The Ladies of Garrison Gardens (28 page)

She packed up Myrtis's wardrobe, and a boy hired by Mr. Jenkins took a small mountain of luggage to the railroad station; her days of lugging heavy objects were over. But she did carry the suitcase with the swirling
B
monogram herself as she boarded the train for Atlanta. Where Tassie was waiting for her at the Georgian Palace Hotel.

Chapter Fifty-nine

A
T FIRST THEY TRIED
to pretend that everything was going to be fine, even though Tassie was going to leave Atlanta and Iva Claire was going to stay there, and visiting was out of the question.

“We only played the South once,” Iva Claire said, “but we were on the stage together for six years. If anyone who caught the act even saw us together now, it could ruin everything.”

Tassie nodded. She was trying not to let the tears in her eyes spill over. Iva Claire was fighting tears too.

“It's just for now,” Iva Claire went on. But they both knew better. It was going to take a long time before they could see each other face-to-face without taking an unspeakable risk. “We'll write all the time and we can talk on the telephone. We can afford the long-distance calls now.”

“That'll be as good as seeing you,” Tassie said. But of course it wouldn't.

“What will you do, Tassie?” Iva Claire asked.

“The only thing I know. Work in the business.”

“Honey, vaudeville's finished.”

“I'm going to go legit. I'm going to be an actress.”

“You want to go back to New York?” Iva Claire asked, trying not to sound worried. There were people in New York who knew them.

“I can't. The first time someone asked me about you and Lily and what happened to the act, it'd be over. I'm a rotten liar.”

Unlike me.

“The Sunshine Sisters never booked out of California,” Tassie said. “No one will know me there. I'll go to Hollywood and be a movie star.” She was smiling bravely, but Iva Claire knew what it was costing her. Tassie had loved New York from the second she got there. And she wasn't the movie-star type.

“There's a lot of work in moving pictures,” Iva Claire said, trying to be cheerful. “If Shirley Temple can have her name up in lights, why not me?” They both tried to laugh, but the tears in Tassie's eyes threatened to spill over.

“I'm no beauty,” Tassie went on, “but they always need second bananas.”

“And it's supposed to be very pretty. The weather is perfect.”

“Yeah, for growing produce. Can't you picture it? The second banana out there with all those oranges—a regular fruit salad.” The tears that had been threatening to spill over finally did.

“Tassie, if you don't want to go . . .”

“I'll be fine!” It took her a second, but she pulled herself together. “One thing. I'm changing my name back to Tassie Ritz.”

She didn't have to do it. They hadn't used the name
Rain
professionally in years, and it would have been safe for her to keep it. But she didn't want to. And after everything that had happened, who could blame her?

“Tassie, I'm so sorry. . . .”

“It's not your fault.”

But it was.

“I'll send you money, as much as you need. You can have a house with a swimming pool. And a new car. No more subways. No more hot water and ketchup soup at the Automat.”

Tassie frowned. “I don't want you carrying me.”

“Just as long as it takes for you to get on your feet.” Then, because Tassie still looked troubled, “Please. I know you don't want to live off the money we got . . . I got . . . this way. But please let me help you make a start. Mama would have wanted you to have a
real
chance.”

Tassie looked at her again. This time she nodded.

Tassie was leaving on the night train. Iva Claire had insisted she get herself a sleeper, and a taxicab was going to take her to the train station. Iva Claire wouldn't be going with her. There was no use in taking any dumb chances, Tassie said.

Her small suitcase was packed and sitting by the door of the hotel room.

“Iva Claire?” Tassie's voice was achy. “Are you going to miss the old days?”

“I'll miss you and Mama.”

“But not the Sunshine Sisters.”

She had to be honest. “No, I won't miss the act.”

Tassie nodded, but her eyes were full of pain. Iva Claire searched for the words that would explain—somehow—and make it easier. She wasn't sure if she was doing it for Tassie's sake or her own. “This is a terrible time, Tassie. Remember the hobo jungles alongside the railroad tracks when we were going to Indiana, and all the little kids begging every time the train stopped? And the bread lines back in New York? There are people who are trying to do something about all of that, and I've got money. Lots of it. I can't change the way I got it; I can never fix that. But maybe I can do something to make things better . . . and maybe if I do, it'll all be worth it. You, me, Mama, and—” She couldn't make herself say the rest, but she didn't have to, Tassie knew what she meant. “Maybe I can make up for it all, just a little. You understand?”

