A Long Time Gone (40 page)

My mother entered the room and Tripp stood and offered his seat, but she sat down at Mathilda's feet, and the old woman reached for her hair, stroking it. She hadn't needed to ask who it was, as if they were both fifty years younger, and Carol Lynne was sitting at her feet like she'd done as a girl.

Tripp leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped.
“Do you remember if Adelaide had any enemies—anybody who'd want to hurt her?”

Mathilda shook her head. “Not Miss Adelaide. She was an angel. Her husband, John, they was so in love made your heart hurt to see 'em. He was a real good man—he run the jewelry store on Main Street till he die. Such a nice man, an honest man—even though he was buyin' and sellin' liquor.”

“He was a bootlegger?” I asked, surprised. Even I had no idea we had any skeletons in the family closet. Just one in the yard.

“In a way, yes. And he loved Adelaide more than I ever seen a man love his wife. But everybody loved her. And I never seen a mama love her baby so much as Miss Adelaide loved her Bootsie. Maybe Carol Lynne and the way she loved you and Tommy, but it was close.”

I watched as the dark fingers stroked my mother's hair, and I wanted to tell her that she was wrong, that my mother had never loved anybody but herself. But I caught Tripp's eyes and something in them made me stop.

“The little ring she wore around her neck, do you remember that?” I held my breath, remembering the last time I'd mentioned it and how she'd feigned exhaustion. But maybe now—now that we knew it was Adelaide in the grave—she'd have no reason to hold back.

She leaned down to take a sip from her iced tea, then nodded. “Her husband, he made that for her. He gives the other one to Bootsie. I remember she cry happy tears when she show it to me. I went with her and the baby to get they picture taken. Bootsie lookin' at me in they photo.”

I recalled Bootsie's face, how she was smiling at someone and pointing her finger, wearing the little ring.

“Do you know what happened to her ring? I've looked for it all over, and can't find it.”

She sat back in her chair and sighed, her hand still stroking my mother's hair. “It been a long time. I don' think I can remember the last time I see it.”

Tripp straightened. “When was the last time you saw Adelaide?”

The old woman laughed, her chest almost concave with the exertion of it. “I be an old woman and you expects a lot from this brain of mine. But I do remember seeing her the day she die. I remember it 'cause it the
day the levee broke and the water started coming in.” She was silent, her eyes moving back and forth as if she were watching a movie of the muddy waters of the Mississippi flooding the streets and houses.

“I remember later that day, when the water finally reach us up near the huntin' cabin on account of it bein' on high ground. The sound, you never heard such sound. Like a roar, and then theys people cryin' out and shoutin' and everybody runnin' for the higher ground. Mr. Bodine, that be Adelaide's uncle, he had it all planned so we be safe.”

“But Adelaide and Bootsie didn't evacuate with the Bodines, right?” I asked.

“No. She got a phone call and said she had to go meet John. She took the baby with her; she ain't gonna be separated from her baby. And she knows she got an hour, maybe two, 'fore the water comes in.”

Tripp cleared his throat. “And Sarah Beth? How did she get the baby? Because in the newspaper they say she was the last one to see Adelaide alive.”

Mathilda didn't answer for a long moment, and I thought maybe she hadn't heard him.

“I don' know for sure, 'cept John never saw her again, and Sarah Beth just say Adelaide come to her house and gave her they baby, sayin' she gots to go to New Orleans in a hurry, and nothing Sarah Beth could say would stop her.” Her old hand stopped moving and my mother lifted her head.

“And Bootsie had on the ring when she left with her mother?” Tripp asked.

“No,” the old woman said. “I don' think she did.”

An odd smile crossed my mother's face, making her look like a little girl caught doing something bad. She looked up at Mathilda, put her finger to her lips, and said, “Shhh.”

Tripp leaned forward and grabbed a handful of peanuts from a dish on the coffee table. “So nobody would have wanted to hurt Adelaide, but we know that's not true, because she didn't bury herself under the tree.” He popped the nuts into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully.

“No, there wasn't nobody,” Mathilda said, her gaze directed at Tripp, and for a moment I thought she was trying to tell him something. And then I remembered she was blind.

