Sullivans Island-Lowcountry 1 (44 page)

“Look, you’ve been thinking some very bad stuff about

Grant—that he’s possibly, just possibly, screwing somebody else.

I’ve had a lot of time to think—almost a year.When I first found

out about Tom what did I do?”

“You kicked his butt out.”

“Well, not exactly. He left. But I let out a blue rage of fury I

didn’t even know I had in me. In truth, I did to him what I always

wanted Momma to do to Daddy. How’s that for introspection? I

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was trying to get even for Momma! And what have you done

about Grant?”

“Basically, ignored it so far.”

“Right, you’re doing exactly what
Momma
did.”

“Yeah, but let’s face facts, as long as we’re being so honest.

You’re anti-men, and you’ve been gunning for them since you

were a girl.”

“You can think whatever you want, but that’s not true. I was

unprepared for the whole business of marriage, terrified of men,

and frankly, my dear, so were you.We’re getting a little off track.”

“So where’s the wisdom in this discussion?”

“The wisdom is that I couldn’t believe that anyone would

ever love me after the way Daddy treated Momma. Plain and

simple. And when Tom betrayed me, as I always suspected he

would—because in my mind,
that’s what men did
—my anger

outweighed my disappointment.”

“What are you saying? That you never loved Tom? You loved

Tom, you know you did.”

“I’m not saying I didn’t
think
I loved Tom, I’m saying I

didn’t know what love really was! How could I? Daddy was an

abusive, unfaithful son of a bitch of a husband and a sadistic bas-

tard from hell. How are you supposed to learn about healthy

love relationships from that?”

“Good point.”

“Here’s the clincher. I didn’t
miss
Tom when he left. That

bothered me a lot, that I didn’t miss him. But then I saw!

How could I miss a love I couldn’t feel? One that was never a full

emotional investment
?
Oh sure, my pride was annihilated,” I said.

“But hurt pride is not the same thing as a broken heart. I get mad

at him when he jerks me and Beth around about money and cus-

tody visits. But mad is different from the soul longing for recon-

ciliation.Tom was nothing more than some psychological canvas

on which I continually repainted my relationship with Daddy.”

“Wait a minute, you’re practicing psychiatry without a

license now.”

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“Don’t you see?” I insisted.“If you never invest that much of

your heart in your marriage, you don’t lose much when it

comes to its inevitable end! It’s like wading in the water instead

of swimming!”

“Are you saying that you always knew your marriage with

Tom would end?”

“No. I’m saying that I’ve only just realized what a fool I’ve

been all my life.”

“I need a glass of wine. It’s the weekend. I can justify it.This

is pretty heavy and I can’t see how it’s gonna help me figure out

what to do about Grant.” She pulled her jacket around her and

zipped it.

“Look, forget the wine for a minute. I gotta go soon any-

how. Just think about this. Beth is
us
when
we
were young. I

work so hard to keep her relationship with Tom functioning.

You know why? Because I want desperately for her to have a

father.Tom’s no Prince Charming, to be sure, but he’s not half as

bad as Daddy was. Girls need fathers to love or it’s hard as hell

to love a husband. But, what about
me
? Will I ever let myself

really love somebody? I mean, this is all assuming that I’m

not too ancient to attract someone normal with a pulse, but let’s

say I do.What then? Wouldn’t it be the finest tribute I could pay

Momma if I lived my life with not just my mind but with my

heart too? Wouldn’t it somehow redeem her suffering?”

“I don’t know. I think she really loved Stanley, don’t you?”

“No way. Marriage of convenience. Period.”

Stanley was our mother’s second husband.

“Well, yeah, probably. Do you think that maybe I don’t love

Grant? Is that what you’re thinking?”

“No. Of course not. I’m saying we should both really look at

ourselves. If you want your marriage with Grant to work, then

you gotta
really
love him.Talk to him! If I’d loved Tom with all my

heart, it would’ve been an honest failure, if it was meant to fail.”

