The Myth of Perpetual Summer Read online

  My equilibrium doesn’t return after Ross and I pass Pearl River Plantation. He’s quieter than he’s been on the entire trip from New Orleans. Out of respect? Because he’s swallowed up in the memories of the autumn that changed us all? Or is he simply tired of a one-sided conversation? As much as I’ve tried to converse with some polite regularity, my words grew sparser as the miles closed between me and my old life.

  As we get nearer town proper, I take my pencil from my purse and shift my gaze to the pad on my lap, coward that I am. I need to save my reserves for seeing Gran.

  I place the lead tip on each of the details I’ve learned about the Scholars of Humanity as I read through them: (1) The cult lives in a compound tucked deep in a Louisiana swamp. (2) They identify themselves as “a beneficent society dedicated to heightened spiritual awareness and psychological enlightenment.” (3) The name of their leader is Westley Smythe. (Sounds like a bookworm, an introvert, a small man who folds in on himself. Not a charismatic—the word choice of the latest news report—leader so convincing that his disciples will murder to protect him.) (4) Walden is one of three followers arrested for setting fire to Jonathan Moore’s residence, with Mr. Moore inside. Presumably because Mr. Moore, a nationally recognized journalist, was investigating Westley Smythe.

  My pencil begins to stray. I sketch the new face of my brother. A hard, worn face, framed by wild-looking long hair, aged beyond his nineteen years. But I draw his eyes as I remember them, kind and caring, open and trusting, not the empty soulless ones of the mug shot.

  “Remember”—Ross’s voice startles me from my thoughts—“he’s a man, not the little boy you remember. He can stand on his own.”

  I move my hand to cover the drawing.

  “You’re even better than you were as a kid,” he says.

  “Better?”

  “Drawing. Griff always thought you’d become an artist.” He pauses, as if he’s waiting for me to say something. Then he adds, “Did you?”

  I shake my head, too choked up by the memory of Griff spending his hard-earned money on art supplies for me. “I just doodle around.”

  “So, what do you do?”

  “I work for a charitable foundation that supports the arts and education.” I leave it unnamed, safer that way.

  “What do you do for them?”

  “PR mostly.”

  “Well, you got an early education in that field.” He says it kindly, and yet I flinch.

  “I’m ashamed of it now,” I say. “I was no better than Gran, concerned about what other people thought.”

  “Look at me,” he says.

  I slowly drag my gaze to him. His eyes are the same. And I know his heart is the same, too. Life has twisted and reshaped me, but Ross is the same as he was back in ’63. His kindness and willingness to help a friend put me in this car today. It’s also what sent me on the road when I was sixteen. I know it’s wrong to blame him. And yet, if he hadn’t come into our lives, things might have played out differently.

  “You were a little kid. And don’t ever be ashamed of the things you did to protect yourself and your family.”

  I manage a smile and nod. And yet those old wounds begin to bleed.

  * * *

  Riverside Hospital sits on the edge of town, the curved drive still shaded by stately magnolias. It has a new wing. A modernistic thing of sharp angles and glass that ignores the existence of the utilitarian-fifties brick building to which it’s attached, as well as the thirties-era limestone building with art deco curves attached to that—a Frankenstein of architecture.

  Ross pulls up to the new metal-and-glass front doors. “You go in. I’ll park the car and give you some time with your grandmother before I come up. Room 317A.”

  My throat is too tight to talk as I get out of the car. The dissonance of the building, the assault of the heat, and the stifling blanket of humidity team up with my nerves, and my stomach pitches. I almost retreat back into the cool, protective solidity of Ross’s Mercedes. But I press on.

  The hospital smells of ether, alcohol, and floral bouquets, not helping my stomach one bit. I pause outside the door to 317. Only bed A is occupied, so this woman I do not recognize must be Gran. She is asleep, her thin white hair flattened and mussed. Her liver-spotted hand rests on the near-concavity of her stomach. Gran was always so careful to wear gloves because a lady’s hands always tell her age. I step closer. The familiar wedding ring, loose on her finger, erases the denial my mind is grasping for.

