In a Heartbeat (19 page)

42

Zelda, Zelda, you’ve left me. . . . I always wondered if you would go away—just the way
you came, almost in a puff of smoke, leaving
me bereft and forever wondering, Why? My
golden girl, my Georgia peaches and cream, my
honey . . . where
are
you. . . . God, how I’m missing you. . . . Maybe I’ve died. That’s what this
is . . . and now you can’t reach me. But I know
you, how determined you are. You would find
me even beyond the grave. Oh my Lord, I never
thought to hear myself use that phrase . . . especially when the grave will be mine. . . .

It’s dark in here, so dark all the time. Perhaps
I’m already there, already buried. . . .

An icy sweat bristled on his skin, and the hovering nurse picked up his hand, anxiously testing his pulse, his heart rate, his blood pressure, the myriad blinks on the machines, the inflowing and outflowing liquids in surgical tubes and catheters.

“No doubt, there is brain activity,” she said aloud.

Then I’m not dead,
Ed thought, relieved.
Not
yet. There’s still time. Still time to tell her I love
her, that I want her, that I can’t live without her.
I can’t get down on one knee right now, but
please marry me, Zelda. . . . I need to hear your
voice so bad, my darling . . . hear you say . . .
Yes. . . .

Somewhere a phone trilled. He heard the soft squish of the nurse’s rubber-soled shoes, the crisp rustle of her cotton skirt, the murmur of her voice. Then she came back again.

“I don’t think I should be doing this,” she said, sounding hesitant, “but that young woman of yours is very persuasive . . . and what the heck, I guess it can’t do you any harm.”

She was holding something cold against his ear . . . a telephone . . . and he heard Zelda’s voice.

“Ed, I’m here in Charleston, honey. I haven’t left you, so don’t you worry. And you know what, honey? I know all about you now, more than I ever knew before, and my heart goes out to you. Mamzelle Dorothea is wonderful. She sends her love to you. She told us the whole story, of how she helped you. And, Ed . . .” Her voice broke and she paused for a moment to calm herself. “I just want to tell you how proud I am of you. And how much I love you. Oh, honey,
do
you hear me? Somehow, I have to believe you can. I can’t allow myself to think that you are not there. Wait for me, Ed. I’ll be back with you . . . tomorrow . . . and remember I love you. I’ll always love you. . . .”

The nurse took the telephone away—his lifeline to Zelda—and a tear slid down Ed’s now-cavernous cheek.

“Oh my God,”
the nurse said in a slow, stunned voice. “Oh my God. He
heard
her. He
recognized
her.”

Ed heard the soft squish of her shoes again, only this time she was running. He heard the excitement in her voice as she summoned the doctor.

Thank you, God,
he said to himself, and another tear slid from under his closed lids.

And thank you, Zelda. I am still alive. And I
promise I’ll wait for you, honey. At least until
tomorrow. . . .

He was dreaming that he was back in Charleston, but with Zelda and Mamzelle Dorothea. Only they were all young again, or in Mamzelle’s case, younger. . . . Of course Zelda had not figured in that scenario in the past, but she was here now, hovering in his dream. His guardian angel.

He did see his brother again.

He was a junior at Duke, there on that hard-wonscholarship that paid only his tuition. If he
wanted to eat and have a place to live, he had to
work for it.

“Nothing in life comes free,” he had said,
heady with anticipation when he received the
letter of acceptance. For a hillbilly kid from the
Great Smokies, where ambition raised its head
no higher than owning your own acre and growing enough to feed your family, he was a success. Or anyhow, on the way to success.

It had not been easy. But somehow he guessed
his life wasn’t meant to take a smooth path.

He had worked in the fields all that summer, earning enough to buy a couple of pairs of jeans, a few T-shirts, a sweater and a warm jacket, and a pair of new boots for his freshman winter at college. He had twenty-five dollars left over to get him through until he found a couple of jobs in Durham, where, hopefully, he would make enough to pay his rent and food. He was on cloud nine until the time came to say good-bye.

