Part 10 (2/2)

He asked if I'd look after his dad. He knew he must be worried sick about his only son. He promised to write again as soon as he could and begged me to write him too. Any word from home sure meant a lot, but a word from me would mean everything. There were four more letters, but I couldn't bear to read them. Samuel had been gone almost a year, and he had never heard from me. He didn't know that I thought about him every day. He didn't know that I dreamed about him every night. He didn't know that I missed him so much it hurt. He didn't know that I had climbed to the top of Tinker Mountain and sobbed and screamed for Samuel Stephenson. He didn't know any of that. All he knew, or thought he knew, was that I didn't care, that I didn't love him anymore. Surely I loved someone else, someone different, someone better.

I found myself huddled in my bed, not really remembering how I got there. I hid under my pillow for the rest of the afternoon, crying for Samuel and hating my mother. I wished spitting in her coffee would make me feel better. But I knew there wasn't enough coffee or enough spit to make this right. Even with her Bible in her hand, she had found a way to be deceitful and cruel, prejudiced and judgmental. She might as well have slapped me across the face. This time I could see myself falling down the hard marble steps in front of our house, Samuel's letters swirling about my head. I reached for them. I tried to grab them. But they all blew away.

The sun was almost below the horizon by the time Adelaide knocked on my bedroom door. She looked like a cold, scared kitten, worried she had only made matters worse by sharing something that had always belonged to me. I could see the desperation in every limb of her body, the exhaustion from living with a mother who, in one way or another, had always been drunk. And even though Adelaide was beginning to look more and more like a woman, she still felt like a child to me, a little girl who needed to be loved right, as Maizelle would say. I held her hand and told her everything would be fine. I wasn't exactly sure how I knew that. I hadn't seen a sign of any kind or heard a voice from the great beyond. Just somehow, for the first time in my life, I knew it to be true. I stroked my sister's back, and after a while, she fell asleep.

I left Adelaide in my bed and snuck downstairs and called Uncle Thad. I didn't even wait for him to say h.e.l.lo. I told him to come to Grove Hill. It was time to talk to Mother. I knew what I had to say, but I desperately needed my uncle with me. And while I waited for him on the front steps of my ancestral home, I looked across the lawn already covered in a light evening fog and saw the first Bezellia, hunched over her husband's dying body, the musket heavy in her hands and the smoke from the last shot burning her eyes. She looked about my age, no more than that. And there she was, holding her dying husband in her arms. In that moment, she was brave and fearless, maybe not by choice but certainly by circ.u.mstance. Father had said her blood was running through my veins, and now more than ever I hoped he was right.

Mother argued and fussed and cried when I told her she needed to go. She begged to stay at Grove Hill, sounding much like Adelaide when she was a little girl and was told she would be spending the summer with her grandparents. I told her that she was not well, but surely she already knew that. I told her she deserved this time away to care for herself after dealing with Father's death and Adelaide's peculiarities and everything else she deemed tragic that had been left for her to manage alone. Some time by the water would surely do her some good.

Uncle Thad, who had sat between us, silently offering us both some much needed strength and courage, took Mother's hands in his and told her that she really had no other choice. If she refused to go, then he could not allow Adelaide and me to stay at Grove Hill. He needed to know that we were safe in our own home. Mother burst into tears, and even though she pulled her hands away from Uncle Thad's, she just sat motionless in her chair, seemingly unsure of what to do next. I looked at her with a fixed expression, afraid that, if I even blinked, my resolve would also melt into tears. In the morning, Uncle Thad said, she should be packed and ready to go.

Then he helped her back to her room and stayed by her side till he was certain she was asleep. By the time Uncle Thad left, the rest of the house had grown unbearably quiet. Adelaide had drifted back to the den and was now knitting and watching television, neither activity fully capturing her attention. Maizelle was in bed reading her Bible. She left her door open slightly so she could listen for my little sister during the night. I told Maizelle that wasn't necessary anymore, but she said she would be listening for her babies till the day she died. I poked my head in her room and told her that I was headed out for a while. She furrowed her brow and looked up from her Bible and asked if I knew what I was doing. I told her I didn't know much of anything right now, I just needed a little fresh air, and then I headed downstairs and called Cornelia.

My cousin and I had both been so busy tending to our own lives that we hadn't talked in a very long time, at least not about anything of any importance. Now I was missing her, missing her terribly, and was so grateful she was home.