  My gaze shifts back to her face, searching for something of my hardy, well-groomed grandmother.

  Her papery lids flutter open. She blinks and stares at me for a second, then she smiles and I recognize her completely. “Tallulah, oh my dear child.” Her voice is thinner, reedier than before. “I’ve been so worried.”

  A worry she could have so easily prevented, but I don’t say that, mostly because I can’t speak at all.

  A middle-aged nurse comes in and picks up the chart from the foot of the bed and looks at it before stepping between us and wrapping Gran’s arm in a blood pressure cuff. As she pumps it up, she eyes first me, then Gran, and says, “So how is the family reunion coming?”

  Without waiting for an answer, she sticks the stethoscope in her ears, but her eyes keep sliding from her watch to me and back again. After she makes her notes on the chart, she straightens the bedsheets. She then fusses with the flowers, the entire time casting surreptitious glances at Gran and then me. The action brings back a flood of unwelcome memories of Lamoyne’s whispers in my youth.

  Both Gran and I hold our silence until she gives up and walks out of the room.

  “What a busybody. Just like her mother,” Gran whispers to herself. Then to me she says, “Everyone in Lamoyne will know you’ve returned within the hour. You shouldn’t have come.”

  Gran may look changed, but her foremost concern is still what people think.

  “Ross insisted,” I say, unable to admit my real, panicked concern for her health. “He’s afraid I’ll have regrets.”

  Gran’s lips work for a moment. “Regrets are the monsters under the bed.”

  “You say that like you have experience.” Please tell me you’re sorry and you wish you hadn’t turned me away.

  She straightens slightly, and I see her reach for the dignity that has guided her entire life. “Oh, I have regrets aplenty. But none when it comes to you.”

  I feel as blindsided now as I did then. “None?”

  “Not one.” Her eyes hold mine, a hard, unyielding edge in them. Her face changes. I recognize it as the one she used in public when she was cultivating an image that was no longer a reality. She looks me up and down. “You have hippie hair.”

  My hand goes self-consciously to my near-waist length strands, and I’m angry with myself for doing it.

  Then she adds, “And clothes.”

  “Well, in California it’s just hair and clothes, Gran.”

  She offers a terse nod of concession. “So tell me about your life. Ross said on the phone you’re living in San Francisco.”

  Pleasantries. I want to scream. “I am.” I withhold details like a starving mouse guards a seed. I think of the ruined orchard. Together she and I could have preserved it. We could have kept it going—for Walden, for the Jameses who should have come after. “You told Ross on the phone you had a little episode. Looks to me like you’ve been laid flat.”

  She shrugs and points to her overnight case sitting on the bureau. “Can you hand me my lipstick? I don’t want to look a fright when he comes up.”

  I move toward the case.

  “The compact mirror, too, please, dear.”

  I hand them to her. “So? Is it just blood pressure, or is there more you’re keeping secret?” I put enough emphasis on the word secret that her hands freeze as they twist the lipstick tube.

  “It’s just blood pressure. The doctor says I can go home tomorrow. Would you and Ross wait so I can ride down—” Her voice drops to a whisper. “To see
Walden?” She swipes on her lipstick. Her voice returns to normal volume. “I can take the bus back home.”

  “Walden is all over the news, Gran. The cat’s out of the bag. No need to whisper.”

  “Well, we don’t need to draw more attention to it.”

  “How did he end up in a cult?” I ask, more bluntly than I’d planned.

  “Oh, I don’t believe any of that for a minute. I met Mr. Smythe. He’s a good role model for Walden. His organization gave Walden purpose, a place to serve, a place to gain self-confidence.”

  “You don’t seriously believe that?”

  “You don’t have any idea what’s gone on here. Would a call have hurt you?”

  I think of all the times I had the phone in my hand. But once I finally found the forgiveness, I couldn’t find the courage.

  “And would it have hurt you to let me stay?” I ask.

  “I made my choices based upon what was best for you, not for me.”

  The color is rising in her cheeks. I don’t want to be the one to send her blood pressure skyrocketing, so I drop it.

  Gran seems glad to let it lie, too. “Walden has been so much better since he found the Scholars.”

