A Long Time Gone (43 page)

I returned to the parlor and picked up the sock, unable to concentrate on pulling thread through fabric. I put away the sock, then went into the dining room to finish packing up the rest of the china and silver to move to the attic in case the bottom floor flooded. The wind and rain pushed at the house as my mind continued to churn over my conversation with Sarah Beth while I prepared for disaster.

APRIL
20, 1927

The storm continued to rage with barely any respite, the temperature plummeting. The firewood was too wet to burn, and we moved about the house bundled in coats and woolen underthings. Bootsie, who was
now crawling, grew impatient with the extra layers that hindered her scooting along the floors, and her chubby knees were raw from moving about uncarpeted wood. But she remained mostly cheerful, despite the change in her world and the tension among the adults.

Uncle Joe had sent word that they were barely keeping up with the level of the river, the need for sandbags constant. The only way they could come home would be if the levee broke and sandbags would have no effect against the expected torrent. We could only hope and pray that the crevasse—and there would be one—would happen downriver of us.

He told us to go ahead and load supplies into a mule wagon and prepare to head to the old hunting cabin on the highest point of our property.

Mathilda, Aunt Louise, and I, along with a couple of the field hands that Uncle Joe had left behind, loaded up the wagon, including the suitcases I'd packed for the journey north. I couldn't go without John, so temporarily moving to higher ground was the only thing I could think to do while I waited for him to return.

I had tried to salvage part of my garden, but when I'd gone out the day before, during a five-minute period when the rain had slackened to a drizzle, I'd realized it was all gone. It saddened me, but excited me, too. The rains would stop, the floodwaters recede. And those of us who returned would replant our fields and our gardens, and live our lives like they were brand-new, and with the knowledge that we'd survived yet again. It was the way of the delta.

Mathilda was waiting for me in the kitchen when I returned, placing my muddy shoes inside the door instead of out, knowing they'd float away if kept outside.

“I'm afraid we're going to have to start over once the water goes down.”

“Don' worry, Miss Adelaide. I puts your seeds in paper bags and puts them in the wagon.”

“Thanks, Mathilda. I'd forgotten all about them. My mind is in such a turmoil these days.”

“Mama says I remembers everythin'.” She smiled and I smiled back, wondering why her words sounded so prophetic. Maybe when I was old and gray and arguing with John about a lost memory, I'd have cause to ask her to remind us.

“I'm glad,” I said, reaching for Bootsie, who'd just pulled herself to stand using the skirt of Mathilda's dress.

The fire whistle began to sound in the morning hours of Thursday, April twenty-first. Even though we were prepared and had been expecting it, it still sent my nerves jangling. A neighbor, on his way to Vicksburg with his family and what possessions they'd loaded into their truck, stopped to make sure we'd heard the whistle, and to let us know that the crevasse was in Mounds Landing. It was the worst possible place, only forty-five miles north of us. Most of our land and part of the house would be underwater.

Aunt Louise ran from room to room to make sure nothing had been left behind. I'd decided to place all the photographs and books I could grab into the attic, along with the china and silver. If I could save those things, I could handle the loss of everything else.

On my way down from the attic, the telephone rang. I was surprised it was still working. I'd tried calling Sarah Beth several times with no luck getting through, and I liked to believe she'd tried, too. Service had been spotty for weeks on account of the rains and thunderstorms, and it had been so silent that I think we all believed that the telephone wires were already down.

I was standing by the phone in the foyer and picked it up before it rang twice.

There was a moment of silence as the call was connected. “Hello?”

“Mrs. Richmond?”

The voice was familiar, but odd-sounding, like he wasn't opening his mouth wide enough to get the words out.

“Yes, this is she.”

“This is Mr. Peacock. John asked me to call you. The phones are so unpredictable right now, you understand.”

I was confused as to why my husband hadn't called me directly, but I needed to know about John. “Is he all right?” I asked.

“He's on his way here, to the store. To help me pack up all the jewelry and move it to a safe at the bank.”

“He's on his way now? Downtown? But the whistle has sounded—we're evacuating.”

“Yes, of course.” A pause. “He, uh, he said he would evacuate with
you, to the place you discussed previously, up north, he said. But he wants you to meet him here instead of evacuate with your family.”

John must have heard something—something that made him believe that we needed to go north now. I felt a shiver of fear. I thought of our suitcases in the wagon, and knew I didn't have time to get them. If I had to sell my watch for supplies, then I would.