Mamzelle Dorothea handed him a sealed envelope. Suddenly he did not want to leave her.

“Take this and then go, you silly boy,” she said, kissing him hastily on the cheek, something she never did. They never showed their affection for each other; it was just an unspoken rule. They were friends, co-conspirators in the game of life, beating the odds when they could. They both lived by the skin of their teeth. He by circumstance, she by choice. They never knew whether they would end up winning. Or losing.

On the bus headed for Durham, he opened the envelope. Inside was four hundred dollars. More money than he had ever seen in his life. He knew she must have sold something valuable to give him this and he was suddenly worried for her. About how she would manage, on her own again, without him there to make sure she got to bed when she passed out from drink. And to see that she kept warm, and ate something every now and again. He almost stopped the bus and got right off there and then walked back home to her. But he knew she would only send him off again.

He was in his junior year when he got the news that Dorothea had been found, unconscious and alone, locked up in the beautiful old house.

She had been there for a couple of days before they found her, and then only because a workman coming to cut off the electricity had not been able to gain entry and had alerted the police. She was in the hospital and not expected to live. He should come at once, the family lawyer told him, if he wanted to see her alive.

Distraught, Ed walked through the campus to the magnificent Duke Chapel. Its bell tower soared twenty-one stories high, and its gothic-stone grandeur and arching stained-glass windows offered a sense of peace, as he knelt and prayed for Mademoiselle Dorothea Jefferson Duval’s life. Except for his mother, she was the only woman he had ever loved. He could not envision life without her. The future looked bleak.

He was walking back along Chapel Drive when he saw his brother. The shock rooted him to the spot for a minute. Mitch was with a group of men, all wearing suits and ties and carrying briefcases. He looked prosperous and kind of official, swaggering as he always did. He looked mean-eyed too, as he always had, even though there was a smile on his face. He was back-slapping the other guys, full of friendly bonhomie, and Ed knew, with that old instinct, that he was up to no good. Mitch had always acted nice when he wanted something. Except for that night when he murdered his family.

Suddenly afraid, he slipped into the shadows beside the chapel.
Now is the time,
a voice inside him was saying.
You could follow him, kill
him . . . avenge your mother and father and your
brothers and sisters.

But how could he? He had not seen Mitch put the torch to their cabin, he still did not know for sure.
Except, in his heart, he knew.

He could not do it. Shame welled up in him once again. He slunk away, keeping to the shadows so no one would see his pain.

The magnolias were in bloom when he returned to Charleston the next day. All pink and white, like a young girl’s first bouquet. And the gardens were lush with lilies, their sweet green smell blending with the salty ocean air. He would never forget it. He thrust all memories of Mitch to some deep, dark corner of his mind and went to see Mamzelle.

Mamzelle, when I saw you in that narrow
white hospital bed, you looked so small and fragile,I wondered how you could possibly survive.
There was so little meat on your tiny sparrow
bones, and you looked so cold, and so alone. I
chafed your hands, talked to you, told you how
much I loved you, just the way Zelda does
with me now. I said, Don’t leave me, Mamzelle
Dorothea. I’m selfish. I need you to care about
me. I need you to come home to. I need you to
be proud of me, so I know I have to make something of myself. To be a success. For you. My
grandmother.

He sat with her for a long while. Then, summoned by a phone call, he went to see the family attorney, Bernard Hawthorne.

The man looked even older and more decrepit than Dorothea. He had been Mamzelle’s father’s attorney, but Ed would not have been surprised to learn that he had also been her grandfather’s. The old firm certainly had. They had boxes and boxes of dusty red files, marked
Jefferson
and
Jefferson/Duval,
and old Bernard Hawthorne told him they worked for loyalty to the family now, and not for money, since Mamzelle had none.

