Southern Hearts (3 page)
Memories from my childhood rushed me like the steaming heat of a blistering September afternoon turning everything a vivid red. After all these years, after all the things that had passed between us, all the words we’d thrown at one another with resentment, all I could think about was how much I wanted my mother to hold me and tell me that she loved me. I fanned my fingertips over my lips, then spread them and lowered them to the back of her seat.
“Have you thought about the party, dear? What you’ll wear, I mean?” she asked suddenly.
I flinched, startled from my thoughts. Hurriedly, I pulled a chair from the table and sat down.
It was starting, I hadn’t been home more then ten minutes, and she was about to come at me on how a proper Southern woman should dress. I bowed my back tensely, squirming in my seat, and sat like a ram rearing his horns in preparation for battle, loudly tapping the empty glass that I unconsciously gripped and glaring at my mother.
“I’ll wear what I always do, Mother, and if that doesn’t satisfy you, and I’m sure it won’t, then I’m sorry. I’m not here to put on airs and play prom queen. If that’s what you were expecting, then you shouldn’t have asked me to come.”
“Chèr, I merely meant have you thought about it?” Her tone was subdued but disconcerting.
“Yes, I thought I would wear something similar to what I have on right now. I dress for comfort, not for appearance.” I stood abruptly, pressing my fingers onto the bulging pockets of my cargo shorts.
“Well, I do hope that you will at least put a top on, if that wouldn’t interfere with your comfort level too desperately.”
“This is a top, Mother.” I touched my hands to my thighs, trying not to let my anger boil to the surface.
“No, that, darling, is a bra, and undergarments are given that name because one is supposed to wear them under something else.”
“It’s a halter top, Mother, and I think it looks fine.” I put my hands on my hips, anxiously moving my weight from one leg to the other like an uptight schoolgirl. “You’re never satisfied with anything I do. I think even coming here was a mistake. I’ve said that before, and yet I still get roped into it.”
“Roped in? Well, if you don’t care to be a part of something that spans generations, something that is bred in you like your very fiber, then perhaps it was a mistake.” She looked from behind the newspaper, then set it down over the rim of her teacup.
“God, why do you always do this? I don’t want to argue with you, Mother. Can’t you just be happy to see me? Can’t we just try to for once be mother and daughter and talk about something other than the way I dress or the way I style my hair or my job or whatever else you dislike about my life and just talk to one another like people?”
Every time I talked to my mother it was the same. I felt as if I had entered the room and begun the conversation with a mountaineer’s ice axe plunged into my spine. It was painful even before the first syllables were uttered.
She slapped her hand over the paper, folding it and setting it to the side. “Well, perhaps later we can discuss this further.” She stood up. “For right now, it will have to be left on the back burner. I’m meeting my ladies’ group at Charenton Gardens at four p.m. I have to rush if I’m going to make it on time.”
She turned, stepping away from me, and then turned back. “Will you be here later?”
“Probably!” Fiercely I slammed my body back down into the chair.
“I’m glad you’re home.” She put her hand atop mine, patting it like the congratulatory touch given a toddler who had just gone number two on the big potty.
The members of my mother’s women’s group, the beak-and-hen society that called themselves the Old Magpies—bird-watching enthusiasts, as they titled it—spent their leisurely afternoons under the twirling fringe of their parasols, the plumes of their gargantuan Edwardian hats molting in the heat below sagging chinaberry trees tinseled with moss, their binoculars hanging on their necks like loose-fitting cravats. Their conversations were tidbits of gossip whispered under their breath as they lounged atop the plastic strips of their lawn chairs, one ear toward the wooded groves for the squawk of the eastern kingbird or orchard oriole or for a glimpse at the boat-tailed grackle or purple martin. It was an odd hobby, but it kept my mother busy and out of the ever-so-aging hair of the rest of us.
Marney appeared from the archway, stood behind me, and began kneading my shoulders with her strong fingers. Talking to my mother always caused a surge of pain to shoot up my back, tensing my neck and knotting into a headache with the tenacity of an inoperable brain tumor.
“You know she doesn’t mean the things she says, it’s just her way, sugar. She really is glad you’re home, even though she may not show it.”
I leaned back into the padded cushion of my chair, throwing my sandaled feet into a crossed pose over the arm as I let out a huff.
“Now, how about some lunch?”
“No, thanks.”
“Skinny...skinny, you’re gonna waste away into nothin’!” She shook her head as she replaced the teakettle lid, collected the dishes from the table, heaped them into tiers atop the lacquered serving tray, and headed back inside.