  “Better than what?”

  “You know Walden. Always such a good boy, doing his best and not causing trouble. He never felt like he did anything good enough to overcome—the tragedies.” The last two words are hushed.

  Is that truly how Gran remembers that domino-fall of horrors? A tidy little bundle. The tragedies.

  “How long has it been since you’ve seen him?” I ask.

  “He’s been so busy with his work, it’s probably been six months or so.”

  “Have you spoken to him on the phone?”

  “Well, no. But Mr. Smythe makes sure he writes once a month. It’s usually quite short, you know boys aren’t much for letter writing.”

  I hear shoes squeak in the hall. Nurse Busybody is just outside the door, fiddling with a small cart filled with tiny white paper cups. She looks down the hall and smiles. I hear Ross say hello.

  I say, “You do know that journalist was investigating wonderful Mr. Smythe for fraud, or money laundering, or tax evasion, or kidnapping, or wrongful confinement, or all of the above.”

  “Hush, now. We’ll talk about this later. In private.” She smiles and reaches out to Ross as he comes in. “Haven’t you turned into a handsome man. It’s good to see you. We have so much to catch up on.”

  I want to scream. “Gran! We’re here because Walden needs help. This isn’t a reunion.”

  She looks hurt, and I feel small and hateful.

  She quickly regains her composure and looks at Ross. “I’m sure Tallulah is tired from all her travel. I was just asking her if you two could stay in Lamoyne tonight. Tallulah can stay at my house. And there’s that nice little motel out on the highway for you. I know it’s an imposition, but I’d like to ride to New Orleans with you tomorrow. I’m afraid I don’t drive anymore.” She offers a self-deprecating smile. “My eyes aren’t what they used to be.”

  My heart hurts, seeing her deterioration. It was so easy to just believe she was the same person as when I left.

  “Tomorrow’s Sunday, so I don’t see why not,” Ross says. Then he turns to me. “I called Amelia from the lobby pay phone before I came up. She’s scheduled to see Walden tomorrow. His arraignment is set for Monday morning. We won’t be able to see him until after that. She did speak to him on the phone and instructed him to refuse questioning without her present.”

  “How was he?” I’m a little taken aback by the desperation in my voice.

  “She said he sounded extraordinarily calm for a person in his circumstances.”

  Gran says, “He’s calm because his conscience is clear. This misunderstanding will get worked out.”

  “Oh, Gran—”

  “Let’s not tire Mrs. James out,” Ross says. He takes her hand and squeezes it. “Get some rest. We’ll be back in the morning.”

  “Bless you for bringing Tallulah.” She looks past him, to me. “The house is unlocked, just like always. I’ll need clothes for tomorrow and my bag packed for the trip. Make sure you bring my navy suit and my white pumps. It’ll look nice for the courtroom.”

  Before I can express my frustration at her concern over something as trivial as how she looks in the courtroom, Ross takes my arm and guides me toward the door.

  “Oh, Tallulah,” she calls.

  I turn.

  “Call Dharma. And find Griffin. He needs to come home. Let’s show that we’re all behind Walden.”

  “It’s a big world. Hard to find a needle in a haystack.”

  “I know that all too well, Tallulah. I looked for you for years.”

  I march from the room, staying ahead of Ross so he can’t see my tears.

  * * *

  As I’m in the hospital lobby restroom splashing cold water on my face, I look in the mirror, trying to see myself through Gran’s eyes. My hair is much lighter, longer, and straighter. My face makeup-free but for a swipe of mascara. But the rest of me is still there; Ross certainly had no difficulty in recognizing me. But then, Ross isn’t concerned that I’ll further tarnish the James family name with my West Coast ways.

  It doesn’t matter. I’ll be gone from this town tomorrow.

  Ross has brought the car up to the front doors. His brown head is bent over a notebook perched on his rust-colored pant leg—no paisley shirts or plaid pants for this guy.

  “Mind if I ask what you’re madly scribbling there?” I ask as I get in, a diversion from discussing Gran. As a rule, I don’t pry, lest I be pried upon.

