Summer in the South (34 page)

A
fter that, there wasn’t much left to say. She could see him so clearly as he must have been as a boy, young and hopeful and believing for the first time in a future brighter than any he had ever imagined for himself. Imagining a life with a girl like Hadley.

He leaned back against the sofa, studying her. “Will you go back to Chicago?” he asked.

“I don’t know.” And it wasn’t until she said it that she realized she wouldn’t be going back. A new life here in this place, a thought that three months ago would have seemed inconceivable, seemed now to carry a certain weight, an incontrovertible authority. She could imagine herself holed up in a little cabin like his mother’s, overlooking a wide sweep of rolling hills, churning out novels about people who understood the joys of living in a place where nothing much ever happened. If you didn’t count murder, tragedy, undying love, and familial revenge.

“It grows on you,” he said. “It seeps into your blood when you least expect it, and before you know it you’re hooked. I went out to California, which for all intents and purposes is paradise, and after a while all I could think about was kudzu and sweet tea. I missed going out to the drive-in on Friday nights. I missed people smiling and saying ‘Good morning’ and telling me their life stories in the grocery store line.”

She laughed. “That’s a pretty good description.” She was aware of his hand on her shoulder, the weight of it, the gentle pressure of his fingers.

“So I take it wedding bells are not imminent?” he said.

She looked into his eyes. She felt breathless. Light-headed. “What are you talking about?”

“Between you and Will.”

“I don’t know why everyone is so eager to marry me off to Will.”

“I’m not.”

Looking at him she felt a familiar stirring deep in her chest. “I should go,” she said. He said nothing but as she tried to rise, he put his hand on her arm and kissed her. It was as natural as falling, that kiss. A sensation of letting go, drifting.

“I’ve wanted to kiss you from the first day I saw you,” he said.

L
ater, they heard the front door slam. They rearranged their clothes and Jake stood up. “Damn,” he said. “I forgot to lock it.” He went to the stairway and called, “I’ll be right down.”

Ava stood up, running her hands through her hair. “Who is it?”

“I don’t know.”

Her face was pink, and when he saw her, he laughed and pulled her into his arms. The door slamming again was like a pistol shot.

They went downstairs.

Whoever it was had gone. The sky had darkened and, looking up through the skylight, Ava could see swiftly moving gray clouds.

“Whoever it was doesn’t appear to have stolen anything,” Jake said, looking around the shop. He wrapped Ava in his arms, resting his chin on top of her head. “You don’t have to go,” he said, nuzzling her ear.

“I
do
have to go,” she said, pulling away reluctantly. “I’ll call you.”

“We’ll have a date,” he said. “Dinner. Maybe a movie. Hell, I might even take you dancing at the Cimarron Ballroom.”

They were almost to the front door when it swung open violently and Will stood there, outlined against a bone-white sky.

Behind her Jake said jovially, “Look out!”

Ava had enough sense to step aside as Will rushed past.

I
t took two burly welders Ava hailed from the building next door to break up the fight. Both Will and Jake were bleeding from the mouth and breathing hard, their shirts torn in front.

“I should have done that a long time ago,” Will shouted, as he was being pushed toward the door by one of the men.

“You should have!” Jake began to laugh, so the other man let him go. He wiped his face with his sleeve and called to Will, “What took you so long?”

“You always wanted what you couldn’t have.”

“And you always had too much.”

“Asshole.”

“Fucker.”

“I’ll see you then.”

“Whatever.”

“Bye.”

“Bye,” Jake said.

It was then that Ava realized it wasn’t about her at all.

W
ill didn’t say anything to her on the long drive home. She had agreed to let him drive her because it seemed the only fair thing to do.

“Look, Will,” she said, but he stared fixedly through the windshield and she saw that she would get nowhere with him.

The rain had begun, falling in windy gusts, splattering the glass. He let her out and drove away without a word. Ava tried to call him several times over the next two days but he didn’t answer his phone. Josephine stopped her in the hall one night and with a quiet, resigned air told her that Will had gone to Chattanooga to visit some friends and wouldn’t be home for a few days.

“Oh,” Ava said.

“How’s the work going?” In the dim light, Josephine looked much younger, and it was not hard to imagine her as she must have been in the time of Charlie Woodburn. A tall, handsome woman.

“It’s going well.”

“Is there anything I can get you?” Her expression was studied, polite, cold.

“No. Thank you,” Ava said.