I grinned boldly, pulling my drink to my lips and allowing the melting cubes of ice to drip onto my chin. It was nearing three p.m., and the temperature elevated with each progressing moment until it was almost unbearably sticky. I sat under the shade of the overhang, watching the water in the distance. It was the dark color of rust, with shallow trunks of bald cypress trees poking through its surface. Maiden grass specked with blue and green spikelets moved in twin motion to the soft pushing breeze. The lawn had been freshly mowed, tiny cuttings still clumped to its top as the aroma of severed blades filled the air. The landscape around the property had been recently tended to; the hedges of laurel were now clipped and parted to reveal the small gatehouse and the crisscrossed slats riveted into place on the as-yet undecorated platform my mother had erected near the bank for the party.
“Hello,” an unexpected voice called from the steps just to my side.
“Hi.” I turned, shading my eyes with my hands as I looked at the figure that was now standing in front of me.
As my eyes adjusted to the glare, a young woman came into view as she stood before me, wiping beads of sweat from her brow. She was around twenty-one if I gave her a day, and the sparkling hazel of her eyes caught the piercing blue of mine as the sunlight swiped across her cheek. She was imposingly tall, a good six-footer. I thought
basketball player
, though I didn’t allow myself to linger on the stereotype. If I were standing she would have towered over my meek-by-comparison five foot eight inches, though as I worked my stare from her collarbone down over her calves, I thought my physique, though somewhat more thin, was better built and more muscular than hers. Her hair was long and dark, a noticeable contrast to my streaked blond. Mine was swept back on the sides and tight to my temples, while her lengthy ringlets were loosely pulled back into a messy ponytail and bound with an elastic tie, except for several saturated strands that blew free around the edges of her mouth.
She was drenched and dripping with perspiration, and as she greeted me with a polite grin, my gaze fell to the roundness of her ample breasts as they poked through the light-colored weave of her tank top, and I couldn’t help but notice that they were several cup sizes beyond my pathetically flat ones. Her nipples were hard as they peeked through her wet shirt. Her shorts were skimpy Daisy Dukes that started just below her hips and hugged her shapely thighs. She smelled of lemon, like a splash of Jean Naté blended and rubbed to her skin with a silky moisturizer—aloe was my guess. Her hands were gloved, and resting in her palm was the steel handle of the weed whacker that dangled to her side. I found her both attractive and intriguing, and her warm smile sent an unexpected flurry across my insides.
“Are you Tami or Kari?” she asked politely.
“Kari.”
“I’m Regency.” She extended a hand. “My dad Carl is the gardener.”
I put my hand into hers and shook it. “Carl is your dad? You’re Regee. I remember when you were just a toddler and we’d kick the ball and chase each other around the grounds. Do you remember that?” I said with surprised recollection.
“No. Sorry, I don’t.” She smiled cheerfully.
“It was a long time ago.” Suddenly I felt stupid, blurting out such a ridiculous statement. Mentioning the exact number of years would only have put undue emphasis on just how much older I was than she, and with a sense of dread, I began to hope for a subject change.
“So you’re home for the big powwow, huh?”
“Unfortunately, yes.” I couldn’t help the discontentment that poured out of me as I responded. It was improper, but before I could run it down, it had rolled from my tongue.
She moved closer, lowering her gaze to meet mine. “I’m not really big on parties myself. But don’t let that get out, it would probably kill my dad,” she teased.
“I won’t tell him.” I smirked. “Do you want some tea or lemonade? I can have Marney bring—”
“No. Thanks,” she interrupted. “So how long are you home for?”
“The summer,” I said gingerly.
“Well, I hope I’ll see you around.”
“Yes.” The word clogged in my throat. “Maybe we...” The words were there but I wasn’t sure if they had come out.
“Well, I better get back to work, my boss is a slave driver.” She grinned. “Nice meeting you, Kari.”
“You too.” I watched her walk into the distance, her attractive figure disappearing among the shrubbery.
Chapter Two
It was easy for me to believe that there was something I had done in my life that branded me, gave my cross to bear, the albatross of all albatrosses, a Byzantine cave that had swallowed me with one swoop. I wasn’t resentful or bitter; I was curious. I wondered why some people were able to careen across the surface as if there were no holes, no bumps, almost as if they knew the pattern ahead of time or were just given time to make the necessary adjustments to keep their ride smooth. Maybe I had been given that time, I thought. But maybe my time had just expired.