“Having second thoughts? Good grief, Susan.”

“Good Lord, no. But the guy taught me the most valuable

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lessons I’ve learned in twenty years. Maggie, if you can’t
really

love
somebody, you’re only half alive. If you’re only half invested,

you can’t lose too much. It’s the dishonest method of dealing

with fear.”

“What fear?”

“Of being hurt.”

“Do you think it’s too late for Grant and I?”

“Grant and me.”

She smiled at me and I warmed all over. Finally, she under-

stood what I was saying.“Let’s go back, Susan, I’m freezing.”

“Maggie? All I’m saying is don’t cheat yourself like I

cheated myself. And I cheated Tom.”

We walked back down the beach together and across the

yard toward the Island Gamble.
Gamble. If you don’t gamble, you

can’t win
.The house, the Island, every lesson of life worth learn-

ing was right there.

In my mind’s eye, visualizing as Livvie had taught me to do,

I could see MC standing up from a rocker on the front porch

and smiling at all of us, her children, returning safely from the

beach. I could feel her relief. She
had
loved us. With whatever

was left, after life squeezed her dry, Momma had truly loved us.

Maggie reached over with her hand and completely goofed

up my hair, which was already windblown into a thousand knots.

“You mussy got you’self a busy little factory gone in there, now

don’t you, chile?”

“Shuh, ain’t nothing, nothing in there a-tall, nothing but a

mess of worms.” I threw my arm around her shoulder.

It was unfair that trouble consumed you in landslides and

understanding arrived with the miserly drip of a faucet.

Maggie stopped and picked up a small piece of driftwood.

She turned it over, looking at it.“I could make a doorstop out of

this,” she said.

“What?” She was going to recycle the world.“Hey, Maggie?”

“What? Don’t you think that if I stained and varnished this

that it would be pretty? Look at the shape of it!”

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“Nice. Listen. I found something weird on microfilm in the

library archives.”

“What?”

“A picture of old Fat Albert holding a fire hose on a bunch

of black women and children back in 1963. It was a small civil

rights march in Conway. Freedom Riders.The picture was from

the
State
paper in Columbia.”

“What would Fat Albert have been doing at a civil rights

march in Conway? That’s like a hundred miles from here.”

“Exactly. He was also in charge of the investigation of

Daddy’s death, wasn’t he?”

“I think so. I don’t remember.”

“All the facts are in the library. I know it. It’s all in the

microfilm somewhere. I just have to keep digging.”

“You’re gonna drive yourself crazy and for what?”

“Peace of mind. I’d like to know that it wasn’t me beating

Daddy over the head that caused his heart attack. I’d like to

know what really happened and I have this new theory about

Fat Albert.”

She stopped and looked at me with the most serious face I’d

ever seen on her. She said,“Susan, I hate to see you doing this to

yourself, but you know what? You just might be on to something.

In those days men were capable of some pretty hideous things.”

“That’s right. Please, rack your brain. Do you remember

anything else about Fat Albert?”

She took a deep breath and looked away from me. I fol-

lowed her up the steps to the front porch. She put the driftwood

on the floor in the sun to dry it out.We stood rubbing the sand

from the bottoms of our feet and put our shoes back on.

“I remember this,” she said. “Fat Albert came around the

house to warn Daddy about something, didn’t he?”

“God, yes, when was that? I remember it, but when? I’ll

have to ask one of our brothers.”

“Save yourself the phone call. It’s all coming back. Don’t

you remember him coming around the house and kicking us

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out of the kitchen so the grown-ups could talk? It was about the

new school. Remember? That’s when Daddy was having all that

trouble?”

“Wait! I think you’re right! God, I always thought Fat Albert

was a creep.”

“Well, not that it proves anything, but I distinctly remember

the week before Daddy died.There were those gunshots through

the house and all kinds of stress going on. Uncle Louis was hang-

ing around all the time. Remember?”

