The Spy on the Tennessee Walker (10 page)

CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 21

VICTORIA'S JOURNAL, 1941
VICTORIA'S JOURNAL, 1941

What have I done? That was my first thought upon awakening this morning. Why have I opened the first chapter of this messy, complicated book I call my life? And to Alma, my darling, my beloved great-granddaughter? I am a fool. When she knows, if she knows…then I could be ruined.

And then I nearly laughed aloud at my vanity. How can I be “ruined”? I am an old woman just a few steps from the grave. Who will care about my past? And if I tell Alma, she will keep my secret. Or she will not. She is strong-minded, my Alma. She will, perhaps, find my past interesting, even amusing. When I tell, if I tell…I know her. She will make her own decision.

As it happened, Alma preempted me. “Granny Vic,” she called from outside my door just before 10 a.m. “Can you let me in? My hands are full!”

I opened the door and there she was, dressed in her Sunday best, a beautiful navy suit trimmed all around with white piping. Her pocketbook was tucked under her arm, and her arms were full of flowers. “These are lovely,” I said. “But extravagant! You shouldn't be spending your money
on flowers for me.”

“Sorry, Granny Vic. They're not for you. I want to go to the cemetery with you this morning and put flowers on the graves of the gentlemen you loved before Great-Grandpa Jules.”

I started to protest. And then I realized what a gift Alma was giving me. She would learn my secret at the cemetery without me having to speak a word.

I do not know if this is happenstance or not, but I live very close to the Episcopalian cemetery, and so Alma and I set out on the path from my home, just slightly up the hill. “Now, Granny Vic,” she said, “I am putting you on notice. You may not make that old joke again about what a swift journey you will have to heaven when you die because you live so conveniently close.”

I stopped and caught my breath. “I don't have to make that joke today. You have now officially made it for me.”

She laughed and shook her finger at me. “You outwit me every time,” she said, as the two tallest, fanciest memorials came into view.

I know I slow Alma down a very great deal, but I love to take her arm and listen to her chatter away about all the happenings in town, and who wore what to the early service at College Hill Presbyterian Church, the oldest house of worship in Lafayette County. At the entrance, I stopped again to catch my breath. I had not been here for some time, and I closed my eyes to envision my two destinations. They came to me as clear as day, and with a firmer step
I set off without Alma's assistance. I walked past the two banker showoffs, with their tall monuments within inches of each other in matching heights: J.W.T. Falkner and Bem Price. I stop a moment, and Alma and I exchange glances. “Men,” she says. “Is it indelicate to say that they will compete about size always and forever?”

But I had the bit in my teeth, and so I walked another fifty yards. We stopped, and I gestured at the grave in front of us with my walking stick, and Alma knelt to brush away the debris on the stone. She read aloud: “Eli Mays, 1835–1892: You Made Me Laugh.” She placed her bouquet of sweet peas, trailing jasmine, and zinnias on the gravesite.

Then she stood and put her arm around me. “You were married to Mr. Mays?” I nodded. “And did you love him very much? I would think you would love a man who made you laugh.”

“I grew to love him,” I said. “He was in love with me for a long time, since we were children, I think, and we…worked together during the War Between the States. So it was not a great passion on my part, but he sacrificed much for me. And I was grateful.” I felt the sun warming my back.

I could feel Alma's puzzlement. This is not the story she expected to hear. “Granny Vic,” she said tentatively. “Can you tell me about Mr. Mays's sacrifice?”

I began to tremble.

“You're shaking. Come sit down.” She guided me to a stone bench, and we sat there a while. Suddenly the air was boisterous with music. Three hermit thrush had found the
teetery old birdbath in the middle of the cemetery. They splashed and sang and danced around like drunken fools. I took a deep breath.

“I will tell you about Eli soon, but now, I want to introduce you to my other husband, my…” I struggled to say the words. “My sweetheart.” Alma looked at once puzzled and worried. I could tell she thought poor Granny Vic was finally going around the bend and not coming back. I patted her hand. “Don't fret, child. You don't need to worry about me. I'm fine. You'll see. Just give an old lady a hand up.” Alma helped me to my feet, and we began the walk across the grass scattered with grand monuments and weeping stone angels. At the edge of the cemetery we passed the small sign that read: St. Peter's, Colored Cemetery. And we walked in together.

CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 22

MAGGIE
MAGGIE

OXFORD

“Victoria,” I whispered. “I want to know you.” I placed the letter on top of the small pile of those I'd already read; I closed the journal and placed the palm of my hand on top of the soft oxblood cover. It felt warm to the touch, as if Victoria herself had just finished writing and put it aside.

I rubbed my eyes furiously. The strain of making out Victoria's shaky hand and Alma's fine handwriting was exhausting. But how could I stop? Who was this brave woman? And who was she spying for? And why was all this a secret? At that, I laughed aloud. A spy? What white woman fell in love with a black man during the Civil War? Yes, I could see the need for being secretive.

The door between the bedroom and Beau's museum space creaked open. Michael, in navy boxers with Hotty Toddy stenciled in cardinal on one leg, leaned against the door frame. “Maggie? It's two in the morning. Come to bed.”

I opened my mouth to say I couldn't, and to start rattling off what I'd read and the dozens of questions I had. But there he was, illuminated by the moonlight
streaming in from the window, and I thought,
Victoria needs to know that I believe in love as well. To be worthy of her
.

I gestured to his boxers. “Nice undergarments, Mr. Fiori.”

He looked down. “They are, aren't they? A gift from Beau.”

I stood up. “Two questions. Were they purchased at Neilson's? And are they…removable?”

The answer to each question was yes, as it turned out, and in honor of Victoria, we paid our own tribute to love. Hotty toddy indeed.

The next morning, I was up early and ready to start interrogating Beau. I found him outside in the garden, tying up his tomato-plant extravaganza branches so that they wouldn't touch the ground, so weighted down were they with late-fall heirlooms.

“Hey, honey,” he called. “Come give me a hand for a minute with these love-apples.” I picked up the green twine from the patio table and carried it over to the tomato patch. Together we staked and tied the branches.

Beau shook his head. “Well, it's not a work of art like Phoebe would have done, but she'll be pleased to see our rescue maneuvers. She's been fussing and worrying about even one of those not-yet-ripe babies falling to the ground. Somehow we just didn't get the tomato cages placed early enough this year.”

We brushed off our hands and gathered the leftover stakes. “You didn't even blink when I called those tomatoes love-apples,” said Beau as we walked to the house. The screen door squeaked, but when we walked into the kitchen, it still had the heavy quiet of people sleeping.

“Hey,” I whispered. “I'm the granddaughter of Mississippi farmers. I've got to have some horticultural cred. I know that love-apples are one of the original names of tomatoes. And I know they're a fruit, not a vegetable.”

We washed our hands at the big double sink. He let out a low snort. “Michael's right. You are a little miss know-it-all.”

“Oh,” I said, “I've got more dope on love-apples. No one's up — let's take a walk to the square and score some coffee.”

We strolled past comfortable houses, including the Neilson family home, which was more mansion than house, and admired the gardens. Continuity matters in Mississippi, so everyone in town is proud to tell visitors that descendants of the Neilson family still own and run Oxford's only department store, founded in 1839 and still helping young women look their best for the historic version of sorority rush devised by Ole Miss.

As we walked, I delivered a short but, all modesty aside, useful mini-lecture on the love-apples. “The related Hebrew word is
dudaim.
Which means love-plants. And, of course, they are related to the sexy and dangerous
Mandragora officinalis,
and I believe a kissing cousin to the nightshades. Oh, and you know what else? Mandrake was the common name, and the story went that if you pulled the plant up by its roots — which looked weirdly like the shape of a human being, with two carrot-shaped dangling legs — you'd be condemned to hell.”

“Makes gardening a mite dangerous.”

