Fireworks Over Toccoa (14 page)

“Are you still drawing, Mark?” Lily asked.

“Not so much. I’ve actually been doing some work with silhouettes.”

“Silhouettes. How nice,” said Honey.

“I know it’s a little old-fashioned. Something I picked up while I was recovering in France.”

“It’s his little hobby, which he’ll most likely have little time for very soon.” Jenna smiled playfully, patted her belly, and kissed him.

“When are you leaving?” asked Lily.

“On the fifth,” said Mark.

“Have to get back and get the nursery ready! Can you believe it? Twins! Ahh!” And Jenna gave Lily a kiss. “Despite a few bumps in the road, everything is turning out just like we always dreamed.”

They said their good-byes and Jenna wheeled Mark off.

“You let us know when you’re back with those babies, you hear?” Honey called out. “I want to be first in town to throw y’all a Sip ’n’ See!”

Lily just watched them go, thinking it might be quite a long time before Honey got the chance to throw Jenna and her babies a shower. Jenna was one of Lily’s best friends growing up. There were many. But seeing her now was jarring. Unsettling. In spite of Jenna’s sentiment, everything was not turning out like they had always dreamed. There were no dreams of handsome, carefree Mark Morgan in a wheelchair. The lanky boy Lily once went swimming with, who drew her in charcoal while she lay drying in the sun in her underwear, who sat by her talking and laughing and skipping stones along the water one sweet and simple midsummer night. No dreams of her brother shot dead in waist-high water off a beach on some South Pacific atoll. No dreams of marrying Paul Woodward and one day having an affair in a cabin in the woods, one day out of the blue realizing that her perfect marriage to a perfect boy was not the culmination of all her dreams but quite possibly the greatest mistake of her life.

Seeing Jenna put the past into relief, pointing out just how different it was from the present, just how different it was from what was planned and hoped. How different the present truly was from how it was expected to be. What could the future possibly hold next? What was to become of her life?

So the two watched as Jenna wheeled her husband down the sidewalk.

“That poor boy, bless his heart,” said Honey. “He used to be so wild. Remember?”

“I remember.”

“He still has a crush on you.”

“Stop it, Mother.”

“Well, he does. Anyone can see it. Plain as day. I don’t know what it was with you and the wild boys. They all liked you.”

“Mother.”

“It’s true and you know it. Well, I couldn’t be happier for him and Jenna, running off to Sausalito and
all
. After what he went through in Normandy, twins. What a gift. What a blessing.”

“Yes.”

“Now I know you only had a few weeks, but with the slightest care and calculation, that’s really all it takes.”

“Excuse me?”

“Shoot for the middle of the month, dear. About ten days after. That’s the time.”

“Mother.”

“Understand?”

Lily shut her eyes and willed herself to breathe in, and then out. Guidance regarding her reproductive cycle was perhaps the last thing Lily desired from her mother right now.

“Oh my lord,” said Honey, looking at her watch. “We’re late for our appointments.” Honey grabbed her daughter’s arm, urging her along.

“What appointments?”

“Come on, dear.”

“I thought we were here to get a goose.”

“We will. Right after.”

“What appointments?”

Honey just smiled.

“Mother, I will tell you right now. I am not getting my hair done at Betty’s.”

“Really, Lily, you’re such a contrarian. Tomato, tomahto. Your husband is returning from the war. Stop being such a stick-in-the-mud.”

“I am not getting my hair done at Betty’s.”

Lily looked into the mirror at the wavy mass of hair gelled and pinned high above her forehead and the long rolling curls cascading down her shoulders. She coughed as a thick gob of heavily scented styling lotion was applied all around her head.

“Oh, Lily, you look just like Joan Crawford,” Betty Lou Beasley declared.

“Paul’s going to think he’s come home to a Hollywood movie star,” said Honey.

Honey sat next to her daughter in a chair, a helmet of setting lotion applied to her impeccable head as well. All around them a gaggle of very made-up ladies, the grooming of their glamorous waved and curled hair in various stages of completion, filled Betty Lou’s Salon.