I thought of the watch, and how Adelaide's husband said she'd been
wearing it when she died. “When you last saw her, was she wearing her blue watch? The one her husband gave her?”

“Oh, yes. Never saw her without that or her necklace—'cept a few times she let Sarah Beth borrow it.”

Tommy came in then, wearing a clean shirt and his hair wet at the hairline as if he'd just washed his face. He greeted Mathilda with a kiss on her cheek, then pulled my mother to her feet. “Cora said supper's ready and we can get started.”

He escorted my mother to the table while Tripp and I escorted Mathilda, her hand as delicate as a bird's foot perched on my arm. We sat her at the place of honor at the head of the table, and listened as she identified all the food using her sense of smell—collard greens made with fatback, butter beans, fried okra, and pulled barbecue pork from the Hopson Commissary that I'd driven for more than an hour each way to get. She had some of everything, and I watched in amazement as she ate all that was on her plate and asked for seconds of the candied yams that I had made using Bootsie's recipe. It came from the tattered and worn “receipt” box—that's what she'd called it—that had been used for generations of the women in my family. I'd thought of it often while I'd been away, how Bootsie knew them all by heart but used the recipe anyway, and was already thinking about how I should pull out the crumbling recipes and digitize them for future generations. Assuming there would be any.

I found I had no appetite, my mind too full of everything Mathilda had said, of my great-grandfather being a bootlegger, and how Adelaide had been wearing the watch the last time Mathilda had seen her on the day she'd died.

My mind drifted away from the conversation Mathilda and Tripp were having about the food, and how she liked the new pastor at her church. I looked down at the watch, twisting it slowly on my arm. Where was the ring? We already had the watch, but why had it been in Emmett's box?

I looked up to find Tommy watching me. “Not hungry?”

“Not really. And I want to make sure that Mathilda doesn't leave hungry.”

I smiled as I looked over at Cora dipping another spoonful of candied yams onto her grandmother's plate.

He grinned, then pointed his chin at my watch. “If you want, I can see if I can make it work, though if it was in Emmett's box he probably already tried.”

“Sure—thanks.” I took it off my wrist, then slid it across the table toward him.

We finished the meal while Mathilda asked me about Chloe and what I'd been doing in the last ten years, and I told her without going into any of the thorny details. We talked about her grandkids and great-grandkids, and even the price of cotton.

After we'd cleared the dessert dishes and packed several Tupperware containers with leftovers for her to take back with her, Tripp announced it was time for them to leave, because he was too old to stay up late.

Cora settled her shawl around her shoulders, and then Tripp and I escorted her back to the car. I buckled her seat belt around her, then kissed her cheek. “Thanks so much for coming. I hope you got enough to eat.”

She patted the stack of Tupperware on her lap. “Not to worry. I gots these if I get hungry in the middle of the night.”

I laughed and pulled back, but she touched my arm. “You done chasin' ghosts?”

I remembered what my mother had said when we'd visited Mathilda at Sunset Acres.
She's been chasing ghosts.

“I don't . . .” I stammered. “I don't understand.”

“Good night, Vivien. We talks some more later.”

I stood. “We will,” I said. “And I'll remember to bring food,” I said to the closed door.

I stopped to pet the dog on my way in, then moved to the kitchen to help Cora with the dishes. My hands were deep in dirty water when I recalled where I'd seen the Heathman name.

Quickly drying my hands, I pulled Mrs. Shipley's book off from the top of the refrigerator, where I'd stashed it. Tommy walked in, reaching into the cookie jar despite the huge meal he'd just eaten. He was as slim as a boy, yet ate everything in sight. It wasn't fair.

I placed the book on the counter and opened it, the pages falling open to my family tree.

“What is it?” Tommy asked, a cookie crumb dropping on the page.

I wiped it off, my finger running down the lines of the tree. “I
remembered where I saw the Heathman name—it's on our family tree.” My finger stopped. “Right here.”

He leaned down and read out loud. “‘Sarah Beth Heathman Bodine. Married William Henry Bodine May 1927; son Emmett John Bodine born November 1927.'”

