Little Sacrifices (23 page)

‘Um, okay. There’s not a lot of traffic, so it was okay.’ She didn’t smile.

‘I can’t believe we’re doing this. You’re driving! When did you learn?’

‘This morning. On the way here.’ She wasn’t kidding. I wished she’d mentioned that when she volunteered to swipe her dad’s keys. We might have considered our alternatives. Her acceleration and braking weren’t so much steady as enthusiastic. I kept an eye out for policemen.

Though I’d never had occasion to step into Union Station, its imposing yellow brick façade and squat towers often caught my eye from the curbside. There really was some remarkable architecture in town, though the station, like many other gems, would be torn down to make way for progress. It was poetic justice in a way, since a notorious slum called Frogtown had been cleared to make way for the station in the first place. History swings in roundabouts. We thanked a shaky Fie and urged her to hurry back to her house before her parents noticed the car missing. She waved as she pulled away, a little more confidently it seemed.

Inside, our heels clicked on marble floors crisscrossed by sunlight pouring through the gazebo skylights. All around the main rotunda, clerks in green visors calmly served their overwrought customers. The shoe shine boy parked his high chair strategically near one of the ticket booths, to pick off the few passengers with time to kill. Between all the people rushing to their trains and the red–capped luggage handlers maneuvering overloaded trolleys, the scene was chaotic and noisy.

‘Are there different lines for different trains?’ We didn’t have time for mistakes.

‘How should I know?’ Jim snapped. ‘Come on.’ We took our place behind a businessman who looked like he knew a thing or two about train travel.

‘Excuse me, mister? Can you tell us if we’re in the right line for the Nancy Hanks? To Atlanta? It leaves at eight.’

‘The Nancy Hanks? You’re in the wrong place, son. You need the Central of Georgia Station.’

‘Not here?’ I felt panic breaking out along with the sweat on my lip.

‘Naw, but it’s just up the road. Better hurry, though.’

We ran all the way to the squat red brick building. Inside was almost as crowded as Union Station. There were at least ten people in each line. ‘Can’t we buy tickets on the train?’ I asked between gasps.

‘May, how should I know? Do you think I’ve done this before?’ The big clock over the door ticked down to eight a.m. We could do nothing but hope the people in front of us were quick. Luckily, they were equally anxious to make the train, so we got our tickets with a few minutes to spare. We ran to the whites–only carriages, while our black traveling companions jostled through the coloreds–only doors. As we passed them, my belly noted that they were well–stocked for the ride. Greasy bags and steaming parcels emanated intriguing smells to remind me I was starving. ‘Do you think there’s food on here?’ I asked Jim, who merely grunted. He looked peculiar. I knew his crabbiness had nothing to do with the tickets, the train, or its passengers. To pursue an answer that can’t be unlearned, and to know it, must have been terrifying. As long as Cecile was held at arm’s length, Jim was free to think whatever he wanted about her, to make her as loving as he wished. His Aunt Belle encouraged that idea while she lived. I could only imagine how much Jim built on her tales over the years, and how devastating it would be if his mother failed to live up to them. I felt bad about keeping the truth of Mirabelle’s diary from my friend. Maybe it was better to meet her with his eyes open. On the other hand, she could be everything he imagined, and more. In which case, sabotaging his ideals would be unnecessarily cruel. So, in fact, I was doing Jim a favor by not telling him. How lucky for my conscience that I was able to argue my position so effectively.

The train was a miracle of modern technology. Gleaming blue and gray carriages were streamlined to whisk us to the capital and even back on the same day, should we be so inclined. Its predecessor started running in the previous century, named the Nancy Hanks after a fleet–footed mare that held the world mile trotting record. Unfortunately, in eighteen ninety–three, several carriages trotted off the track and the service was cancelled. It had only been running again for a year when we boarded. Most of the passengers were women, intent on enjoying a day trip to the locally famous Rich’s Department Store. Across the aisle, a mother and daughter pored over a fashion magazine, marveling at their prospects for wardrobe improvement. Watching them giggle over some shared joke made me weepy. I cursed myself for the umpteenth time. My condition was having unexpected consequences that made my body alien to me, like the morning sickness that refused to abide by its name’s conventions, and body parts that swelled to astonishing proportions. I was three months pregnant that weekend. I’d only be so for a few more days. Dora Lee reluctantly came through with the name of a midwife who agreed to help out my unfortunate friend, who was terrified at the prospect.