I thought of my father and the words that he had clung to with a tenacious grip. “We create the portal through which all of our dreams are achieved or demolished.” He had used the phrase so many times. I flashed on the fall semester of eighth grade, when Ms. Holgren, my physical education teacher, first stood before the class, her hair snipped short and spiked with gel, her T-shirt sleeves rolled tightly above her forearms, and her black gym shorts bulky and hanging low to her thighs like men’s boxers. That year, jumping jacks and deep knee squats to Ms. Holgren’s militant count took on a whole new meaning. When she stood before me, my nipples hard beneath through my sports bra made me hustle to grab for whatever scrap of fabric was nearby.
I thought of my mother and my sister Tami, and how my sudden metamorphosis—as they would surely name it—would affect them. I hadn’t given it any consideration until now, and I knew it would likely be difficult, if not impossible, for them to comprehend. I knew it would be hard for me to tell them. For several moments, it occurred to me that perhaps deceiving them might be the best route. I quickly dispelled that notion, knowing how uneasy I would feel around them if I kept my secret, if the depth of who I was stayed buried within me and away from the people who were the most important.
But I was fearful of their reaction. I didn’t want my coming out to be the subject of impolite hushes and angry whispers. I didn’t want to be anyone’s cause, or to the opposite, anyone’s excuse. It had been hard growing up in the South, having to conceal the things I had discovered about myself at a young age. I had wanted to be accepted like all young girls. I had wanted to be the feminine belle with the shiny shoes, but I hadn’t been.
I stretched my neck, parted my lips slightly and closed my eyes, then puffed a deep, cathartic breath that fogged the window in front of me.
The most I could expect was that my sister wouldn’t freak out and go cold, that she would remain composed and allow me to explain. As if I had an explanation. If she required one, I would have to pull it from my hip and hope for the best. I watched for her car to veer onto the drive, the windshield reflecting the trellises of greenery and hiding its occupants until they were well upon the front steps.
I was eager to see my niece Megan. I was sure she had aged so much that I would be unable to recognize the little girl I used to toss on my lap and bounce toward the ceiling until she let out a giggle—or spit up, whichever came first. Her certificates of achievement from the Briar Girls’ School in Atlanta hung on my refrigerator door, along with the small, wilting petals of white roses and daisies that accompanied all of her letters. She always put them in the envelope first and then stuffed her handwritten notes in on top. It was adorable, and getting one of her letters always brought a spot of cheer to my day. She was seven now, and if she was anything like most of the Bossier women who had preceded her, she would be a prim little princess of precociousness.
“I brought you some iced tea, honey,” Marney called out, entering the den. “You look like you need it.”
“What I need is something stronger.”
“Is everything okay, honey?” She put her hand over my forearm, gently caressing it. “You seem as if something is bothering you. I hope it’s not that tiff you had with your mother earlier.”
“No. I guess I’m just feeling overwhelmed by being home again.” I turned my attention back toward the window as I spoke. “It’s just so different without Dad around. I keep expecting him to sneak up behind me and lift me off the floor with one of those big crushing hugs of his. I would give almost anything for one of those right now.” The words choked in my throat.
“Well, I’m not your daddy, but I love to hug my baby.” She put her arms around me until I about broke with emotion. “But there’s something else going on too, isn’t there?”
“You know, that clairvoyant stuff you’re always tossing out is getting a bit spooky.”
“Honey, I don’t have to read minds in order to know you’re burdened by something.” She pulled away from me, cupping my face in her hands until my eyes met hers. “I only have to look at you to see what I need to know.”
“You always knew me better than I know myself. I don’t even know how to tell you, or where to start.”
“I’ve always found the best way is to just open your mouth and let your thoughts just slosh into the air.” She waved her hands up and down.
“It’s not that simple. I want to, but it’s not that simple.”
“Well, whatever it is, when you’re ready I know you’ll tell me, and until that time I’ll just keep gettin’ all the sugar I can from my baby.”
I smiled.
She held me to her and we rocked as tears formed in my eyes. “I love you.”
“I love you too, sweetie.”
As she walked out of the room and up the stairs, the sound of rubber on broken seashells echoed through the halls of the house. I reached the window just in time to see Megan climb from the backseat of the sedan as she pulled her Barbie luggage tote from the seat beside her.