”d.a.m.n it, girl, I was wondering when were you going to get in touch with me.” Cornelia was laughing on the other end of the telephone. ”I was getting kind of tired of talking to dear Aunt Liz,” she said, barely pausing to take a breath, admitting that she had called my house three or four times during the past week, apparently never trusting her aunt to tell the truth about my arrival.

I told her, given the circ.u.mstances, that was probably smart and that I'd be waiting for her on the front porch. A few minutes later, Cornelia sped up the driveway in the yellow Volkswagen Beetle that Uncle Thad had bought her when she came home from college after her freshman year. Mother always said that it was the worst looking car in town and that it reeked of those d.a.m.n chickens. My cousin squealed when I jumped in the front seat. She leaned across the steering wheel and hugged my neck, accidentally hitting the horn with her left elbow. I told her she better hit the gas before my mother came looking for me, and then I dropped my head in my hands and started to cry.

”What's going on, Bee? What's Aunt Liz done now? Daddy said she's going to need another one of her special vacations. Except this time he said she's going to have to stay at the Motel Six and not the Ritz-Carlton, or something like that.”

With my head still buried in my hands, I nodded and then muttered something about Adelaide's little knitted sack and Samuel's letters. Then words like Ruddy and Reverend Foster and Johnny Cash and Jesus Christ all started blending together, forming some kind of verbal cyclone that ripped a path right through my cousin's little car, none of it making any sense at all.

And when I finally ran out of strength, Cornelia told me to take a deep breath and start over again. ”This time so I can understand you.”

I tried to take a deep breath, but I started laughing instead.

”Girl, what has gotten into you? One minute you're crying and the next minute you're cracking up. You sure you're okay?”

”Your car really does smell like chickens,” I said, ignoring Cornelia's concern.

”Ha. Very funny, Bee. That's because Daddy's always leaving the windows down and two of his favorite hens love to sleep in the backseat. Even laid a couple of eggs back there the other day. But what about you? Are you sure you're okay?”

”Yeah. I think I am. I had really hoped that the G.o.d my mother keeps praying to was paying better attention this time and had worked some kind of miracle and turned her into someone good, someone normal, h.e.l.l, a magic fairy for all I care. But it was just an illusion, just a temporary illusion.

”You know, ever since I can remember, Cornelia, I've either hated her or felt sorry for her-nothing in between. And right this minute, I hate her and feel sorry for her. The only difference is that now I'm beginning to think I'm no better than she is-just another illusion of a nice girl when underneath it all I'm as much a mess as she is.”

”Lord, don't tell me you've started drinking too,” Cornelia teased, but she sounded a little more concerned than she had a moment ago.

”That's exactly what I've been doing. I've been doing nothing but drinking wine and listening to Led Zeppelin with an overachieving, overs.e.xed English professor while Samuel's getting shot at and my little sister's knitting baby booties and my mother is sneaking gin into her lemonade.”

”Wow. Back up. Start over. What overs.e.xed English teacher are you talking about? What the h.e.l.l have you been doing at that school, anyway?”

So sitting there in the driveway in my cousin's little yellow car, I shared the secrets of the past two years of my life. I started with Ruddy Semple and how I wanted to pull his pants off right there on Mount Juliet's white, sandy beach. I admitted that I wasn't really sure if it was genuine affection or outright l.u.s.t that had left me tugging on his belt or just the need to feel a boy wrap his arms around me.

Then I told her about meeting Samuel Stephenson under the cherrybark oaks and offering up my heart and my virginity not more than a few hours after my own father died, not more than a few hours after saying good-bye to Ruddy. But I loved Samuel. I knew that. I also knew that my mother would die if she caught her daughter with a black man, and I couldn't help but wonder if loving him like that in my own backyard was as much to punish her as to satisfy me.

I told her everything about Sarah Stanton Miller and Gloria Steinem and their fight for equality, and Mitch.e.l.l Franklin and his pa.s.sion for afternoon s.e.x. I told her about Samuel going to Vietnam and even showed her Adelaide's beautifully knitted sack and the letters she had found underneath my mother's bathroom sink. Cornelia took it all in, never interrupting to add an opinion or offer advice. She let me talk until there was really nothing more to say, and then she looked at me and smiled.

”Man, Bee. You just got home a couple of days ago.”

We both started laughing again, and Cornelia knocked the gears.h.i.+ft with her right knee. The car started rolling forward, and we both laughed even harder.

”You know, b.u.mble Bee,” Cornelia finally said as she turned back to face the front of the car. ”It's easy to get lost in that big name of yours. But I got news for you. There's a lot of people out there who don't care whether you're Bezellia Grove or Ophelia Rose. You know what I mean?”