  “Just something for one of my cases. My best thoughts come when I’m not staring the problem directly in the eye.” He closes the notebook and tucks it under his seat, then puts the car in gear. “I don’t remember where the motel is.”

  “There’s no reason for you to stay in a motel. Just drive to Gran’s.”

  “Nope.”

  “Seriously, Ross. We’re both adults—and we stayed alone at your house, what’s the difference?”

  “This is your hometown. People talk.”

  I can’t stifle the bark of laughter. “I do believe I’m long past ruination around here.”

  He looks uncomfortable and sounds reluctant when he says, “I’m more concerned about your grandmother.” He’s quick to add, “No offense to you.”

  I think of Gran lying in that bed, a ghost of her former self. A natural part of nine years of aging? Or did this town and all that’s gone on strip her down one layer at a time? I remind myself that she has to live here. I don’t. Not anymore. “Pull out of the parking lot and take a left.”

  The motel has aged even more poorly than Gran. We roll to a stop, bouncing and rocking in the potholed once-graveled parking lot. The single-story concrete block building holds only a few scabs of turquoise paint. The faded plastic marquee letters clearly haven’t been changed for years: SHORT-STAY RATES DAILY/HOURLY. The D hangs drunkenly askew.

  For a moment, we both just stare at the warped orange doors and stained curtains in the windows.

  “I don’t think this is a good idea,” I say.

  “It’s just one night. It’ll be fine.” He sounds like he’s trying to convince both of us. “I’ll check in and then we can make a run to the drugstore so I can pick up some essentials. You can take the car out to your grandmother’s and pick me up in the morning.” He puts his hand on the door latch.

  I grab his arm as a rat as big as a raccoon waddles up to one of the orange doors, noses it a bit, then moves to the next. “Hell no. You’re not staying here.”

  He sits tight, resolve on his face as he watches the rat try a couple more doors.

  “Start the car and let’s get out of here.”

  At last, he capitulates. But only if I drive from town to Hawthorn House with him lying in the back seat in case someone sees us pulling into Gran’s lane. Southern chivalry knows no bounds.

  * *
*

  Now that I’m driving, I can’t divert my gaze from things I’d rather not see. I feel squirmy as we drive past the high school, which also has an incongruous addition tacked onto it. The baseball diamond looks the same as when Griff pitched from the mound, the Lamoyne Lion mascot on the half-walled sheds that serve as dugouts look freshly repainted. The football field, I see, has been renamed for the man who was superintendent of schools when I was a kid. I hated him, not because he was mean but because he always looked at me with so much pity in his eyes.

  The town looks as tired as I feel. The islands along Eudora Avenue, once meticulously maintained, need to be mowed and the bushes trimmed. Amberson’s Appliance and Callahan Shoes both have their windows soaped over. JCPenney and Sears, Roebuck have tried to spruce up their storefronts with shake-shingled awnings and new metal-and-glass doors. I can suddenly feel the cold of the worn, ornate brass door handle of the Sears store under my palm as I made my seasonal visit to pick up the Christmas catalog. I did it every year, and us four kids would spend hours poring over the pages, making wish lists that were never fulfilled.

  I take in and let out a deep breath.

  I can hear Ross shift in the back seat, as if he’d been looking at me. I’m more careful to keep my breathing normal.

  On a Saturday there didn’t used to be an open parking place for blocks. Now plenty sit empty in this prime block, yawning holes in a line of crooked teeth. Western Auto looks just the same as it was when I used to visit Sadie in the front window.

  My fingers start to cramp as I near the old First Planters Bank building and Hayes Drugs, and I realize I have a death grip on the steering wheel.

  The bank building, now housing an antique store, is just as I remembered, a monument to a vanished family name. The reminder of all of Gran’s losses chokes me a little.

  I’m flooded with relief when I see Hayes Drugs is still Hayes Drugs, unchanged and as sharp and vibrant as ever. As we pass, Mr. Hayes steps out onto the sidewalk in his white short-sleeved pharmacist’s coat and lights a cigarette. A tall man, his back is now curved. I wonder if the stoop in his shoulders is from all the years of bending over handing free penny candy to forlorn children.