J
ake called several times but Ava didn’t answer her phone. She felt that she couldn’t talk to him again until she’d talked to Will. She owed Will that much at least. And there had been something in Josephine’s expression that night in the hall, an indication that her hospitality was almost at an end, that drove Ava to immerse herself in her work.

She finished the novel. One night, it just ended. The relief she felt was indescribable. She had expected emotional fireworks and soaring sensations of accomplishment, but not this quiet feeling of relief. She printed out the manuscript in its entirety. She arranged it neatly in a box on her desk. It wasn’t finished, of course. There were months of rewriting that would have to be done before she could begin her search for an agent. But it was enough for now. It was farther than she had ever gotten before.

She began to pack her belongings. She had no doubt that Will was steeling himself, strengthening his resolve to come home and send her packing. She didn’t blame him. And because she didn’t blame him, and because she felt that she owed him that much, she emailed him a copy of her manuscript.

She emailed a copy to Jake, too. But with him, her intentions were different. With Jake it was more a desire to impress him, to show him what she was capable of, that drove her.

Something I’ve Been Meaning to Tell You

“F
rank? It’s Ava.”

“Ava? Oh.
Ava.
” There was a moment of silence, followed by the sound of a hand placed over the receiver, and then a breathless, “Let me get someplace where we can talk.”

Ava imagined him trying to hide from his wife. She thought of the sharp-eyed woman she had seen standing on his stoop the day she had driven to Garden City. She heard the sound of a door closing and then Frank said, “How are you? I’m so glad you called. I was afraid I’d never hear from you, and I didn’t have your number so I couldn’t call you.” His voice shook slightly. With nervousness, she supposed, or perhaps fear. There was no telling what she might say to him.

“I’m sorry I didn’t call earlier. I’ve been working this summer and I haven’t had a lot of time to myself.” It sounded so false and insincere that she trembled, saying it. She had rehearsed this conversation for weeks but now that it was finally here she felt tongue-tied, awkward.

“That’s okay. What do you do, Ava?” he asked politely.

“I’m a writer.”

“A writer? You mean like books and shit?”

“Yes. Novels.”

“Wow. Cool. I guess I’m not surprised. You were always a smart baby. I remember that. And like I said, Meg could tell a good story. She always had her nose in some book. She had you reading before you were four.”

“How do you know that?”

“Oh, well, you were just a baby when we broke up, but for a few years after that I’d get letters from wherever you and she had landed. We parted on good terms; there was never any bad blood between us. I just wanted a wife and she didn’t like being one. Settling down seemed to drive her crazy. Anyway, sometimes she’d send photos of you and she’d tell me how you were doing. You were always smart, and she was so proud of that. She called you an old soul in a young body. You know how she was.”

Ava felt a wincing pain under her ribs. Amazing how grief could settle on you when you least expected it, cold and heavy. “When was the last time you heard from Clotilde? From Meg, I mean. With news about me.”

“Oh, well, she was real good for a while there about writing. I sent money. Every penny I could spare. But then I got remarried, and me and Sharon started having kids and I guess Meg just figured it was better if she butted out. I guess she didn’t want to cause any problems with my new family. Not that I ever asked her to,” he added quickly. “I was always glad to hear from you two.”

“So from the time I was ten or so?”

“Younger than that. There was a long time when I didn’t hear anything. And then I guess it was when you started college that she called. I had to fill out some forms for your financial aid.”

“Frank, I want you to know that I didn’t know anything about you. If I had, I’d have gotten in touch.”

“Oh, listen, I understand. You don’t need to worry about that.”

“No, really. It’s important to me that you know that. Clotilde, Meg, was a good mother but there are some things she did wrong. She made some big mistakes. Like telling me you were dead on my tenth birthday.”

“Dead? How’d she say I died?”

“In an ice-fishing accident on the Detroit River.”

He laughed. “Sounds like her,” he said. And then, as if noting her silence, he said, “You’re right. She shouldn’t have told you that.”

“I still have nightmares.”

“Sometimes adults think they’re doing the right thing even when they’re not.”

“Yes.”

“I want you to know you’re welcome in my home anytime. I’ve told Sharon. I’ve told the kids and they’re dying to meet you.”

She swallowed hard, blinking. “Thank you, Frank.”

“Don’t you live in Chicago?”

“I’m spending the summer in the south. In Tennessee.”

“Maybe when you get through down there you can come up here and visit.”