“She was Emmett's mother. Adelaide's best friend married her cousin, William, and their son was Emmett. I wonder why Mathilda didn't mention it.”

“Maybe because she figured we already knew that. Or not.” He reached into the jar and grabbed another cookie. “Sarah Beth as in the same Sarah Beth who was the last person to see Adelaide alive?”

“Yep.” I nodded as he chewed, dropping more crumbs on the page.

“That's not all,” he said, eyeing the family tree again.

“What?”

He tapped his finger on Emmett's name. “Looks like Sarah Beth and William had a shotgun wedding.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, staring down at the page, not sure I knew what he was pointing at.

“Emmett was born only six months after they were married.”

“Wow. You're right.” I stared at it for a few moments, wondering if it meant anything besides two people not wanting to wait until their wedding night.

Tommy grabbed another cookie, then left the kitchen. I closed the book and returned to the dishes, glad to have something to keep my hands occupied as my brain ran in circles. I brought the book out with me onto the porch to wait for Chloe, the dog happy to keep me company.

I rocked in the chair, trying to read the history of Indian Mound, to channel my thoughts, but I kept returning to my conversation with Mathilda as she'd left, and wondering what she'd meant about chasing ghosts.

Adelaide Walker Bodine Richmond

INDIAN
MOUND,
MISSIS
SIPPI
APRIL
2, 1927

I
sat underneath the cypress tree, reading a novel and enjoying the cool breeze and a rare day without rain. I could feel the moisture creeping through the blanket, the water no longer far from the earth's surface. Here in the delta we were used to the river's vagaries, how for years it would flow where the farmer wanted it to, slipping dutifully between the levees like a snake, waiting for its moment to strike. We were due for a major flood. We just didn't know when.

Bootsie sat in her carriage, playing with her little feet the way babies do. I'd given up on putting shoes on her, as she always pulled them off. I had enough blankets tucked around her to keep her warm, and she didn't seem to mind the breeze on her bare toes. The cool wind made her laugh and show off her new tooth, and dried the drool on her chubby chin. Even while teething, Bootsie had remained cheerful and content, making me feel as if I must be the best mother ever.

I caught a movement from the back of the house. Mathilda stood at the kitchen door, watching as a figure approached me, walking quickly. I couldn't tell immediately who it was, or recognize the hurried gait.
But I could tell from Mathilda's wringing hands that it was an unwelcome visitor.

I stood, relaxing only as I recognized Angelo Berlini. But my smile fell as he came nearer, and I saw that the man approaching me wasn't the Angelo I'd come to know. He was dressed only in shirtsleeves and a vest, his trademark fedora discarded along with his jacket and tie. His usually neatly combed hair fell over his forehead, and when he stopped in front of me, his black eyes burned. Perspiration dotted his upper lip despite the cooler temperature, and I noticed that the corded muscles of his exposed forearms were covered in dark hair. He looked dangerous, and I quickly stepped between him and the baby carriage.

“Good morning, Angelo. I'm sorry, but John's not here. . . .”

He shook his head impatiently. “I didn't come here to see John. I needed to speak with you.”

My mouth had suddenly grown dry and I had to try two times to speak. “Would you like to come inside for a glass of tea or lemonade—”

He cut me off. “There's no time. I've been driving all night. And I have to go back to New Orleans right away so nobody knows I've gone. What I have to tell you can't be said over a phone. There are ears everywhere.”

I placed my hand on the handle of the baby carriage. “Angelo, you're scaring me.”

“Good. Because I can't seem to scare your husband enough to make him listen. That's why I needed to speak with you. Did John tell you that he's stopped working for me?”

I sucked in a lungful of cool air. I wanted to deny it, to tell him that we had no secrets in our marriage and that John told me everything. But I was a terrible liar, my face always giving me away.

“I didn't think so,” he said softly. “He's made some people very upset, the kind of people you don't want to anger. I'm doing what I can, but I might not be able to help him now. You need to leave this place just for a little while, until things settle down.”