“All she has left,” he told Ed, “is that grand old house. And whatever remains that she hasn’t already sold. Oh, and the ramshackle beach property, up the coast a ways. But that’s worthless too, or so I’m told.”

He consulted the note in front of him and Ed recognized Dorothea’s large sprawling writing from the weekly letter she sent to him.

“Besides, Mamzelle has already deeded the beach property to you.” Hawthorne glanced at Ed over the top of his half-glasses. “It’s my duty to inform you that as the new owner, from now on you will be responsible for all property taxes, plus the upkeep, should you wish to retain it. Though as I already said, I doubt that it has much value at this time, other than the land. And since it’s out of the way, and not a popular area for weekenders, it’s unlikely it would sell.” He shrugged, his withered voice trailing off as he closed the file.

“Mamzelle also appointed you executor of her estate. She gave you power of attorney, so you now find yourself in the position of deciding what to do about Jefferson House, as well as taking care of the old lady.”

Ed was silent.

“I know it’s difficult,” Hawthorne said. “You are still a student and you have no income. I’m sorry about this, Mr. Vincent, but it was Mamzelle’s wish. Although I have no doubt she expected to die first and not leave you stuck with worrying about her welfare.”

Stuck? Ed thought.
Stuck?
Why, he welcomed the opportunity to take care of his mentor. But how?

“I suggest we put the contents of the house up for auction and place the house itself on the market, though there’s not much demand for these historic old properties right now. You would have to pour money into them, and young people don’t want to be bothered with woodworm and dry rot and antique plumbing. They want all the modern conveniences.” Hawthorne sighed again, regretfully. “I hope one day things will change, but . . .” His voice trailed off again and he sat back, seemingly lost in thought.

Ed thanked him, said he would of course take care of Mamzelle, and asked him to put the house and its contents up for sale, with the exception of the few favorite things he knew Mamzelle would not want to part with.

He went back to the hospital and held Mamzelle’s hand for several hours, talking to her every now and again, promising her a bottle of Southern Comfort when she awoke, as well as a walk along the Battery in the sunshine, and telling her about the magnolias in bloom and the scent of the lilies. Then he hitched his way out to Hazards Point to inspect his property.

The gabled Victorian beach house was as old and ramshackle as the mansion, though not nearly as grand. Everything about it was crumbling: the timbers, the deck, the roof. Every window was cracked, and what was once the driveway was now a mass of broken stones and tall weeds. But the view from the bluff was astounding: an endless vista of tranquil blue ocean all the way to the even bluer horizon. Little shanty steps led to a tumbledown wooden pier with a deepwater mooring, where, once upon a time, Mamzelle’s father had kept a smart sailing yacht.

Ed walked around his property feeling like a king. Thanks to his friend, he had a home. Dorothea had not forgotten him and now he would not forget her. It was his turn to be the caretaker.

43

Mamzelle reached for the bottle and Camelia hastened to do the honors. He couldn’t imagine how a little thing like her put away so much liquor and figured that by now she must have a zinc-lined stomach.

“To my sorrow, I did not die when I had wished.” Mamzelle sipped the bourbon, thoughtfully. “It was not my intention to become a burden on my young friend. I had meant for him to inherit it all, or at least whatever was left. And then he inherited me, instead.” She sighed, but a smile lurked in those winter-pale eyes.

“Because of me, and for urgent financial reasons, Ed was forced to take a sabbatical from college. By the time I finally got out of that hospital, he had fixed up the old beach house. He personally hauled all my old favorite bits of furniture there.” She ran a hand lovingly across the little antique table, with its white ring marks where her glass had stood for so many years. “He created a new home for me. Of course, I couldn’t tell him that I was a city dweller, that I hated living at the beach, and that without the old familiar streets of Charleston, without my secret nooks and crannies, without my favorite liquor stores, without my old home—I was lost.

