mama said, and Daddy laughed.
“Like most politicians get elected, sweet pea,” he said. “They make promises to the big corporations in exchange for contribution money. The contribution money then buys them votes. Getting reelected depends on how well the politician keeps his promises, not how well he’s done in the job.”
“Oh Eddie, you sound so cynical,” Mama said, and went to sit down on the couch by him. “I’d rather think it’s the individual voters who elect a man to the job.”
“So would I, sweet pea,” Daddy said. “So would I.”
Brownie jumped up on the couch next to Mama and snuggled close, then looked up at me. When I saw his nose twitch and eyes focus on my hair, I decided retreat was in order and went upstairs to wash my hair and soak in the tub.
Later, after supper had been eaten, the dishes loaded in the dishwasher, and my parents left in front of the TV to reminisce with a Bob Hope movie about the madcap antics of World War II, I went back upstairs to sit out on the sleeping porch off the master bedroom and listen to the rain hit the windows. Days were getting longer, and a hint of gray light still lingered so that I could see the pale dots of cherry tree buds in the yard below.
As a little girl, I’d come here to sit with my mother in a comfortable chair for her to brush my hair and tell me stories or sing songs. There were a lot of cherry trees back then. A lot of people. This old farmhouse that had been home to my father as a boy, and his father before him, was always noisy with life. After Jack and Luke were killed within days of each other in the Tet offensive, the house seemed to draw in on itself, like the people inside. It’s odd how inanimate surroundings can take on the mood of its residents. Familiar rooms and furniture grow darker, somber, and no bright sunlight reaches the interior. Light filters in all muted and hazy, as if reluctant to dare shine at all. Visitors speak softly, afraid a loud word may shatter walls. Or break hearts.
Then, as futility and sorrow recede, maybe just a fraction at a time, the air gets a little bit lighter. Shadows shrink, and when someone laughs for the first time, the darkness slowly fades into memory. Only the faces of loved ones remain, fixed forever in our minds and hearts.
As great as my own grief was when my brothers died, I cannot imagine how my parents felt. Just the thought of losing my daughter, my only child, always prompts me to pick up the phone. Even if I only get her answering machine, I hear her voice and a connection is made, a reassurance that she’s still there, that she’s all right. Then I feel foolish for being a sentimental, needy mother with so much time on my hands that I interrupt my child’s life. And I think back to all the times my mother called me when my baby was fussy, or Perry and I were about to go out, or more likely arguing, and how I cut her short far too often and sometimes became annoyed that she seemed to call too much. Now I’m my mother.
Bitty’s right. My parents deserve every single moment of their lives to spend just as they want to, not as I expect them to live. It’s almost like having teenagers again, watching them make plans for the future without a thought as to possible dangers. I just hope I can survive it.
But I draw the line at white water rafting with them down the
Colorado River
. I just know I’d humiliate myself by falling out of the raft while they shot the rapids with no problem.
* * * *
I woke up the next morning feeling as if there was something I’d missed, that nagging feeling you get when you just know something important is supposed to be remembered, but for the life of you, you can’t think what it is. While sure it probably had something to do with Philip Hollandale, nothing came to mind even when I’d finished my first cup of coffee.
Mama and Daddy were out cooing to the cats and opening more twenty pound bags of cat chow. I saw them out the kitchen window, Mama already dressed in snazzy new tennis shoes and a pair of jeans, and Daddy wearing new Levi’s and a flannel shirt that he’d no doubt purchased at Sears. It doesn’t matter how many new department stores open up, my father is unwaveringly loyal to Sears, Roebuck, and Company. It doesn’t matter that Roebuck took off years ago for an undisclosed location, and that only Sears is sticking it out these days, minus the catalogue that I always pored over every Christmas if I could wrest it away from Emerald or my brothers. No tool or article of clothing worth having is sold anywhere else but Sears, according to Daddy.
When the gigantic Sears up in
Memphis
closed down thirty or so years ago, my father was devastated. Even I felt a twinge, remembering how I’d anticipated our annual Christmas visit to the twelve story department store on
Cleveland
with all the excitement and enthusiasm usually reserved for Santa’s slide down the chimney. Going to Sears was almost as good. Until that trip, the Christmas season hadn’t officially started for the Truevine family.
Back then, we took our 1951 dark blue Oldsmobile, three in the front, three in the back, up what’s now Old 78 Highway. That car was built like a tank. Either Emerald or I always had to sit between my brothers so they wouldn’t fight, but that only meant we risked getting punched or pinched instead. Getting chosen to sit up front was not only a privilege, but a relief. Mama took a supply of food along in case there was car trouble or traffic, and by the time we got to the parking lot we kids were so wound up that only the walk through the cold air to the store kept us from just spinning off like tops.
I remember the rush I always felt when the front door to Sears opened and that gush of warm air washed over me, smelling like popcorn, hot peanuts, leather gloves, and new denim Levi’s. None of the stores have that special fragrance anymore. If it could be bottled, any store using it would have to post traffic guards at all the entrances. It’s that potent.
Those are the kind of memories Bitty and I share, because she and her parents and brother always followed behind us in their car. Daddy’s brother, Bitty’s father, died a few years back, and Aunt Sarah not long after. Steven, Bitty’s brother, lives down in
Jackson
where he’s the CEO of a company that makes rubber grommets for machinery of some kind.
So there’s lots more to my connection with Bitty than just friendship or kinship. Coming back to Holly Springs is like reclaiming my childhood.
The phone rang just as I poured my second cup of coffee, and I knew it was Bitty.
“Are you ready for this?” she said before I got out all of my cheerful
Good morning
. “No body was found in the river. So instead of assuming he’s alive and off in
Mexico
, or somewhere in
Europe
with an eighteen year old girl whose bra size is bigger than her IQ, the reporters are suggesting that Philip has been murdered!”