“I’d like that.” Outside the window, the late-afternoon sky was gray and rainy. Clouds of mist rose in the distance. “Frank. You said in your last letter that you might know who my real father is.”

“Well, yes, I did but I’ve been thinking about that, Ava, and after everything you’ve been through, I’m not sure I should say. Because the truth is, I don’t really know. I’m just guessing.”

“That’s okay, Frank. I understand. And I appreciate you trying to protect me just the way Clotilde did but the thing is, Frank, you reach a point where you don’t want to be protected anymore. You want to hear the truth. Do you know what I mean?”

He sighed loudly. “Yeah,” he said. “I do.” He was quiet for a moment and Ava could feel his hesitation.

“Frank?” she said.

“Okay. I’m going to tell you this but you have to understand, I don’t know whether it’s true or not.”

“It’s all right,” Ava said. “Just tell me what you know. I’ll sort out the truth later on.”

“Meg always wanted children. She used to say she wanted a house full, and that was one of the things she and I used to dream about while we were roaming around the country with the Sunshine People. We used to dream about settling down and having a house full of kids. We’d live in the country and she would bake her own bread and home-school the kids and I’d be some kind of organic farmer. Which is kind of funny when you think about it because I don’t know shit about farming! But we were just kids ourselves, and we were dreamers, which makes what happened later with your parents so sad.”

Ava said, “Parents?”

“See, I traveled around with Meg and the Sunshine People for about six months, and just before we broke up, Meg told me she couldn’t have children. She had that disease where the tissue grows inside your stomach.”

“Endometriosis,” Ava said woodenly.

“Yeah, that’s it. Anyway, we parted, and two months later Meg shows up on my doorstep with a four-month-old baby she claims was hers and says we have to get married. She had an affidavit signed by two hippies stating that they’d seen Meg deliver the baby, and we hired an attorney to get your birth certificate issued. I knew she was lying, but I was crazy about her and I was willing to do anything she said as long as she’d marry me.”

“Oh, my God,” Ava said. There was a viselike tightness in her chest. A ringing in her ears.

“My guess, it was the two in the affidavit. I don’t remember them, but there were people coming in and out of the group all the time, and they all took those crazy names. It was probably just some young kids who joined the Sunshine People and then realized they were too young to care for a kid of their own. You know how that happens sometimes.”

“Of course,” Ava said. She could feel needle pricks at the back of her throat.

“In a case like that, Meg would have been the first one to step forward.”

“Frank, do you mind if I call you back later?”

“Oh, sure, that’s fine. It was really good talking to you. I mean it, Ava. This means a lot to me.”

“To me, too, Frank. I’ll call you later.” She hung up.

The news was so shocking she could not fully comprehend it. And yet somewhere inside her head the calm, still voice protested that she had always known.

Clotilde was not her mother.

T
here were no tears this time, just an overwhelming feeling of despair and confusion. She lay in bed listening to the rain.

What had Clotilde been thinking? What had she been looking for all those years they spent on the run? Or better still, what had she been running
from
? Why would a woman who cared so little about living a conventional life take and try to raise a child who wasn’t her own?

A bright flash of lightning lit the sky, briefly illuminating the garden.

All her life Ava had told herself, for better or worse,
I am my mother’s daughter.
Her whole life had been a lie. A prettily fabricated story. The tiny scrap of self-awareness she had clung to so desperately was gone.

There were no words to describe how bereft she felt, how alone.

A distant rumble of thunder rattled the glass. Gradually she became aware of the knocks and scratchings of the old house. She could feel it breathing around her, the rhythmic rush of the cooling system like a thudding heartbeat.

Eventually she fell into a restless sleep. She awoke several hours later to the sound of voices in the hall. The rain had stopped, and moonlight flooded the room. Outside the window a vague line of silvery clouds sailed above the trees. The voices in the hall were loud, angry. A man and a woman.

She had been dreaming of another time. She was a child, barefoot and dressed in a white pinafore, running along a dusty road. The red serpent was in this dream, too, only this time it didn’t bite her. Instead it bit its own tail so that it made a perfect circle, a hoop, and she ran beside it unafraid, laughing and rolling it along the dusty road.

The photo of Charlie Woodburn faced her on the nightstand. She stared into his dark, unfathomable eyes.

It was on a night such as this that he had died.

I
t took her a moment to come fully awake and realize that the man’s voice was Jake’s. Ava got out of bed and went to the door, opening it a crack. He and Josephine faced each other in the dimly lit hallway.