“All right. Are the roads between here and downtown still passable?”

“Yes. Muddy, so you'll need to be careful, but still passable. But you need to leave now.”

“Of course. Thank you, Mr. Peacock. I should be there in no more than thirty minutes, depending on the roads.”

I hung up the phone and saw Aunt Louise watching me. “You're going with us, Adelaide. To the hunting cabin.”

I managed a smile. “Later. Right now John wants me to meet him at the jewelry store. He's helping Mr. Peacock secure his merchandise.”

She looked at me as if I'd lost my mind. “The levee's been breached, Adelaide. There's so much water coming in. One of the field hands just told me that a refugee just passed by from Greenville—water's already up to the bottom of the doors on the shops downtown, and that's less than forty miles from here.”

“I know. But I have to go. John needs me.”

“What about Bootsie?”

“She stays with me.”

Her brow furrowed. “I don't understand. . . .”

I hugged her and kissed her cheek. “I'll explain it all later. I promise. But right now we need to leave.”

I bundled Bootsie up and dressed myself in an extra layer as Aunt Louise fussed and pleaded with me over and over, trying very hard not to cry. I wanted so badly to tell her, but I remembered what Angelo had said—about how I might put others in danger if I told them where I was going. But I trusted John, and knew that he would bring us back soon, and I held on to that thought so I wouldn't start crying, too.

Aunt Louise kissed Bootsie hard, and then kissed me again and said good-bye. Mathilda kissed Bootsie, too, her eyes wet, then stood silently watching. I gave her a quick smile before I ran outside in the
teeming rain, the sound of the whistle almost obliterated by that of the wind and rain pelting the ground and the old yellow house. I placed Bootsie on the seat beside me, then looked back at the front porch, where Aunt Louise and Mathilda stood, their faces drawn in identical expressions of worry.

I waved, and they waved back; then I put the car in gear, making sure I didn't look in the rearview mirror. Mathilda had once told me that looking behind you when you left a place meant you'd never come back. But as I made my way down the long drive, I hit a fallen limb—almost invisible in the mud—and when I looked up again I saw the reflection of the old cypress in the backyard, its leaves weighed down by the rain, its limbs drooping as if in mourning. I quickly looked away and focused on the road in front of me, praying that this would all be over soon.

Vivien Walker Moise

INDIAN
MOUND
, MISSIS
SIPPI
JUNE
2013

F
or two hours the dog ran up and down the long drive, whimpering and pawing at the ground, looking out toward the highway. I was afraid he'd keep going, running down the paved asphalt all the way to California. I'd heard of dogs doing that, finding their owners after traveling for long distances. But each time he came back to the porch, where I sat on the steps, dry eyed, and put his head in my lap as if to tell me that he knew running away wasn't going to get him where he needed to be.

Tripp had taken my mother inside to calm her down. She'd grown agitated watching Chloe leave, her confusion mixing with the sure knowledge that something bad was happening, though she couldn't figure out what it was.

Cora had finally put her back to bed, and after making sure she was settled, Tripp came out on the porch and sat next to me. We sat in silence for a long while as the sun got higher in the sky and turned the brunt of its heat onto the front steps where we sat.

“You're going to get more freckles,” he said.

I closed my eyes, remembering the day at the lake, and how Chloe
had been so happy and for the first time in my life I'd felt like I'd done something right. “Good,” I said, tilting my face up toward the sun, hoping I'd burn.

“I just want you to know that I would have punched that son of a bitch in the face if I thought it would improve matters. But I know he's a surgeon and wouldn't have risked his hands even if he knew how to punch back. That would have made me feel like a bully, and gotten me sued, to boot.”

I didn't respond—couldn't. It was as if the morning's events had scooped out my insides and scattered them in the fields, leaving me an empty shell.

As if he were unaware that I was within a strong breeze of falling over, he continued. “Of all the things my mama and daddy taught Claire and me, there's one thing that's always stuck out. When we were hitting our heads against a problem, they said to find one true thing about the situation. And following it would be like unwinding a ball of yarn, leading you to the heart of it. And you know what? They were right.”

I slid away from him, angry that he'd be telling me stories about his parents when I could barely breathe. Could barely summon the energy to stand up and go inside the house.

“This is bigger than just a problem, Tripp. Everywhere I look, I see one self-inflicted disaster after another. It's like I'm sinking in quicksand and I don't know how to get out of it.”