Lily understood the role of makeup and hairdos in a woman’s life, particularly during a time of war. When so many women were working in the factories and fields she knew it was important to maintain a sense of femininity. Unlike her mother, she liked the soft, romantic look of her generation, long wavy locks pulled away from creamy powdered faces. But what some women went through for this look, Lily felt, was ridiculous. Femininity was one thing. Sleeping in steel curlers was another. And submitting to Betty Lou, that was even worse.

Many of the ladies at Betty’s, which had not one vacant seat today, had been there for hours. Blondes, brunettes, and redheads sat in salon chairs while several white-coated beauticians worked on them, painstakingly, vigilantly, as if they were bombs on the assembly line. Meticulous rows of long pin curls were tightly wound and set with steel spring clips. Long locks forcefully parted and pulled around countless curlers, set and secured with nickel-plated bobby pins. Patriotic red lipstick and black mascara and layer upon layer of high-gloss fingernail polish exactingly applied. The room stunk of a sickeningly sweet concoction: hair tonic compounds, acetone, and Chanel N°5. And throughout it all, the ladies chattered and gossiped with the vibrancy of bees at the honeyflow.

“Birdie Trogdon Caudell was the most beautiful early spring bride.”

“Oh, she was breathtaking.”

“Breathtaking.”

“And that dress.”

“Oh. Full-length organza, Alençon lace yoke, cathedral train.”

“Scandalously low neckline.”

“And that baby. So cute.”

“So cute.”

“What baby?”

“Her baby.”

“She’s already had a baby? They were married in March.”

“Yes, they were.”

“Boy, I’ll bet Johnny Caudell was surprised.”

“Not as surprised as Birdie’s fiancé, when he came back in April.”

Lily just sat there, staring silently at herself in the mirror, yielding to Betty Lou’s designs and feeling very much like a large poodle. This was the exact same mirror Lily had looked into three-something years ago the day of her wedding when a brigade of beauticians and bridesmaids fussed and flitted about her like dwarves and forest creatures in a Disney movie. How odd, she remembered thinking even then, all the layers and coverings painted and placed on the bride, like she were going to the costume party of her life, a great masquerade ball where the true woman must be hidden from sight lest the groom see her as she is and as she will be and be struck by a change of heart or a change of desire and run for the hills before his vows were publicly recorded.

“Are you all right, dear?” asked Betty Lou as she applied a thick blob of gel to a tightly pulled finger wave.

“I’m just tired,” said Lily.

“She’s had a lot of work to do, getting the house ready,” Honey explained.

“There’s nothing men love more than a done-up house,” said Betty Lou. “Except maybe a done-up wife. Isn’t that right, Mrs. Davis?”

“As right as grits are groceries,” said Honey.

Oh, how they loved Honey Davis at Betty’s Salon. No matter how tough times might be, she was a steadfast customer. Her impeccable pageboy bob was a staple of Betty Lou’s business. In fact, Honey looked so smart and unwavering as she made her way from social function to market to the country club, many of Toccoa’s ladies wore their hair in similar fashion. At times, it even seemed as if Toccoa was in a bit of a bubble, defined by Honey Davis. And of course Betty Lou was only too happy to have the business of those who sought such fashion, those who came to her requesting in a whisper, “The Honey Cut.” Though when a couple of Lily’s friends started wearing the Honey, such things no longer struck Lily as amusing.

Lily just listened as the ladies continued their chattering.

“I understand First Baptist let Reverend White go.”

“Really? That’s a scandal. Why?”

“Sweetheart, when it came to actually
living
by the Good Book, Reverend White was a buffet minister.”

“What do you mean?”

“Let’s just say he took what he liked and left what he didn’t.”

Lily rolled her eyes as the women delighted in this gossip.

“That Mark Morgan sure has quieted down.”

“Poor thing.”

“Now I’m not sittin’ on their bedpost, mind you, but I think they’d be much better off with him working for her father.”

“Well, of course. It’s not like he’d exactly have much working to do.”

“I can’t believe she’d move across the country with him.”

“Harriet Horton’s son brought a young woman
and
her little boy with him from Europe, halfway across the world.”

“Yes, well, Harriet Horton’s son got a good job with Tabor Motor Company. Have you seen Mark Morgan since he’s been back? He’s a simple soul, bless his heart.”

“Simple” was a polite way of saying “slow,” or “not right in the head.” Honey could see these comments were not sitting well with her daughter.

