A Long Time Gone (15 page)

“Good night, Booger,” he called after me.

If I'd had something to fling in his direction, I would have. Instead I was left to contemplate the relationship between siblings, and how even though we would always get older, our relationship never really would.

Vivien Walker Moise

INDIAN
MOUN
D,
MISSISSIPPI
APRIL
2013

“W
hy can't we take your Jaguar?” Chloe asked, her voice more whine than separate syllables. She stood squinting in the bright sunlight, looking overheated in her black shirt and jeans, pretending to text something on her phone. She only had one quasi-friend, Hailey, who liked to hold her adolescent power over Chloe by never responding to any of Chloe's texts. But that never stopped Chloe from trying.

We stood in front of Tripp's and Tommy's Ford F-150s, both white with double cabs, deciding who sat where. I'd convinced Tommy to at least join us for supper at Lillo's in Leland, understanding that he needed to get back early because planting started in the morning. He'd included Carol Lynne in the invitation, saying he'd drive her home after we ate.

I'd been nervous, wondering which persona she'd be in, and had felt more than a little relief when I saw her braids and jeans and leather sandals instead of her house slippers. It wasn't that I'd be embarrassed if she showed up in Bootsie's dress. It was just that it was easier to recognize her as my mother this way, to give me a glimmer of the old
Carol Lynne. And maybe it would help her recognize herself so that she could finally start answering all of my whys. Tommy had told me it didn't work that way, but I couldn't see that as a reason not to hope. At least it would give me something to justify my return to Indian Mound.

“Because I'm driving and I don't want to be seen in that,” Tripp said, indicating my coupe. “Besides, all three of us wouldn't fit, and I don't think you'd want to ride in the trunk.”

Chloe screwed up her face, her round, babyish cheeks completely at odds with her heavy eye makeup. Her hair was once again held back in a French braid, and I wondered if this had become a routine for Chloe and Carol Lynne. I knew enough to know that it wouldn't have been initiated by Carol Lynne, who continued to refer to Chloe as JoEllen, but the fact that Chloe would seek her out each day softened some of the hard places inside me.

“There's a small backseat if Chloe wants to sit there,” I offered, preferring the car. Riding in Tripp's pickup truck brought back too many memories.

Tripp studied me and I tried to mentally prepare myself. “That's a real nice car, Vivi. I wouldn't have expected anything less from you.”

He smiled, and I waited. Chloe did, too, as if she were already aware of how Tripp and I communicated.

“You always were looking for that new, shiny thing that would be better than the slightly less-than-new shiny thing you already had.”
Yet here you are
. It was almost as if he'd spoken those last words aloud.

“Fine,” I said. “Let's take the truck.”

Chloe groaned. “How am I supposed to get inside? Aren't there supposed to be steps or something?”

Tripp moved up behind her. “If I didn't know it already, I'd say you must be from California.” He winked at me above her head. “It's called a running board, and yes, some trucks have them. Mine and Tommy's don't because they get stuck in the mud when we're off-roading.”

Her face remained scrunched, as if Tripp were speaking Swahili.

“Never mind. If you go dove hunting with me when the season starts in October, I'll show you what I mean.”

Before I could remind him that Chloe wouldn't be here in October, he'd moved behind her to place his hands on either side of her waist. “Go ahead and grab on to that handle there. I'm going to count, and
when I get to three I want you to bend your legs and jump up. I'll help you, so don't think you have to jump all the way by yourself.”

She tried to pull herself free, her words of protest already on her lips. “I'm too heav—”

As if Tripp already knew what she was going to say, he started to count. “One . . . two . . . three!”

Chloe did as she'd been told and jumped, landing easily on the bottom of the doorjamb before sitting down on the leather seat.

“Light as a feather,” he said. “Now scooch in—it's Vivi's turn.” He faced me. “You ready?”

“I can climb in. . . .”

As if he'd suddenly grown deaf to the sound of protesting females, he put his hands on my waist and began counting. Knowing I had no choice, I grabbed the handle, then bent my legs and jumped when he got to three. I sat down on the edge of the bench seat and looked into his smiling eyes.