He was thoughtful for a moment, and I braced myself. “That one true thing is your rope you're going to need to pull yourself out.”

What I needed was a time machine to take me back before I'd made the first in a string of bad mistakes, not stupid platitudes from a guy who spent a lot of time with dead people. If I'd had the strength, I would have pushed him, or hit him, or yelled at him. But all I could do was sit with my face toward the sky, hoping I'd burn.

He stood, blocking the sun, making me blink up at him. “I heard what he said, about the prescription. It's not the answer, Vivi. And it sure as hell won't pull you out of the quicksand.”

“Go away,” I said, angry that he'd read my mind. That he knew that as soon as Chloe had gone, I'd been wanting to pop a pill to take away all of my hurt, to take away my dreams of being somebody other than who I'd become.

I turned my head, but I knew he was still there because I felt his shadow on my face.

“Something else my mama told me. She said that it's those who are hardest to love who need love the most.” He stood and slowly walked down the steps, stopping but not turning around. “She told me that when you left.”

I listened to the crunch of dirt and rocks as he made his way to his truck, then the engine starting and the truck making its way down the drive and out to the highway, following the path of the limo. Just one more person I'd pushed out of my life. Just one more mistake I couldn't stop repeating.

The dog began to pant, and I knew he wouldn't go inside without me, so I managed to pull myself to stand and lead him into the kitchen, where he headed straight for the water bowl, making me feel worse than I already did.

He followed me up to Chloe's room, where her made bed—complete with lumps and untucked sheets but otherwise made—sat empty, the unused dog bed on the floor by the side.

The closet door was slightly open, and when I walked over to close it, I saw that all of the clothes I'd bought for her were hanging haphazardly on hangers. The floral tops and jeans, her plaid skirt, the purple leggings. I stared at the clothes for a long time, and finally I began to cry, something I hadn't been able to do since Chloe left. At some point I moved to the bed and was sobbing into the pillow, the dog up on the bed with me, licking my face as if he really believed that would make it all better.

I cried until I had no more tears left, the pillow damp beneath my head. I found myself staring at the plastered ceiling, at the small brown spot of water damage near the light fixture that needed to be fixed. It was like that small spot had become the proverbial straw, and I felt as if the whole ceiling were now pressing against my chest, making it impossible to breathe.

I sat up, my mind racing as I panted for breath. I knew in the far reaches of my conscious mind that I was having a panic attack. And that one pill was all I needed to make it go away. I remembered the single pill in the bottom of my purse, remembered leaving it there as if even then I knew that I wouldn't be able to stay off them for long.

I scrambled from the bed, trying to remember where I'd left my purse, tripping and stumbling in my need to find a way to forget. I made it to the hallway, pausing to catch my breath, to quell the dizziness that threatened to pitch me forward and down the stairs. I closed my eyes for a long moment, trying to remember how to count backward.
Twenty, nineteen, eighteen . . .

I managed to make it to one, although I had no idea if it had taken me one minute or thirty. I slid to the floor, trying to catch my breath, trying to recall why I'd been so frantic. I put my head in my hands when I remembered, wishing I had more tears to cry.

My breath still came in shallow gasps, and I concentrated on filling my lungs as my gaze stumbled along the hallway, looking for something on which to focus. Bleary-eyed, I stared at the portraits of long-dead family members, relatives whose names I didn't know but should. I imagined I could hear Bootsie's voice telling me about her mother and the flood, and growing up on the farm with Emmett, and how at Christmas they would collect magnolia leaves for the mantels in the house.

I found myself wishing I could go back in time so I could listen more carefully, so I could write it all down so that her words wouldn't be forgotten forever. But Emmett had once told Tommy and me that wishes were like the fish we never caught: too slippery to hold in our hands, and pointless to chase after when we already had a bushel of fish in the boat. He'd been right, of course. I'd just been too young and stupid for too long to understand he'd been talking about chasing ghosts.

My gaze settled on the closed attic door across the hall from me, the light from Chloe's room reflecting off the crystal doorknob and making it shine like a beacon. I needed a distraction that would keep me busy for long enough to forget about Chloe being gone and what was sitting in the bottom of my purse.

I figured now would be a good time to ignore the spiders and sort through the attic for Bootsie's ring, although I was no longer sure what finding it might tell me. But maybe searching the attic would help me reconcile with my past, and even find a way to reconnect with Bootsie and the other Walker women who'd gone before me, to find a clue as to where they drew their strength and wisdom, since my own supply
had been on empty for years and I was in desperate need of it now. With deliberate steps, I crossed the hallway and opened the attic door.

