Bittersweet (2 page)

American bittersweet,
Celastrus scandens
, is a climbing vine that can grow to twenty feet. A native, it is reported to occur throughout most of the eastern two-thirds of North America, from Canada to Texas. Other common names include climbing bittersweet, false bittersweet, climbing orangeroot, fevertwig, fever-twitch, staff vine, and Jacob's ladder. It prefers a sunny location and neutral soil. As a climber, it is a valuable ornamental landscape plant that can control erosion and harbor wildlife. Its orange berrylike fruits are produced in late summer and autumn, in hanging clusters that provide winter food for grouse, pheasant, quail, rabbit, squirrel, and deer. Fruit-bearing branches and twigs are prized for holiday wreaths and dried arrangements.

If you plan to add this vine to your landscape, be sure to choose the native American bittersweet, rather than the invasive pest Oriental bittersweet (
Celastrus orbiculatus
), which is sometimes sold in nurseries. Aggressive Oriental bittersweet vines can girdle and smother trees and shrubs and have overwhelmed entire plant communities. This imported plant bully not only outcompetes and displaces our indigenous American bittersweet, but can also hybridize with it. Widespread hybridization could genetically disrupt the native bittersweet population to the point of extinction. In some states, Oriental bittersweet has been listed as a prohibited noxious weed and targeted for eradication.

China Bayles
“Native Plants for Wildlife Gardens”
Pecan Springs Enterprise

Sometimes it's hard to know just when and where a particular story begins. Once you know the ending, you can trace it back to a dozen different starting points, places where you can say, “It all started here,” or “This is where it began.” But that's not the whole of it, either—because each of those starting points is the ending of another story, which has a beginning somewhere else, which is the ending of yet another story. It's like a vine. Sometimes you can't untangle it.

So when I tell you that this story begins on the Monday morning of Thanksgiving week, it's because I have to start somewhere, and that day is as good as any other. I remember that particular day because my herb shop is closed on Mondays and I was taking the opportunity to do some restocking and decorating for the coming holiday season. Up until that moment, it had been a very ordinary day, full of the ordinary kinds of Monday things. I was standing on the stepladder, making room on the wall for the half-dozen wreaths that had just arrived, when the phone rang—the phone call that pulled me into a chain of events that wouldn't end until three people were dead.

Over my shoulder, I called to Ruby Wilcox, who was unpacking a big box beside the counter. “Hey, Ruby, get that, would you?”

“Why?” Ruby asked, taking a box cutter to a large cardboard carton. “We're closed. Let the machine pick up.”

“It could be Brian. I called to remind him about Thanksgiving dinner at the ranch.” My stepson is a freshman at the University of Texas, and corralling him for family get-togethers is not an easy business. I have to make a date with him weeks ahead, and then remind him—more than once. In this case, though, I knew he wanted to be reminded.
Thanksgiving at my mother's South Texas ranch has become a family tradition. It's something we look forward to.

“On it,” Ruby said, and reached for the phone.

I cocked my head to one side, surveying the wall, pleased that I'd been able to clear enough space to hang at least four of the six beautiful twenty-four-inch bittersweet wreaths that Ruby was unpacking. They'd been sent by a Michigan wreath maker I had recently met online, and I was anxious to put them up. Bittersweet isn't available locally, and these were gorgeous. They would probably be gone by the weekend.

I straightened a holly wreath, tweaked a burlap bow, then climbed back down the ladder. “Brian?” I mouthed to Ruby, who was holding the cordless phone to her ear.

She shook her head, said, “Here she is, Leatha,” and handed me the phone, then went tactfully back to work.

“Hey, Mom.” I leaned against the counter. “What's up?”

There was a time when a telephone call from my mother would have sent me into a near-fatal tailspin. My childhood memories of her are blurry, as if I'm seeing her in a foggy mirror, but my grownup bitterness was sharp edged and painful. All that stuff you read about difficult, dysfunctional mother-daughter relationships? It's all true, what you've heard, at least where mine was concerned. It was dysfunctional to the core. My mother was an alcoholic.