“Fat Albert probably fired the shots himself.”

“Probably.”

“I have to think about it. It’s so vague now. I just remember

feeling guilty.”

“Take my advice, get over it.”

“You’re right, I’m sure, but I have this thing about knowing

the truth.”

“Well, the holidays are coming. I think you need to have a

little more fun and stop worrying so much. Hey! I have an

idea,” Maggie said suddenly.

“Not another blind date, please!”

“Nope, let’s call Simon and invite him to come for Thanks-

giving.”

“Simon? My Simon?”

“Yeah, your Simon. I wonder if he still has a sports car?” Her

eyes met mine. It was a double dare. “It’s less than five hours to

Atlanta if you push it a little. Simon could drive it with no

sweat. He could even come with Henry if he comes.”

“Okay,” I said slowly. “I’ve been thinking about Simon, but

I just wasn’t ready, you know? And Thanksgiving is rough,

Maggie. There’s never been one that I don’t relive what hap-

pened to Daddy.”

Fourteen

Thanksgiving 1963

}

heard the solid clunk of a closing car door, but strug-

gled to ignore it. My eyes were still shut as I hung in

I the hazy balance between waking and dreaming.

What had I been dreaming? Were Timmy, Maggie, Henry and I

all dancing together in a circle? Yes.Was it a celebration? Livvie

was out in the yard happily digging a hole.What was she plant-

ing? It was pampas grass, already blooming. Enormous plumage.

She looked over to us.We each took a spear and paraded down Sullivan’s

Island
.Then the image was gone.

Outside, birds rustled through the bushes, singing, whistling

and scavenging their morning meal of cassina berries and small

bugs. Noisy things, I thought, gathering my quilt around my

shoulders. I felt chilled. Slivers of daylight threaded their way

through the edges of my eyelids. I was awake then and remem-

bered it was Thanksgiving. I decided I might as well get up.

Knock! Knock! Knock! Knock! Knock!
There was the distinct

rapping of knuckles five times on the back screen door. The

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301

ill-fitted, slightly warped door complained in response to each

whack.

What in the world? Below my window I could just make

out the color and model of Mr. Struthers’ s car, parked under the

palmetto tree. A thick cloud of morning fog covered the yard.

This can’t be good, I thought.What time was it? I bumped my

way down the hall to Maggie’s room and shook her awake.

“Maggie! Get up! Mr. Struthers’s here!”

“What?”

“Mr. Struthers!”

“What time is it?”

“Early!”

“Get Daddy! Or, go get Livvie!”

“You get Livvie! I’ll get the door.”

Barefooted and wearing just my pajamas, I hurried down -

stairs to the back porch. The fog was so dense, I couldn’t see

Mrs. Simpson’s house next door. But I could see Mr. Struthers’s

unshaven face through the screen. He looked very old to me,

with spurts of white whiskers among the black ones. Even in

November, he wore sandals.

“Mornin’ Susan.” Mr. Struthers’s voice was very somber.

“Y’all awake? MC up yet?”

“No, sir,” I said.“Come on in. Happy Thanksgiving!”

I offered the greeting hoping to cheer him. I looked at the

clock. Five-forty-five. I heard Maggie’s and Livvie’s footsteps

behind me.Then, no one moved.We all looked at Mr. Struthers.

He was here to tell us something terrible. I knew it, like Livvie

knew things.

“Yeah, God.Thanksgiving,” he said. “Y’all bess go get y’all’s

momma. I called your Uncle Louis. He’ll be ’eah in a minute.

Let’s make us some coffee. It’s gonna be a long day.”

“What’s happened?” I said, feeling queasy. Mr. Struthers

hadn’t asked for Daddy. Just Momma.

“Go on, now. Get your momma up,” he said, sidestepping

my question politely.

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“Lemme go fetch her,” Livvie said. “Maggie, honey, put the