I glanced over at Bootsie, who was showing her dimples to Angelo, reaching toward him to get him to lift her into his arms. “How much time do we have?”

“Not much. John said he has family in Missouri. I've already started working on arrangements to get you safely there, and I'll transfer some
funds so you'll have something to live on at first. You just need to promise me that you'll start preparing to leave now. But you can't tell anyone. Do you understand? Not your aunt and uncle or even Sarah Beth. You will put them in danger if they know anything.”

I picked up Bootsie, holding her close, needing to feel her safe against me.

He continued. “I know how much you love you husband and your daughter, and how you want to keep them safe. So do as I say and everything will be fine.”

“But what should I tell John?”

“Nothing. Yet. Don't tell him I've been here—not until you hear back from me with the arrangements.”

I shook my head. “I can't lie to my husband.”

“Even if it's to save his life? And your life? And the life of your baby?”

I clenched my eyes, wishing I could tell him no, but I knew he was right.

He softened his voice. “You and I both know it's best if he doesn't have time to think about all of this. Your husband is a very stubborn man, Adelaide, and you're the only one I know who can get through to him.”

“He asked me before if I would move to Missouri, and I said no. He stayed because of me.”

Angelo reached up and touched Bootsie's cheek, making her smile. “You were thinking of your daughter, and didn't understand the dangers. But now you do, and you know it will be temporary. Prohibition will be defeated, if not in the next election, then the one after that. None of this will matter anymore, and you and your family will come back.”

Bootsie leaned toward Angelo and he lifted her from my arms, closing his eyes for a moment and breathing in her sweet baby scent, his smile erasing years from his face.

“Why are you doing this, Angelo? If you had to sneak away to warn us, then you could be putting yourself in danger. Why would you risk it?”

His black eyes softened as he regarded me. “Because you are one of the truly good people in this ugly world that tries its hardest to erase all good. But your love for family and home shines light into even the
darkest corners. Like my sister before life beat her down and stomped her out. That's why.”

Before I even knew what I was doing, I leaned forward and kissed him on his cheek. “I don't know if I agree, but thank you.”

He looked down at Bootsie, who was trying to chew on her baby ring that had just begun to fit her. Angelo took her little hand in his, and gently tugged off her ring. “I'm going to take this with me. I probably won't be able to come back, so I'll send somebody I trust as a messenger with instructions. He'll show you this ring so you'll know the message is from me.”

I nodded. “All right.” I gave him a halfhearted smile.

We both looked up at a sudden rustling from the tree above us. Oily black crows sat four in a row on three limbs, their large round eyes staring at nothing. “Twelve crows,” I said. “The old nursery rhyme only goes up to ten.”

He looked at me with a confused expression.

“It's an old nursery rhyme that Mathilda sings to Bootsie.” I hummed the tune at first, to help me remember the words, then began to recite them.

One for sorrow,

two for mirth,

three for a wedding,

four for a birth,

five for silver,

six for gold,

seven for a secret never to be told,

eight for heaven,

nine for hell,

And ten for the devil's own self.

“Not very cheerful for a nursery rhyme,” he said.

“No, it's not. But none of them are. Even ‘Ring around the Rosy' is about the plague.”

He looked down at his hand, rolling Bootsie's ring between his large fingers. “I have to go now. Remember, don't tell anybody I was here, or that you're getting ready to leave. Wait until you hear from me. Wait
until my messenger shows you this ring.” He paused, his eyes looking steadily into mine. “If John is in imminent danger I will let you know, so be prepared to leave at a moment's notice.”

I nodded. “I will.”

“Good-bye, Adelaide. I hope we see each other again soon in happier circumstances.”

“Me, too,” I said, hugging Bootsie closer to me. “And thank you.”

I watched him walk away toward the side of the house and the front drive. I almost called after him to ask him why he'd given Sarah Beth the emerald earrings instead of his fiancée, but I kept hearing Sarah Beth's words:
Don't ask questions you don't want to hear the answers to.

I watched him until he rounded the corner of the house out of sight. A fluttering of wings forced my gaze upward as seven of the birds flew down from the tree and into the sodden yard, looking for the worms flooded out of their homes by the constant rains. The sky had gone suddenly dark, heavy rain clouds erasing the sun.