“Just like old times, isn't it, Vivi?”

The light in his eyes changed, and I knew he was remembering how I'd practice kissing with him in his daddy's pickup truck, so I'd be ready for the real thing when it happened. At the time I hadn't thought my request out of line. But now I could only cringe thinking about it.

Trying my best to distract myself, I fumbled for my seat belt, then helped Chloe find the buckle for hers.

It was a half-hour drive to Leland, and Tripp followed Tommy on the straight and flat ribbon of Highway 82. Tripp tuned in to a blues station on the radio, the music as rich and dark as the Mississippi River, and stirring up the ghosts of my past.

We passed only a handful of other vehicles, half of them white pickup trucks. “What's with all the white trucks?” Chloe asked.

“These Fords are the farmer's best friend,” Tripp explained. “They can really take the beating a farmer's job gives them. And you'd know why they're white if you ever leaned your arm on the hood of a black or red truck in the middle of July. It's like to burn your skin right off.”

“But where are all the people? It's like after a zombie apocalypse or something.”

“Exactly what I was thinking,” Tripp said without a glimmer of a smile. “Actually, though, farming these days is mostly done by
machines instead of people. So a lot of the people who used to work the farms have left for the cities to find jobs. Not exactly the hustle and bustle of LA here, but I like it.”

Chloe's expression made it clear that she thought Tripp had probably been dropped on his head at some point. “And what's this sh . . . stuff on the radio? Don't you have real music?”

Tripp frowned. “You're kidding me, right? This is Muddy Waters. Born and raised right here in the delta. He and Robert Johnson and B. B. King and a bunch of other guys from Mississippi invented the blues. Rock 'n' roll or whatever it is that you listen to these days wouldn't have ever happened if it hadn't been for the blues.”

I thought if Chloe's eyes rolled any farther back in their sockets, she'd go permanently blind. “Never heard of 'em. Don't you have a station that plays regular music?”

Instead of answering, Tripp asked, “Do you know anything about Mississippi?”

She scowled for a moment before perking up. “Channing Tatum is from Mississippi.”

“Who?” Tripp asked with disdain equal to that with which Chloe had dismissed his blues heroes. “You ever hear of William Faulkner?”

She stared at him blankly.

“Morgan Freeman? Jim Henson? Eudora Welty?”

Her expression didn't change.

He let out a heavy sigh. “What do they teach you in school in California?”

“Not about old dead people.”

“Elvis Presley?” Tripp tried again.

“Heard of him. Wasn't his daughter married to Michael Jackson? Hailey's mom is a huge MJ fan and is always talking about him and playing his music. It's so last millennium.”

It was Tripp's turn to roll his eyes. “You ever hear of Oprah Winfrey?”

Chloe actually sat up straighter. “She's from here?”

“Yep. From a little town about two hours east.”

She stared out the window again, where the furrowed fields were interspersed with the occasional catfish farm. Not one to be easily impressed, she said, “I can see why they all left.”

“That may be, but you can't grow cotton in the city,” Tripp said, reaching over to raise the volume on the radio.

We rode without speaking the rest of the way, listening to the music, and I wondered if Tripp saw how Chloe's fingers had begun to tap with the rhythm without her even seeming to notice.

Muddy Waters crooned “You Can't Lose What You Ain't Never Had,” and I sang along quietly. I knew every word from the forty-fives Carol Lynne had left behind along with her portable record player gathering dust in a closet. When I found myself missing her, I'd go listen to her records, memorizing the words as if they might have some secret message for me from her. But they never really did.

The smell of marinara sauce greeted us as we entered Lillo's, an Italian restaurant on Highway 82 that had been there since before I was born. It was run by one of the many Italian families who'd made their way from Sicily and other Italian ports into the delta at the beginning of the previous century. A girl I'd known from high school whose last name was Colotta had once invited me to Thanksgiving dinner to prove to me that they served meatballs and sauce with the turkey. I'd pretended disbelief just so I could see what it was like to be around a real family.