I was on a roll. “Of course, there's always got to be
a French contingent if we're discussing the dangerous art of love, and in fact to the French, apples were
pommes d'amour
, the apples of love. But then it was the Spanish who eventually introduced tomatoes to the rest of Europe, and as is their wont, of course, the Europeans didn't quite trust the Spanish. And that, mixed up with the deadly nightshade connection, is why people thought they might be poisonous. I think it was an act of daring to eat a love-apple. You know, risking everything for love.”

Next to me, Beau had stopped and was leaning on a pillar. I put my arm on his shoulder. “Beau? You okay?”

He was shaking, but he managed to nod. I stepped back a moment and realized he was shaking with laughter. He patted my cheek. “Maggie, you get on a tear and there is just no stopping you, is there?”

I sniffed. “Humph. I thought you were interested in the mandrake.”

“Honey, I can get interested in whatever wild tale you're spinning. I'm just observing that once you've got that engine revved up, there are no brakes on that operation.”

“I suppose you're not interested in more superstitions about the love-apples.”

“Are there more?” he asked faintly.

“It's okay. Let's just walk.”

We'd come to the square, and we began a stroll around its historic sides. A few coffee places just off the square were open, and the fragrance of coffee drifted out the windows. A few early-bird, up-and-at-‘em tourists were already climbing the stairs to the courthouse, peering in the windows, stepping back to look at the cupola
on top, and then peering in again, hoping someone would open up. We stopped in front of Neilson's, and in a window I spotted many variations of Michael's boxers clothespinned to an artfully swinging clothesline.

“I've had a viewing of those boxers you bought Michael,” I said. “I don't usually see him in boxers.”

“That may be too much information for me, honey. But now that you've seen them, are you a convert?”

I smiled. “I try to be flexible in my opinion about whatever option he chooses.”

Beau laughed. “Not your Auntie Phoebe. She forbade me to wear anything but boxers after we were married. She had some theory or other about keeping the air flowing around what she called ‘the gentleman's parts.'”

We turned a corner and saw one of Oxford's holiest grails, the statue of William Faulkner, relaxing on a bench. Without speaking, we detoured just a few steps and settled ourselves next to him on the bench.

“I can see your Grandmother Alma sitting right here,” he said. “She told me that it was a place that felt like home because she and her great-grandmother, Victoria, used to rest here when they were out for a walk.”

Beau paused and looked away. I put my hand on his. “What's wrong, Beau?”

He swiped at his eyes. “Nothing, honey. I think about all that life — every new grandchild just wipes me out with love, and I think about how I may not see this one get married or that one become a parent.”

“Why? What's wrong? Are you…ill, Beau?”

He laughed. “Not yet, no more than the usual aches and pains and a small stack of annoying pills my doctor makes me take. But I'm old, honey, and here's how
that works — apparently it is not in God's plan for us to grow younger. And so it makes me hungry to hold my family even closer.” He shook his head. “Of course that means different things to different people, but I cannot abide the thought that a grandchild or niece or nephew of mine will be left behind when I'm gone without mastering the rudiments of fishing. I don't have lots to offer, but I know my way around a line and a pole.”

I linked my arm in his, and we watched as the square began to fill with life. Shopkeepers raised blinds and straightened welcome mats. Runners and walkers powered by. Evolved Southern dads pushed strollers on their mission — to let mom sleep in and bring her back a perfectly prepared single nonfat latte. Sleepy Ole Miss girls, decked out in sweats instead of picture-perfect dresses and full-on makeup, crept into the square for caffeine (coffee
or
Coke) and dished over Saturday night.

A gaggle of three walked by, deconstructing rush and condemning some poor Connecticut boy to isolation. “He didn't buy her flowers, and he showed up at the Grove in shorts and a T-shirt. You know.…”

They all giggled. “That dog won't hunt,” crowed another one.

After their little morning-after parade went by, I sighed. Beau said, “Now, not a one of those young ladies can hold a patch to you, Maggie.”

I smiled. “Beau, you are so full of walkabout-on-air pudding.”

“Your mama used to say that.”

“Thinking about what lasts when we're gone…that's why you're letting me into Victoria's past, isn't it?”