“Why have you come?” Josephine said.

“To see Ava.” He stood just inside the front door.

“You shouldn’t be here. You made your choice.”

“It’s not always black or white, Josephine. Sometimes there are shades of gray.”

“Why do you always want what he wants?”

“You can’t choose who you love. You, of all people, should know that.”

“Don’t speak of things you know nothing about!”

He turned, pulling the door open on its well-oiled hinges. “Tell Ava I’ll wait for her outside,” he said, going out.

Josephine stood, a tall, dark shadow at the end of the hall. She leaned, slowly and deliberately, and switched off the porch light. Then she turned, walking like a sleepwalker down the dim hallway to the staircase.

A
va slipped on her sandals, then went to the mantel and picked up the vase containing Clotilde’s ashes. She opened her door and stood listening to the faint overhead sounds of Josephine preparing for bed.

Jake was not on the porch when she went out. She called to him and a moment later he appeared around the corner of the house, moving swiftly across the lawn.

“Where have you been?” she called softly.

“Throwing gravel at your window. I knew when she turned off the porch light that she had no intention of telling you I was here.” He came up the steps, his pale shirt glimmering in the moonlight. “What’ve you got there?” he said.

“Someone I used to know.”

They walked together down the darkened street toward the river. There was no light except for the moon and the occasional flickering of a gas lamp in front of one of the grand houses. If he was curious about the vase, he didn’t say anything besides offering to carry it for her, which she refused.

“You have a bad habit of not answering your phone,” he said, breaking a long, moody silence. His exchange with Josephine had obviously upset him.

“I didn’t want to talk to you until I had a chance to square things with Will. I felt I owed him an explanation at least.”

“Listen, the other day. It wasn’t about you.”

“I know. You don’t need to explain.”

“Unfinished business,” he said, looking at her.

They walked on. She shifted the vase in her arms and said, “These are ashes. I used to think they were my mother’s.”

Something in her tone warned him. He stopped, and she stopped, too, facing him. A lone streetlamp cast a spindly glow. At the end of the street they could hear the rushing river, swollen with the rain. She hugged the vase to her chest and told him everything.

When she was finished he whistled softly and said, “Wow. Now there’s a novel.”

She smiled faintly. “Yes. I suppose it is.”

“So you have no idea who your parents are?”

“I suspect, knowing Clotilde, that they might be the two listed in the affidavit as having witnessed my birth. She’s not the type to have snatched a baby from a Kmart parking lot. She would never have wanted to cause anyone pain.”

“I’d start with the two on the affidavit. Will you try to find them?”

“I don’t know. Maybe later. It doesn’t matter right now. All I want to do is grieve Clotilde’s passing.”

“That’s understandable.”

“Because for all intents and purposes, she was my mother.”

“Of course she was.”

“And I did love her.”

“And she loved you.”

“Yes,” she said, and began to cry.

A
fterward they walked to the bridge. He held her hand, the gentle roar of the river growing louder. A deafening chorus of frogs sang in the thickets lining the banks. The moon hung over the water like a lantern.

“So what are you going to do?” he asked.

“About?”

“Everything. Your novel. Your life.”

“I’m not really sure. I’m opening myself to possibility.”

He grinned, his teeth glimmering in the darkness. “I like the sound of that.”

They reached the narrow wooden bridge and walked out into the middle, leaning against the wire railing. Dark water rushed underneath, thick and oily in the moonlight.

“Will you go back to Chicago?”

“No. That life’s over.”

“I’m glad.”

“Me, too.”

He leaned on his elbows, looking down at the rushing river. Pale boulders rose out of the darkness, dimpling the surface. “I read your manuscript. That’s why I’ve been trying to call you. That’s why I came over tonight to see you. It’s incredible. I couldn’t stop reading. I would never have seen Josephine and Clara like that, yet the way you described it happening makes perfect sense.”

“Well, it’s my story. It’s my version of the truth.”

“Will isn’t going to like it, though.”

“I sent it to him, too, but I haven’t heard from him.”

“You will.” He put one arm around her shoulders and pulled her close, nuzzling her hair. “So what will you do now?”

“I don’t know. Look for a day job, I guess. But nothing that involves writing. That was the mistake I made before, choosing a job where I had to be creative so that by the time I got home, I was too tired to write. Maybe I should look for work as a forest ranger or a lighthouse keeper. Something physically demanding that still leaves time for solitary creative endeavors.”