But as Leatha would say, she is a
recovering
alcoholic, and we've become closer since she went clean and straight. We survived a terrifying family crisis a few years ago, when we discovered that Leatha's aunt Tully was suffering from Huntington's disease, a fatal genetic neurological disorder, and it looked like my mother and I were in line to inherit it. (Thankfully, not.) There'd been another crisis after that, when some of the
mysteries around my father's death—his murder, as it turned out—were exhumed. I learned that I had a half brother I'd never met, the product of my father's decades-long extramarital affair with a woman who wasn't my mother. Leatha and I managed somehow to muddle through all that messy stuff together, and since then, things have been better. Not idyllic, of course. Just . . . better.

“I'm so glad I caught you, China,” Leatha said, in that sweet Southern voice that pours through you like warm honey. She grew up in Mississippi, on a plantation in the Delta Country of the Yazoo River. Jordan's Crossing is gone now, sold to pay for Aunt Tully's nursing care. But some part of the place still lives on in my mother. I can hear it in her accent.

Like most Southern women, my mother was taught to keep unpleasantness at bay for as long as possible. But today, she sounded anxious. “I'm afraid I've got bad news,” she said, almost as if she were apologizing. “It's . . . it's Sam. He's in the hospital.”

My heart began to thump. Sam Richards, my mother's second husband, is the nearest thing I have to a real father. He's thoughtful, affectionate, caring—everything my own father wasn't—and I've grown to love him.

“Uh-oh,” I said, pulling in my breath. “Oh, Mom, I'm so sorry. What was it? An accident? Is he going to be all right?”

Leatha and Sam live on a 3,000-acre ranch on the Sabinal River in Uvalde County, not far from the little town of Utopia in south central Texas. Sam inherited the ranch from his father, who for most of his life raised registered cattle, aiming to preserve the breed. In his later years, though, the elder Mr. Richards imported a dozen species of rare African game animals and sold hunting leases—permission to hunt on the land
for a day, a specific season (deer season, for example), or a year or more—to wealthy men who wanted the adventure of shooting wild game.

That had been Sam's scheme, too. When he and Leatha got married a few years ago, they added a couple of units to the hunting lodge his father had built on the ranch in the 1970s and began advertising exotic game hunts. It was a successful enterprise until last year, when Sam decided he no longer wanted to be involved with what some people call “canned hunts”—shooting animals that are confined on a fenced game ranch until they're mature enough to be killed for the shooter's trophy collection. He and Leatha named their place the Bittersweet Nature Sanctuary, for the clear, spring-fed Bittersweet Creek that flows into the Sabinal River near the ranch house. They renovated the old lodge, put up a website, and plan to open the new enterprise in the spring to eco-tourists and vacationers who are interested in birding, a passion that Sam and my mother share. Uvalde County, on the southern escarpment of the Edwards Plateau and the northern edge of the South Texas Brush Country, is remarkably eco-diverse. It's a mecca for birders.

“No, it wasn't an accident,” my mother replied. I could hear the tautness in her voice, like a violin string pulled tight and vibrating. “It's his heart, China. They did surgery, but there've been . . . well, complications.”

His
heart
? Complications? I shuddered. Sam is a strong man, an outdoor man, fit, active, energetic. But a bad heart can cut even a tough guy down to size very quickly. “Where is he?
How
is he? Will he be okay?”

“He's in Kerrville. It's a good hospital, and good doctors. But they won't know how he is, really, for a day or two.”

“I'll come down the way we planned,” I said, thinking ahead. “But you won't want our bunch for Thanksgiving. It'll be too much.” Since she
married Sam, my mother had surprised me with her resilience. But I've known her a long time, and I know that she is more fragile than she seems. She has a breaking point. Maybe I don't trust her enough, but I'm always aware that too much pressure might endanger her hard-won sobriety. Worrying about Sam might tip her over the edge.