We were seated in the back room at a laminate-topped table. It was too early for the house band and the dancers—both circa 1950—and despite the nostalgia I felt toward the whole scene, I was a little glad that I wouldn't have to listen to Chloe's comments about old people dancing with moves that didn't involve censoring.

Carol Lynne greeted everybody with enthusiasm but without using anybody's names. It was as if she was aware that she should know them but was too embarrassed to admit it. Bootsie had been a Sunday-night regular since I was a girl, and they'd have our plates waiting on the table when we came in. But Richie, our waiter, didn't recognize Tommy or me. I was unprepared for the needle jab into my otherwise medicated pillow of comfort, feeling almost as if a large part of my childhood had disappeared without my being aware that I'd let it go.

I felt marginally better when I saw that the menu hadn't changed all that much. Chloe studied it with a look of despair, no doubt calculating the carbs and calories in her head. Leaning toward her, I said, “The house salad is really yummy. And my favorite entrée is the spaghetti and meatballs. It's a large portion, but we can halve it if you'd like.”

She continued to stare at the menu, her jaw set. Tripp turned to her. “I promise it's not poisoned. And I won't tell your daddy.”

“Like he's going to call.” She looked up, almost as surprised as I was at her words.

My eyes met Tripp's. The fact that Chloe's father hadn't called even to speak with her hadn't escaped his notice, either.

Carol Lynne reached across the table and patted Chloe's hand. “He'll call, JoEllen. You know he will.” I knew she didn't know who or what we were talking about, yet it amazed me how aware she was of the cadences of a conversation, and the proper place to interject. I watched her for a moment, wondering if this new version of her was better than the one I'd known. It scared me a little to realize that I didn't really know.

Chloe didn't jerk her hand away, surprising me. Instead she smiled at my mother. “Yeah. You're probably right.”

I watched as a woman at a nearby table kept glancing our way, then finally stood, a little girl on her hip and a boy of about six clinging to her hand. She was petite, with short, curly brown hair that made her look way too young to have two kids. But her face looked vaguely familiar and I wasn't surprised when she stopped by our table.

“Hello, Tommy,” she said with a tentative smile.

Both Tommy and Tripp stood, and Chloe leaned toward me. “Why are they standing? Are we leaving already?”

I choked on my sip of water, understanding her confusion. She'd probably never seen her father stand when a woman walked into a room or approached his table.

“No, Chloe. It's just good manners.”

She made a face and then turned to the visitor.

“Hi, Vivi. It's Carrie—Carrie Limbocker. I mean, Carrie Holmes. I've gone back to my maiden name.” Turning toward the two men, she said, “Y'all sit. I'm just taking Bo to the restroom, but I wanted to stop by and say hey.”

After returning to his seat, Tripp said, “We're heading out to your theater tonight. How's business?”

“Can't complain. We're not getting first-run movies because we're so small, but it's also an hour's drive to the nearest cineplex, and I think that's winning over a lot of people. I actually broke even in my first month of business.”

“Congratulations,” Tommy said without meeting her eyes.

Her eyes brightened as she regarded my brother, and I wished he'd look at her so he'd see.

The little girl on her hip, who looked to be about two years old, kept staring at me with dark brown eyes, as if she saw something she recognized.

Carrie smiled at my mother. “Hello, Miz Moise. It's good to see you again.”

“It's good to see you, too,” Carol Lynne replied with a big smile. I wondered if Carrie could tell that my mother had no idea who she was.

Carrie turned back to me. “I haven't seen you in years, Vivi. You're still as pretty as ever. I always expected to see you on one of the major networks as a news announcer or hard-hitting journalist. I guess I still do.”

I felt Chloe's eyes on me. Forcing a smile, I said, “No, not quite. I tried at first, when I got to LA, but then I met someone and got married. This is my stepdaughter, Chloe. She's visiting.” I waved my empty left hand at Carrie. “I'm divorced, too.”

“We should start a club,” she said, laughing, although her eyes looked sad. “It's nice to meet you, Chloe. Do you babysit?”

“She's not going to be here very long,” I interjected before Chloe could answer.

“What about you?” Carrie asked, addressing me. “Are you back to stay?”