Reasonable, I thought. “Bitty, have you forgotten seeing him laid out in Sherman Sanders’ foyer with a bloody head wound?”
“Honestly, Trinket, you don’t really think he’s dead, do you?”
I wasn’t sure, but I didn’t want to rule anything out, either.
“It’s possible,” I said cautiously.
“Yes, and it’s possible that Hugh Hefner can be monogamous, too, but I wouldn’t want to bet any money on it. I’m telling you, this is just one of Philip’s schemes. If he wants something, he’ll go to almost any lengths to get it, and I wouldn’t put it past him to have run off with all the money in the state treasury and leave me behind to go hungry.”
Since Bitty had gotten substantial amounts in three other divorce settlements, I didn’t think there was any danger of her starving to death in the next month, but it didn’t seem like the time to point that out.
“I’m not sure state senators have free access to treasury funds,” I said, “and even if they do, not even Philip is cunning enough to figure out how to pull that off without getting caught. Or dumb enough to try it. He’ll turn up soon.”
One way or the other
, I didn’t add.
“Well, they just need to focus on finding out where that weasel went instead of dragging the river and looking under rocks. I should call the police and tell them his favorite rendezvous spots where he hides out with his Slut of the Month.”
“No,” I said as firmly as I could. “Just stay home and off the phone. Read. Watch an old movie. Try not to think about it. You’re working yourself into a frenzy.”
“Maybe I’ll go visit Rayna. She’s always calming. Want to go with me?”
“Sure.” What else did I have to do anyway? No one had called me in for a job interview, and my parents were feeding the furry flocks with fishes and loaves while their neurotic dog ran madly around the yard barking at birds sitting in oak and cherry trees. It drives him crazy to have the yard invaded by birds or squirrels, but he ignores several dozen feral cats like they don’t even exist. Go figure.
When I got to Bitty’s house, she met me at the door before I could knock. Bitty always wears her hair in the latest styles, something suitable for a fifty-one year old woman going on thirty. It’s usually loose, soft, and frames her face very attractively. It startled me to see it pulled straight back into a knot on the nape of her neck. She wore a black jersey and matching pants, and no jewelry. Even her flat shoes and opaque socks were black.
“Good God,” I said, “who are you supposed to be? The grieving widow?”
She narrowed her eyes. “He’s
not
rrsid12992214 dead, just absconded with state funds and a bimbo.”
“Ah. I keep forgetting that. So what’s with the death clothes?”
“Black is slimming. I’ve put on a few pounds. Stress makes me eat. Last night I ate an entire box of chocolate cupcakes. Then I threw up, but since my stomach was empty, I had a bag of potato chips to settle it. Do I look fat in this?”
“No. You look like you belong in a heavy metal band. All you need is a ring in your nose and one in your eyebrow. Use gold. It’s shinier.”
“I suppose you think you’re funny.” Bitty went to the coat closet right off the wide front entrance hall and took out a black crocheted cape. “They’re in style,” she said when she saw me staring at her. “It’s a poncho. Don’t you like it?”
“It’s lovely, Elvira. But doesn’t it get too warm in your coffin?”
“One more death joke,” Bitty muttered, “and I swear I’ll make reservations in Vegas for Uncle Eddie and Aunt Anna. My treat.”
If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s when to shut up.
Rayna was in the middle of painting a landscape when we arrived at the hotel. I mean that literally. It was something new she was trying. A gigantic canvas propped up by an easel under the skylight had swathes of vivid red, blue, and yellow paint. Rayna squirted green paint out of a tube onto her palm and swept her hand across the canvas, then dragged her fingers up in a twist that produced definite blades of grass. She used her thumb or fingertip to dot seed pods here and there, and a couple of entwined fingers formed tree trunks. Daubs of paint covered her from her scarf-protected head to her toes, like she’d actually rolled around on the canvas at one point.
“What do you think?” she asked, standing back and looking at it critically. “A finance company in Memphis wants something bright, new, and huge. Innovative.”
“Use real seed pods in a few places,” Bitty said. “They dry nicely. That’ll give it a three-D effect.”
Rayna pointed in the direction of a bunch of twigs, bark, and grass lying on a small table. One of her cats happily chewed on a chickweed stem. “I thought of that, too. It’s not exactly an entirely new art form, but I think it will be striking enough to catch the eye when hung behind the receptionist desk, don’t you?”
We all agreed that it would be. Rayna has an excellent eye for color and form. She’s very artistic. In first grade she drew people with actual arms, legs, fingers and toes, dressed in pants with belts and hats with feathers, while the rest of us were still trying to master stick figures.
When Rayna divested herself of her paint-drenched mechanic’s overalls and scarf, we all went outside in her garden to sit in the sunshine and drink sweet tea. After paraphrasing Dolly Parton’s line from
Steel Magnolias
, “Have a glass of sweet tea, it’s the house wine of the South,” Rayna got right down to the subject on all our minds.
“Do you think Philip is dead?”
“I think he’s laughing his butt off in
Acapulco
while some sweet young thing is waxing his ding-a-ling is what I think,” Bitty said tartly, hardly a surprising comment to Rayna or myself. We both just nodded.
“If he is,” Rayna said after a moment, “the police will find him. It’s amazing the things they can do now. And you have to admit, Bitty, Philip never was that good at hiding his covert activities. Remember the time he told you there was an emergency meeting of Congress and he had to go to
Washington
?”
Bitty rolled her eyes. “And he shacked up in the Holiday Inn right next to 78 Highway with Naomi Spencer and left his car out front for God and everybody to see. Dumb as a box of rocks, both of them.”