But I just stared blankly, offering no sign of understanding.

”Okay, judging by that look on your face, I a.s.sume you don't. Let me spell it out for you in plain English. You do not have to do whatever you think it is a Grove is supposed to do. Take a lesson from Adelaide. Everybody thinks she's a little odd. h.e.l.l, I think she's the sanest one in that big old house of yours. Live your own life-not your mother's-no matter what anybody thinks. I don't want to be my mother probably any more than you want to be yours. I've seen my own mommy dearest all of about two times since I've been in Boston. She's too absorbed in her stupid paintings to pay me the least bit of attention.

”But, more importantly,” she went on, and she put both hands on the steering wheel, ”what you need to understand is that you really can 'forget all your troubles and forget all your cares, and go downtown. Things'll be great when you're downtown.'”

”What?” I stopped sniffling and started laughing again.

”That's right, Baby Bee. Petula Clark said it best. And that's where we're headed right now-downtown.” My cousin s.h.i.+fted into first gear and stepped on the accelerator. The car lurched forward, the tires screeching as we headed down the drive. I glanced back at the house and saw Adelaide's face in her bedroom window, her nose pressed against the gla.s.s. She waved good-bye. I blew her a kiss, and she pretended to catch it in her hand.

Cornelia turned a sharp left out of our driveway and headed toward town. She rolled down her window, and I rolled down mine. Our hair was blowing in the wind, las.h.i.+ng across our faces. Cornelia turned the radio up even louder. We sang along with Elvis Presley and Carole King, making up words when we didn't know the lyrics, her little yellow Beetle vibrating to the beat of the music.

We sped past the country club and then past the Hunts' house. Cars were parked along both sides of the street. Mrs. Hunt was having another party. Apparently her husband had forgiven her or never really cared that much in the first place that she had spent countless evenings curled up in my father's arms. We pa.s.sed churches and restaurants and Centennial Park.

Nashville had dubbed itself the Athens of the South long before I was born and built its very own Parthenon in the middle of this park just to prove it. It looked exactly like the one in Greece except this one was perfect, not standing in ruins. Mother had taken me there when I was five for a painting cla.s.s. But I thought the giant marble statues were scary and stood whimpering behind my mother's back instead of brus.h.i.+ng paint on my canvas like the other kids did. Mother marched me out to the car and spanked my bottom, said she hadn't brought me down here to act like a baby in front of her friends. I hated this park.

Cornelia turned the radio up a little louder and drove a little faster, and I started feeling a little better. Dimly lit office buildings and car dealers.h.i.+ps blended into bars and tattoo parlors. Cruising downtown with the windows open and the radio blaring, I felt as bright and electric as all the lights and neon signs distinguis.h.i.+ng one honky-tonk from another. I leaned my head out the window and let out a scream.

We pa.s.sed Tootsies Orchid Lounge and The Stage. People were crowded on the sidewalks, trying to press into one bar or another, the music of different bands drifting into the street. We stopped by Rotiers on the way home to eat a cheeseburger and fried dill pickles. A couple of boys from Vanderbilt lingered near our table and asked if we wanted some company. Cornelia scooted to the right, making just enough room for the boy with the dark brown hair to sit next to her. She c.o.c.ked her head to the left and indicated that I should do the same. But I didn't budge. I wasn't looking for a college boy with a drawer full of cashmere to try to make me feel better.

”Sorry, boys,” Cornelia said with such sugary affection that they both lingered a little longer hoping her friend would change her mind. But thankfully my cousin tossed her hair behind her back and grabbed her purse, indicating that we would be heading on our way, alone.

We got back in the car and just sat there for a few minutes, listening to the static on the radio, neither one of us bothering to find a better station. And somewhere beneath that constant, steady sound, I could still hear my mother crying, pleading with me not to send her away, and Samuel begging me to write him back. I rolled my window down and turned the radio up even louder. I told them both to hush, but they just kept making noise in my head.

I turned the k.n.o.b to the left and then to the right, flipping the radio from one station to the next until an anonymous, velvet-toned DJ interrupted the static. A surprise was coming up next, he promised, a brand-new song from a boy who grew up just down the road a ways. ”Here it is, folks, 'Big City Girl.'”

Cornelia swatted my hand, pus.h.i.+ng it away from the radio. ”This ought to be good,” she said with a full, bold laugh.

The sound coming from the dashboard was slow and mournful. But with the first stroke of the guitar, the tempo and mood changed, and I knew that the voice that filled that little yellow Beetle had filled my head before.

”She wore pearls around her neck and went to fancy schools

<script>