I tossed my book into the baby carriage and, while carrying Bootsie, began to run toward the house, rolling the carriage behind me. The first fat drops of rain began to fall as I made it to the back porch, only noticing the figure watching me from the doorway when I'd reached the bottom step.

It was my cousin, Willie, and I wanted to ask him what he was doing home in the middle of a workday, but didn't. There was something in his expression that stopped me, that made me feel as if people were walking over my grave. We stood staring at each other for a long moment as the rain began to pelt the soft earth and the metal roof of the porch. And before I could ask him to bring up the carriage, he'd walked back into the kitchen, letting the screen door slam in my face.

APRIL
14, 1927

I waited for almost two weeks to hear back from Angelo. Two weeks of nearly sleepless nights and tense meals. Even Bootsie grew restless, and I wondered if mothers could ever hide their emotions from their children. I told no one about Angelo's visit, not even my husband. It seemed we were both good at keeping secrets from each other. John was
too distracted to notice that Bootsie's ring was missing, but Mathilda did, and asked me about it. I told her that it was still too big and I'd put it away until Bootsie had grown a little more. But I recalled Mathilda watching Angelo and me when I gave him the ring, and suspected she knew I was lying. I rarely saw Willie, and when I did he barely spoke to me and never mentioned Angelo at all.

John went to the jewelry shop each day, the tension between us making our kisses brittle. The only thing that made me allow John to leave my side was Angelo's promise that he would let me know if my husband was in imminent danger. We seemed to all be dancing on a precipice of our own making, unaware of the hazards if we missed a step.

I began to fill two suitcases with clothing and other necessities—mine, Bootsie's, and John's—not taking enough to be noticed, but enough that would sustain us after a sudden departure. I found Mathilda in the nursery once, opening all the dresser drawers and searching for a particular bonnet. I told her that Bootsie had lost it during an outing. But from the look on Mathilda's face it was obvious that my skills at lying had not improved with use. For once I was happy for John's distraction, knowing that was the only reason he didn't notice my mood or question why his supply of socks had dwindled.

We all watched the rain continue to fall, the sweet gums and loblolly pines all leaning over like old men burdened by life. The farmers kept one eye on their crops still growing on their highest ground and not yet underwater, and another eye trained on the levees, where the mighty Mississippi flicked its muddy tongue, threatening to find a way through.

On Thursday morning, nearly two weeks to the day since I'd seen Angelo, I was sitting at the dining table, having breakfast with John, with Aunt Louise in the kitchen making more eggs. Uncle Joe had ridden out to see what was left of his crops after a heavy night of rain, and Willie had just come in for a cup of coffee before heading out to the bank. It was unusual for him to be there that late in the morning, as he usually preferred to have his breakfast and coffee with Mr. Heathman downtown.

Uncle Joe had left the morning paper folded up and unread on the server, having left before sunup with no time to read it. Willie flopped down into Uncle Joe's chair and opened the newspaper to the front
page and kept it there, slowly sipping his coffee, his eyes scanning the page.

“Well, lookee here,” he said. “Isn't that a friend of yours, John?”

He slid the paper over so John could look at it. John's face paled, coffee sloshing out of his cup as he set it down hard.

“What is it?” I asked, putting down my fork.

He didn't respond, didn't even seem to have heard me.

I glanced at Willie, hoping he'd be able to provide more information, but froze. He was smiling: a smug, self-satisfied smile that stilled the blood in my veins.

“What is it, John?” I asked again, louder this time.

He looked up at me, his eyes empty, his face even paler. “Angelo Berlini. He was found dead last night. In the pond at the Ellis plantation.”

I sat back in my chair, my hand pressed against my heart to keep it from beating out of my chest. “Drowned?” I asked, feeling sick to my stomach, and wondering why Angelo would have been in Indian Mound, and why he hadn't contacted me.

“Appears so.” John's eyes met Willie's across the table. His voice was thick when he spoke again. “It says here that he must have been there fishing and slipped in.”