We reached Terminal Station just before one. All manner of traveler, from inexperienced to inveterate, clutched their satchels and looked around with varying degrees of doubt. Jim, who’d written his mother to warn her of our arrival, searched in vain for family members. It didn’t bode particularly well. ‘Jim? If we need to, we can go back tonight, on the six o’clock, right?’

‘Why would we need to?’

‘I, I don’t know. If you want to, I mean.’

‘May, just because she’s not here doesn’t mean anything. Most likely she didn’t get my letter. I only sent it a couple days ago.’

‘Right, it can take a while.’ But I knew how long the postal service took to deliver a letter all the way from Savannah to Massachusetts.

Outside, I nearly jumped out of my skin when a wino heaved into me, knocking my bag off my shoulder. Jim stepped protectively towards the man, who waved us away like a couple of bothersome flies. The terminal wasn’t in a bad neighborhood so much as a desolate one. It was hemmed in by the train yard to one side, loading bays to the other and ribbons of track at the back. At the newsagent’s, we bought a city map, and realized that the house was too far away to walk, leaving us no choice but to hail a taxicab through the door assigned to our race.

As far as I was concerned, the city lacked Savannah’s easy charm. It was leafy, with houses built in the grand tradition, but any allure it might have mustered drained away down its streets. Instead of winding themselves comfortably around squares they snaked off to the horizon, reducing everywhere to just places along the way. Maybe, I reasoned, they just liked to drive more than we did. It certainly appeared so, judging by the number of cars. The city’s love affair with Henry Ford was everywhere apparent, forcing most pedestrians to the road’s fringes. Everyone hurried like they had somewhere more important to be.

I was glad we didn’t live there. Quite aside from my current impression, I didn’t think much of its origins. Jim told me that a hundred years earlier the Army rounded up all the Cherokee who’d had claim to the land and marched them a thousand miles to reservations in Oklahoma. The only thing left of them is their name in the state flower, and the legacy of the Trail of Tears. It was hardly a fair trade.

When we finally reached the Inman Park address, a strong sense of nostalgia overcame me. Mirabelle went there to have Henry’s baby. I was looking at history. Jim, I feared, was looking at his future. The house was grand, though much like Savannah’s squares, the area was falling to pieces. Derelict old places stood on either side of the stately Victorian home, their paint peeling and windows boarded. Many of the houses were subdivided into tenements. Somewhere along the years an extremely unhandy tenant had turned the verandah on the house next door into an enclosed porch. Old bits of board were nailed to the railings like jagged teeth in an untended mouth. It was a very sad end to what was once a proud neighborhood. I couldn’t help but think of Jim’s family in the same way.

As he rang the bell I asked him about the last time he saw his mom.

‘I don’t remember ever seeing her,’ he whispered as the door opened.

A girl about our age looked at us. ‘Are you Jim?’

Jim said he was, introduced me, and we were let in.

‘I’m your cousin, Anne. Nicetameetcha.’

I had no trouble recognizing Cecile. She looked just like the old photos of Mirabelle. She didn’t say anything, didn’t move. Anne was at my elbow. ‘Why don’t we go into the kitchen, May? I bet you’re dying for something to drink.’ I was dying to get out of the tense living room, anyway.

‘No,’ Jim protested. ‘I want May to stay. Please, May.’ I shrugged and sat down on one of the armchairs across from Cecile. Jim sat in the other one.

‘Hi, Mom.’

‘Hello.’

‘This is my friend, May.’

‘Nice to meet you, May.’

‘Hi Missus ... uh, hi.’ I finished lamely. She was beautiful, I mean really beautiful. Her skin was nearly transparent, with a little pink circle on each cheek to suggest good health. Her eyes were Jim’s color, but where his snapped with interest, hers suggested a world–weariness beyond her age.

‘Jim, why did you come?’

‘To talk to you. I thought it was time to talk.’

‘Why now?’

‘Well, I thought Aunt Belle’s funeral would have been a good time. But you didn’t come.’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

She sighed. ‘It doesn’t matter. What did you want to talk about?’

‘Mom–’

‘Don’t call me that.’

Jim’s face worked over his emotions. ‘What am I supposed to call you?’