I raced through the house, flung the front door open, and sprinted to her side. “Well, aren’t you the prettiest little girl. Wow, you’ve grown. I almost can’t believe how much.” I snatched her from the ground and hoisted her up into my arms..
“I’m seven, Aunt Kari.” she corrected me. “I’m not little anymore.”
“You’re right! I guess I just didn’t notice that until right now.” I put her down, then stepped back and regarded her. Her pretty pink dress had white fringe that ruffled around the bottom, and her ankle socks were folded neatly. “Yes, you’re right; I can see that you have become quite the young woman. I hope you still enjoy getting presents from me, because there is something up on my bed for you.”
“Well I don’t think I’ve gotten that big.” She smiled, took her suitcase from the curb, and headed inside, her dress shoes tapping a tune atop the pavement as she walked.
“Hi, sis!”
“You got old!” She twisted her lips jovially.
“Old? You don’t exactly look as if you’ve been preserved in formaldehyde over the last few years yourself.”
“I’ll have you know I think I look better then ever.” She flipped her fingers through her hair, cocking her head to one side with exaggeration. “Weekly exfoliations, a fresh hairstyle now and again have kept me aging with grace.”
I gently yanked on her hair. “I don’t know about that. That color looks like the dead leaves on that hydrangea Dad had dug up from beside the gatehouse years ago.”
“I think
dug up
emphasizes everything I could ever voice about your look.” We both laughed, then embraced each other before moving toward the car.
“How’s Bradley?”
“He’s fine. His law firm just made him a partner.”
“Wow, congratulate him for me. Dad would have loved that.”
“Yeah, I know. Sometimes I wonder if that isn’t the reason he has pursued it all these years—to please Dad.” She tugged her bags out of the car’s trunk and allowed them to fall to the gravel. “I don’t think he would have been anywhere near as ambitious if he hadn’t felt like he was letting Dad down. You know, he wouldn’t have even gone to law school in the first place if Dad hadn’t approached him at our wedding and asked him how he intended to support his wife with the salary of a pauper.”
“Dad said that?”
“That and a lot more.”
“He was just trying to look out for you, to make sure you had the best life possible. He wasn’t being vindictive, that was his way.”
“Well, Dad’s way wasn’t always the best way, and his opinions on things weren’t always mine,” she snapped. “All I ever wanted was for Dad to ask me what I wanted...just once. Would that have been too difficult?”
“I guess Dad thought he knew what you wanted.”
“He didn’t know...he never knew!”
I put my arm around her shoulder. “Well how about we go inside, pour some wine, and toast our ever-so-misunderstood parents.”
“That would be great! I could use a few stiff belts.”
“A few belts?” I chuckled.
“Oh, what the hell. Let’s get plastered,” she said.
I shook my head and rolled my eyes as I took the smaller carryall and slammed the trunk lid shut, following behind Tami.
She tossed her bags just inside the door, beside the ornate ceramic umbrella stand and porcupine shoe cleaner that sat at the foot of the stairs.
“I love the way this house always smells.” She sniffed the air. “You never quite get used to it, do you?”
“It can’t be replicated, that’s for sure,” I said sarcastically.
“Let’s go into the den, put on some Bob Marley, and drink mai tais until we pass out. No, make that blue Hawaiians. God, I love blue Hawaiians!” She waved her arms above her head as she jump into a springy dance.
“I can’t get over you.” I broke into laughter. “I can’t believe this is my sister saying this stuff. Bob Marley? Since when do you listen to reggae?”
“This is the new me, more fun, more interesting to be around.”
“The new you? I never thought there was anything wrong with the old one.”
“You mean the one who is an exact replica to Mom, all that prim, proper crap? You never liked all the feminine foo-foo stuff, it makes you crazy.” She pulled open the brass doors of the liquor cabinet above the bar, along the far wall of the den. “How about some merlot, Glenora 1999.”
“Sure.”
She took the bottle from the cabinet, then opened it and poured it into two glasses she’d taken from the shelf. “I always tried to be perfect, act the perfect way, wear the perfect clothes, those boring pastel dresses and uncomfortable shoes. I see it...I see myself in Megan and I’m scared she’ll follow me right down the same damned path of shit,” she said, taking a swig of wine, then gulping down the rest of it before refilling her glass and then pouring some into mine. “I don’t want to be like Mom. I don’t want to have to turn my head in shame at the indiscretions of my husband. The ones that the whole town knows about, where everyone stares in your direction as you walk into the grocery store or into the bank. I won’t do it. I won’t!” Her voice was stark and serious.