“Yes,” Tassie said. But Iva Claire knew she didn't. Tassie didn't want to change the world or do good deeds. She hadn't done anything horrible that she had to make up for. She just wanted to go back to the days when the Sunshine Sisters were on the road, getting their laughs doing five shows a day in the vaud-and-pic houses.

It was time for Tassie to go. She picked up the suitcase and started out the door. They'd already said good-bye too many times. But suddenly she turned and hugged Iva Claire as hard as she could. “You're a good person, Iva Claire,” she whispered. “What happened that night was an accident. Don't blame yourself.” And Tassie left.

Iva Claire moved to a big new apartment in a fashionable building north of Ansley Park and settled in. On her first night in her new home, she unlocked the water-stained suitcase with the swirling
B
on the side. There, where she'd crammed them on top of her old clothes, were her Sunshine Sisters costume and the sheet music for “Beautiful Dreamer.” She threw the clothes in the trash—she'd worn them when Mama was dying—put the costume and sheet music back in the suitcase, and hid it in the back of her closet.

Tassie settled in too, in her new home in California. She wrote long letters about her swimming pool and her new car, and the orange tree in her backyard. She didn't mention auditions, or acting, or the past. Then one day she called on the telephone. “I thought you should know. I decided when I get to be a great big star, Tassie Rain is gonna look better on a movie marquee than Tassie Ritz.” she said.

Until that moment Iva Claire hadn't known how much it mattered, but now it hit her. For a moment she couldn't talk. The gesture meant Tassie had forgiven her. And it meant that somewhere in the world, someone would still be using the name she couldn't claim. There was still a Rain working in show business.

“Iva Claire?” Tassie's voice came over the phone. “Did you hear what I said? I decided to go back to my real name.”

“Yes, I heard,” Iva Claire said. “Mama would be so happy about that, Tassie.”

“That's what I thought,” said Tassie Rain.

Chapter Sixty

MRS. RAIN

2004

I
T WAS LATE,
probably after midnight, and her hand had been clenched around the pen for so long she was afraid she wouldn't be able to move her fingers. She pried them open, slowly and painfully, and rubbed them until the feeling came back. She was a little light-headed too, and for a moment that scared her, but the dizziness passed and didn't come back. She was just tired, she told herself.

Her infant doctor would not approve of her nocturnal marathon, nor would her specialist, but a kind of euphoria was driving her. The relief of writing the story down, of seeing it on paper after all these years, was like the end of a low-level pain you weren't really aware you'd had until it suddenly went away.

She was going to need a large envelope. She'd used up all her personal stationery long ago and was now writing on the big yellow pad Essie used to make her grocery lists. Which was a good thing because the pages of Essie's pad were lined, and in the last few hours she'd had a tendency to run things together.

She picked up her pen again, then put it down. She'd written the dangerous part of the story; now came the part that was simply sad. And heartbreaking, really—as if her heart wasn't already dicey enough. Would Ms. McCready understand why she was doing this? Would this letter really give her the courage she needed? She picked up her pen again.

Laurel, I know you're afraid. That's why I want to tell you this story. You need to know that people are not always what they seem. You mustn't be scared of anyone. Don't let yourself be bullied. Do what you know is right. Myrtis couldn't, and neither could Peggy, but you can. I'm telling you this story so you can set things right for both of them.

She paused for a second and added,
and for me.

She sat back and reread what she had just written. She wasn't sure it would get the message across, but it was the best she could do.

Chapter Sixty-one

LAUREL

2004

I
T WAS THE MIDDLE
of the night, but Laurel couldn't sleep. She got up, amid protests from the dogs, and went into the living room. The
Charles Valley Gazette
was on the couch where she'd left it after she read it. She picked it up and took it into the kitchen, but she didn't open it. There was no need to read it again. She'd memorized Gloria's editorial.

“The vehement Ms. McCready,” Gloria had called her, and then made her sound like a mealy-mouthed phony. No, it was worse than that. Gloria had made her sound like every rich bitch who took the money and ran. All her life, Laurel had thumbed her nose at the gardens and the resort. Anyone who had ever heard one of her beer-fueled rants at the Sportsman's Grill knew how she felt about Charles Valley's leading family. In a few short sentences, Gloria had made her into the enemy—an ignorant white-trash Garrison. Accent on the ignorant.