“How are the plans coming for Nora Belle’s showers, Barbara?” said Honey, changing the topic, deftly maneuvering the woman as she was so skilled at doing.

“Fabulously,” Barbara Johns, a fellow Toccoa Country Club member, responded. “Which reminds me. We’ve scheduled a trousseau party on March 21 and the bride-elect simply loves white phalaenopsis. I know it’s a long shot and I hope you don’t mind my asking, but where
did
you get all those beautiful orchids for Lily’s shower?”

“I don’t mind you asking at all. We’re flattered that you liked them. Aren’t we, Lily?”

“Yes, ma’am. I am so glad that you liked them.”

“Walter had them imported from Guatemala.”

“Well, of course, I should have suspected. I don’t think we’ll be able to arrange such an exotic venture.”

“We have the most beautiful Cherokee roses at Holly Hills,” said Lily. “And they’ll be in peak bloom when you’d want them.”

Silence. A few of the ladies fidgeted nervously in their salon chairs.

“Well, bless your heart, Lily. That is so sweet and I simply adore Cherokee roses. But I’m not sure a wildflower is quite appropriate. Nora Belle’s only going to get married once, and so I think she deserves to have an event of singular splendor. Something almost as nice as yours, dear.”

“Thank you, Barbara,” said Honey.

“If we can’t get orchids, white snapdragons, perhaps. Cherokee roses strike me as something for a
common
wedding. Know what I mean, dear?”

“I know exactly what you mean,” said Lily in a decidedly pointed way that left Mrs. Johns feeling uneasy. “Good afternoon.” Lily stood up and walked out.

“I’ll talk to Walter, Barbara. I suspect the company would love to use its resources to make your daughter’s trousseau party unforgettable,” said Honey, scrambling to follow the impetuous wake of her restless daughter.

Honey caught up to Lily on the sidewalk on Doyle Street.

“That was rude.”

“Mrs. Johns is worse than rude,” Lily said, whipping around to face Honey.

“Yes, but that’s not the point, Lily. You live here. This is your community and the Johnses are part of it. When my father’s appendix burst, Barbara Johns’ father removed it. And he came to our house every day for a month to check on him.”

“Mother, did you always plan to spend your whole life here?”

“What kind of question is that?” she asked sternly.

“Did you ever dream of leaving Toccoa?” Lily sighed, unable to contain her exasperation.

“What has gotten into you today, Lily?”

Honey looked long and hard at her daughter.

“When your father asked me to marry him, it was the happiest day of my life. But the day before the wedding, I was feeling…well, I think how you’re feeling right now.”

“And how’s that?”

“The night before the wedding your father and I got into a huge fight. He’d been drinking and my mother had my head spinning with all manner of details regarding seating arrangements and he said I didn’t pay him enough attention at the rehearsal dinner and, well, things just escalated until finally I threw the ring at him and said I wouldn’t marry him if he was the last living male in Dixie.” Honey laughed to herself, taken away by the recollection. “In the middle of the night, my father went to the Traveler’s Rest and got your father out of bed and made it clear in no uncertain terms that he was standing next to me at the altar in the morning come hell or high water. The ceremony was a little late—it took half the bridal party to find that ring—but things worked out, as they always do around here.”

Honey grabbed her daughter’s shoulders as if to steady her.

“You had two weeks, Lily. That’s not a marriage. That’s a fling is what it is.”

Lily took that in, wondering if that’s what Honey would call her time with Jake, wondering if that’s what
she
should call it.

“For all practical purposes, your marriage starts tomorrow,” Honey said, sounding supportive, even motherly. “It’s perfectly natural to be a little nervous. But listen to me. He’s a good boy, Paul. He’s a good young man. And you are going to be happy with him. Of course you are going to be so happy with him.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Did I ever dream of leaving Toccoa? No. No, I did not. This is my home, and my place. I dreamed of your father, and of you. And Jonathan.”

Lily watched her mother’s eyes fluttering, fighting tears. Honey looked away. This was the first time since the day they received the news, two and a half years ago, that Lily had heard her mother mention her brother by name.

After a brief moment, Honey straightened and smiled, re-applying her public composure as though it were fresh lipstick. “You really should powder your nose before coming downtown in summer, Lily. You’re glistening.”