“Hot damn, I told myself, hold your sharp tongue for once, woman. He has sacrificed college for you, worked his fingers to the bone for you, cared for you. And what other man in your miserable life ever did that? Not even your Creole daddy, who loved you to pieces. But not like this. Oh, no, he never loved like this.”

She held out her glass for a refill and again Camelia obliged.

“You should know,” she said, with a hard look at Mel, “that when Ed Vincent gives his heart, he gives all of it. And forever.”

Mel nodded. She knew all right.

Dorothea sipped the bourbon. “Ed did see his brother again,” she said. “Quite by chance, at the university, the same day he heard that I was in the hospital and near death’s door. I’m not sure which event shocked him more. He told me about it later. Said as far as he could see, Mitch Rogan hadn’t changed one bit, only now he looked successful. He never mentioned his brother to me again, after that day.”

Mel’s eyes met Camelia’s; they were both thinking the same thing. That Mitch Rogan was Ed’s would-be assassin.

“They told me the big old Jefferson House was worthless, though eventually somebody bought it—too cheaply, but what could I do? It stayed exactly the way it was, dilapidated and tumbling down, for many years. I heard recently it had been sold again and restored, and looks just like in the old days, but I have no desire to see it. It’s part of the past, and when Ed rescued me, just the way I had rescued him, I decided to join him in his philosophy. I became a woman who lived for today. Unlike me, the past was dead and gone.”

“But
you
are still with us.” Impulsively, Mel got up and hugged her, but Dorothea gave her an impatient little shove.

“Hot damn, gal, don’t go doing things like that. I almost spilled my drink.”

She glowered at her for a second before continuing. “Ed took that sabbatical from school. He found employment where he could, sometimes working as many as three jobs at once. He was a handyman, a construction worker, gardener, field hand. Anything he could get. It made me doubly sad because I knew he was right back where he came from. He promised me he would go back to college next year . . . and the next year . . . and the year after that.

“Then we were told he would have to forfeit the beach house in lieu of unpaid property taxes. I knew an antiquarian book dealer, and I sent Ed into town with what remained of the old books. We raised just enough to pay the taxes and to buy an ancient truck. Ed drove around Charleston, canvassing the residents to see if they wanted him to haul away their garbage, offering them a cheap rate. A bargain. He picked up those garbage cans himself and tipped them into the truck. Then he drove to the dump and shoveled the stinking garbage out.”

Dorothea’s eyes met Mel’s. “My heart was breaking for him,” she said simply. “I had thought to make a better life for him. And now he was reduced to this. But Ed had no false pride. He did whatever was needed to keep our little home together. It was not a good life, but he was his own master.

“The next year he was able to buy a second truck, and he hired a young man to help him. Over five years, those trucks grew into a fleet of fifty and soon he had the monopoly on the garbage collection in all the new developments, as well as in the old town, and all across North Carolina. But he was like a well-kept secret. For work, he used the name Theo Rogan. I thought it was because he didn’t want to sully his grand new name—especially the Jefferson part—with the taint of a garbage collector.

“I worried about him, because all he thought of was work. He saw no one socially, except for the occasional girl he met in a bar or out walking on the Battery. But women liked him, you know. Always did. He was a good-looking young man. And he liked women. But he never brought anyone home, and he never fell in love. He was too busy.

“When he was twenty-eight, he received an offer for his garbage company, which was now the largest in the southern states. The money was fair, though not generous, but Ed suspected that the consortium offering the deal was linked to the mob, and if he refused, they might just take it over anyway. By force, if necessary.

“So he accepted the offer. And with his first real money in his pocket, he moved me, and all my favorite bits and pieces, to the splendor of Fairlands. He closed up the beach house, leaving only the few old sticks of furniture, the picture of a log cabin, and such like. And then he headed north. To seek his fortune. And my, how he succeeded,” she added with a little smile.

“He told me that as soon as he saw Manhattan’s towers floating along the skyline as he crossed the Triborough Bridge, somehow he knew he had come home. That was where he was meant to be.”