‘Whatever you want. Except that.’

‘Aren’t you my mom?’

‘Your Nan raised you. She was the mother to you.’

‘But you gave birth to me. Didn’t you?’ I wanted to hold his hand. My poor friend no longer had any idea what was real in his world. ‘Didn’t you?’

‘Yes. Of course I did. Look, I just don’t think it’s right. Given our past.’

‘We don’t have a past.’

‘That’s what I mean.’ She looked over her shoulder out the window, the window Mirabelle sat in for hours contemplating her future.

‘Fine. Whatever you want. I thought we should talk, because I know all about, what happened.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, May’s parents bought Aunt Belle’s house last year, and she found her diaries. And your letters. So I know everything.’

‘You read my letters?’ She stared at me. I wanted to dissolve into the chair.

‘Yes, ma’am. I, I didn’t know who any of the people were, until later.’

‘How dare you!’

‘Don’t shout at her!’ Jim yelled. ‘You don’t have the right to shout at anyone. She’s my friend. I told her she was wrong to snoop, but she was right to tell me. So don’t blame her.’

‘So you know,’ she said finally.

‘Yes.’

‘Everything.’

‘Uh huh.’

‘Jesus Christ.’

‘M– Cecile, it isn’t as bad as you think. May found out something that you don’t know.’

Tears slipped down her cheek. ‘What?’

‘Nan isn’t your mother.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘She’s not your mother. Grandpa Julius wasn’t your father.’

‘I don’t understand.’

Jim told her as gently as he could. He left nothing out, colored nothing with emotion. When he finished, Cecile could only look at her son, dumfounded.

‘So you see?’ Jim said. ‘Everything’s different now. It’s all okay.’

‘What, exactly, is different?’

‘Well, you are. You didn’t do what... you thought you did. It’s okay.’

‘Jim. I’m sorry, but nothing’s changed.’

‘What?’

‘Nothing’s changed.’

‘But it has!’ His voice squeaked. ‘You can come back now.’

‘May? I’d like to talk to Jim alone. Can you excuse us, please?’

‘Sure thing.’ It was unbearably painful to watch Jim’s hopes crash around his ears. ‘I’ll just go for a walk around. It’s safe, isn’t it?’ Cecile assured me it was, as long as I stayed to the right. I left them alone to pick over the scars of their family history.

Listening to Jim talk about the past made me keen to find Henry’s house. He was, after all, Jim’s grandfather. I remembered the address and, with the map’s help, found it no more than ten minutes away. Henry’s ancestral home was a yellow brick marvel, with two story high pillars supporting the portico and a wide terrace running all around the house. I bet it had a dozen bedrooms. Seeing the house made me sad for Mirabelle. Her decision not to tell them that Cecile existed made me sadder still. Had she braved the confrontation, she might not have lived her life dependent on her own family, who’d hurt her so. But then, I reminded myself, Jim wouldn’t be around, and I was too selfish to wish for that. I resisted the impulse to knock on the door. Even if Henry’s family still lived there, they were unlikely to care after so long. Besides, I had even less proof of the tale than Mirabelle had. I stood in front, thinking about how much could change in two generations. Even in this neighborhood, there were only a few houses that weren’t dilapidated, their owners the last line of defense against the tide of decay. Many of the spacious lawns were strewn with unwanted appliances – old fashioned washboards, buckets and iceboxes rusting away on the untended plots. Hardly anyone bothered with flowers, though judging by the remnants of box hedges, there must have been tremendous gardens in Mirabelle’s day. Only dandelions nodded their cheery faces in the tall grass, oblivious to the rubbish surrounding them. I welled up looking at the faded homes, thinking of the families who’d built them only to see them destroyed, not by some man–made or even natural disaster, but through disregard.

Jim was sitting on the porch steps when I got back. ‘Hi.’

‘Hey.’

‘How’d it go?’

‘Let’s go,’ he said.

‘Now?’

‘No reason to hang around.’ He kicked at the sidewalk. ‘Anne said there’s a hotel a couple blocks away. We can get a taxicab there.’

‘Was she mad?’

‘Of course. Wouldn’t you be mad if you’d been lied to your whole life by people you thought were your parents?’

‘Hey, don’t get sore at me. I was just asking. At least she’ll be able to come back to Savannah now.’