Ironically, the vehement Ms. McCready is now the owner of the resort, and she has the deciding vote on the board of trustees that makes policy for the gardens. And, according to yesterday's announcement, the gardens and the resort are now planning to raise the cost of health insurance premiums for those workers for whom Ms. McCready expressed such concern. When asked to comment, Ms. McCready replied, “I don't know anything about business. There are people who know what they're doing, and they say this is the way it has to be. My opinion doesn't matter.”

Laurel cringed at the memory of her own words, immortalized in print. No one in town would say anything to her—but they'd all be thinking plenty. Going to the post office would be a nightmare. Everyone in Charles Valley read the
Gazette:
Sheralynn and her vast tribe, Maggie and Li'l Bit—and Perry. Laurel threw the paper on the floor.

The Lawrence family certainly knew how to deliver a gut punch. Stuart softened you up, and the ladies finished you off. If Myrtis Garrison had had the brains God gave a canary, none of the damn clan would have ever set foot in Charles Valley.

That, Laurel realized, was part of what was driving her crazy. Somewhere in all the conflicting stories she'd been hearing about Miss Myrtis, she'd started feeling a weird connection to the woman whose home, money, and life she now owned. She almost felt sorry for Miss Myrtis and, in a way she couldn't begin to explain, she'd come to think of her own battle with Stuart and his gang as a victory for the young woman who had been so nice to Li'l Bit and Maggie and then had had to back down on all her plans and dreams. Laurel Selene McCready, from the wrong side of just about everything in Charles Valley, felt like she needed to win one for the great Miss Myrtis. But she hadn't won. And she wasn't going to. Laurel threw the newspaper on the floor. The only thing she had in common with the great lady of Charles Valley was being as big a hypocrite as Miss Myrtis had been.

Chapter Sixty-two

MRS. RAIN

2004

S
OMETHING STRANGE
was going on. She was sitting in . . . a thing . . . a piece of furniture. It had a name . . . a name she knew, but she couldn't bring it to her lips. Where was she? Backstage in the greenroom? But this wasn't a greenroom, it was a . . . some other kind of room. And there was something in her lap that had a name she couldn't remember. How had this happened? Sometimes when she first woke up, she didn't remember where she was or how she got there, but she hadn't been asleep. This was like the last time there had been an incident . . . a cardiovascular incident. . . .

“Myrtis?” she called out, panicked.

She came running into the room. Only it wasn't Myrtis, it was . . . someone else. Whose identity was lost in the same black hole that seemed to have swallowed her brain.

“Yes, Mrs. Rain,” said the young girl, who wasn't a stranger but was, for the moment, nameless.

I know who you are, just help me a little with your name. Give me a hint.

“Mrs. Rain, why are you awake? It's three in the morning.”

If I knew that I wouldn't have called you, whoever you are.

“You're still writing that letter, aren't you?”

She looked down at the pile of yellow papers on a tray in her lap. That was what it was, a letter! She was writing to Laurel McCready. Everything started clicking into place. Words were coming back. She was sitting in a chair in her sunroom, and she had a pen in her hand. The girl, whose name was not Myrtis but Cherry, was right. She had been writing through the night.

“Shall I get Essie? Or the doctor?” Cherry asked.

“No, dear, I'm fine.” But the moment of confusion had inflicted a little sting of fear. Like a bite from an insect or a rash from poison ivy.

“Have you been in that chair all night?”

“I couldn't sleep.”

“The doctor is gonna be mad.”

“Then don't tell him.”

“Let me help you get into bed.”

“As soon as I finish.”

“Mrs. Rain, I'm responsible for you.”

She wanted to shout that she was a grown woman, and if she chose to stay up all night, writing letters or dancing on tabletops, that was her decision. But the child looked so stricken. And there had been that scary little moment in no-man's-land.

“Please, Mrs. Rain.”

So she let the girl put her to bed. And after young Cherry left she really did try to sleep. But the letter, which Cherry had put on the dresser, was calling to her. She waited for what seemed like hours; then she turned on the light and retrieved her yellow pages, the tray, and the pen. She got back into her bed with the tray on her knees, to finish the last sad chapter of her story.