“No!” she exclaimed. Then, more quietly, “No. Sam is very firm about this, China. He's insisting that we have our family Thanksgiving, just as we always do. He says he'd feel even worse if we cancel just because he can't be there. In fact, we'd already invited another guest—Mackenzie Chambers, our local game warden. Sam met her at a ranchers' meeting a couple of months ago, and we've had her out to the ranch a time or two. When she told me that she'd lived in Pecan Springs, I asked if she knew you and she said yes. She has no family here—and she's looking forward to seeing you again.”

“Goes for me, too,” I said. Until a few months ago, Mack had been a game warden here in Adams County. I first met her through a friend, Sheila Dawson, the Pecan Springs chief of police, who had a high opinion of Mack's investigative skills. Sheila and Mack had worked together on a case or two. Then Mack and I became friends and saw each other often—in fact, for a while, Brian and I babysat her collection of turtle shells, which her ex-husband Lanny didn't appreciate, in the same way he didn't appreciate most of Mack's interests. Since she moved, we kept in touch via email.

“But I can see Mack later,” I went on. “I'm sure we'd all understand if you canceled. You don't have to do this, you know. Or, if it would be easier, I can come down by myself. I want to see Sam.”

“But it's Thanksgiving and I want our
family
,” she protested. In a
more upbeat voice, she added, “Anyway, the worst of it will be over by then. Sam won't be home, but at least he'll be out of the woods. And of course you can see him—although you have something already planned for Friday in Utopia, don't you?”

“Well, yes,” I conceded. “I'm supposed to bring a load of plants for Jennie Seale's garden.” Jennie is expanding her small restaurant just outside Utopia—Jennie's Kitchen—and plans to have an herb garden all around the patio dining area. We'd already drawn up the planting diagram, and I had special-ordered many of the plants. Most were perennials, and this was the perfect time of year to get them settled in the ground. They'd be rarin' to grow come spring.

“That settles it, then,” my mother said firmly. “You and I will go into Kerrville on Thanksgiving morning and visit Sam. We can have our family dinner on Thanksgiving evening. When are you coming?”

“I thought Caitie and I would drive down Wednesday afternoon, so we can help with the pies and other stuff. Oh, and she wants to bring her cat. Is that okay?” Caitie—Caitlin—is my twelve-year-old niece. My husband, Mike McQuaid, and I adopted her a couple of years ago. She's very dear to my mother, even though she's the daughter of my father's illegitimate son. (I know. It's complicated. But then, most families are, aren't they?)

“Of course it's okay,” Leatha said. “Are Ruby and Cass minding the shop while you're gone?”

“Yes, with some extra help in the tearoom. We're closed on Thanksgiving, of course, and my friend Sharon Turner is coming in to give them a hand on Friday and Saturday.” That's the beauty of having two shops, side by side in the same building with the tearoom. We don't abuse the privilege, but when one of us really needs a break, we stand in for each
other. Ruby took off during the long Labor Day weekend. Cass, who does all the cooking, was gone for a couple of weeks in the summer. This week, it was my turn. We also share part-time helpers, like Sharon, whom everyone calls Miss T. Now a retired schoolteacher, Miss T used to be a caterer, so she's a big help in the kitchen and the tearoom, as well as in both our shops. She gave a couple of classes for us last summer in drying herbs and using them in the kitchen.

“McQuaid has an all-day meeting in Austin on Wednesday,” I added, “so he'll pick Brian up on the campus and they'll drive down together on Thanksgiving. They need to go back together on Friday, too.”

“I can't wait to see y'all,” my mother said softly. “Especially you, dear. It's been too long.”

“You're right,” I said. There wasn't a hint of accusation in her voice, but that didn't blunt the sharp-pointed guilt that jabbed me. It
had
been a while since we were together, which I admit is largely my fault. I've never been a terribly dutiful daughter, and when Sam arrived on the scene and made it clear (very sweetly) that his new wife was
his
responsibility, it was easy to let him have his way. That, and the fact that McQuaid and the kids and the business and the gardens keep me busy all day long, every day. I get annoyed at the cozy mysteries where the shop owner leaves her business for days at a time to go sleuthing. Never think that being your own boss means that you can take off whenever the spirit moves you. It doesn't, and you can't.