The smell of cedar and dust came out first, followed by what I was sure was the scent of dried oranges and cinnamon, reminders of the garlands and wreaths I'd helped Bootsie store after my last Christmas.

I stared into the dark staircase for a long moment, then reached inside to the light switch and flipped it on. The bare bulb at the top of the stairs illuminated the wooden risers and ceiling rafters, and the shadows of trunks and boxes on the periphery looking down at me like spectators at a boxing ring.

I sniffed again, wondering how those old scents could still be contained within the four walls of the attic, and thinking that maybe they just existed inside my own memories. I took a step up, trying to make out the shape of something hanging from one of the rafters. It was draped in an old Hamlin's dress bag, the bottom half unzipped, and when I squinted to where the contents spilled out of the opened bottom, I recognized Bootsie's fox-fur coat.

Before I even realized what I was doing, I was running up the stairs, as if somehow feeling the fur against my skin would bring a part of her back to me, would give me a little of her wisdom that would tell me what I needed to do.

The two-way zipper on the cover was stuck, and I worked frantically to pull it up so I could open it and take out the coat. I sat down on a nearby trunk and pressed the fur collar into my face, remembering how I'd loved being hugged by Bootsie as a child. The coat was musty and carried with it the scent of cedar, but when I breathed deeply I could still detect the Youth Dew perfume she'd worn when she dressed up for church or a garden club meeting. Just touching the fur seemed to slow my heart, forced me to breathe again. Took away the frantic desire for a pill without completely eradicating the need.

The dog stayed at the bottom of the steps, like a guard, while I sat with my grandmother's fur coat pressed against me until I heard the clock strike and I realized I'd been up there for two hours. The dog hadn't left his position and I started feeling guilty, wondering if he was hungry or thirsty.

I stood, my desperation still there but only clinging to the edges
now. I carefully rehung the coat, making a mental note to get a longer bag so it would all fit inside, zipping it halfway. Almost to the top step, I looked over at a box to the side of the staircase with its four flaps open. With a quick glance I saw a stack of old magazines, an ancient issue of
Vogue
on top, an image of a green-turbaned Audrey Hepburn on the cover. Not wanting them to get ruined by accumulating dust, I went over to close up the box, but stopped when I recognized several of my mother's old headbands shoved between the books, along with a fringed leather vest that probably should have been thrown away or used as a Halloween costume.

Of all the times I'd been up to the attic with Bootsie and Tommy to retrieve and then return holiday decorations, we'd never stopped to look in the boxes. I'd always been too eager to decorate the tree, and then after Christmas, I'd been too eager to get the boring job of dismantling the holidays over with.

But I remembered the year I was sixteen and my mother had come home for good, and how she'd packed up her things in her bedroom and brought a box to the attic as if she could pack up her past and store it away like it had never happened. I'd heard her struggling up the stairs with the box and hadn't offered to help. And never once, in all of these years, had I thought of it or what it might contain.

I stepped out of the light from the overhead bulb and there, sitting in a corner on top of what looked to be a Greyhound bus schedule, was a red bound journal with the word “Diary” in cracked embossed gold on the front. I wasn't sure how long I stared at it, torn between closing the box and picking it up. But eventually I leaned in and took it, then sat down on a trunk with the diary in my hand.

I recalled my disappointment upon my return in April, when I'd discovered that my mother's memory was gone, that she would never know enough to remember why she needed to tell me she was sorry, that I would never hear her story that would explain what was missing in me that made her want to leave.

As Bootsie used to say, all things happened for a reason. Maybe that was why I'd stumbled into the attic and seen her coat. And found my mother's diary. It was almost as if Bootsie were there beside me, prompting me to read it.

With a deep breath, I opened the cover, pausing at my mother's
signature on the first page, and it hit me with a pang of nostalgia that I'd never seen her handwriting before. Would have no idea whether this was hers except for the name scrawled on that first page.
Carol Lynne Walker Moise, Indian Mound, Mississippi, August 5, 1962.
Her seventeenth birthday. I hadn't remembered that her birthday was on the fifth of August. And I'd never asked.

I slid down onto the floor of the attic and rested my back against the trunk. Then, with my mother's story in my hands, I bent my head and began to read.