The Myth of Perpetual Summer Read online

  I feel a tear trickle down my cheek and lift a shoulder to wipe it away before Ross notices.

  * * *

  Just like our house on Pearl River Plantation, you can’t see Hawthorn House from the narrow road that passes it. I’m surprised how my anxiety recedes the second I turn through the crumbling stone pillars and onto Gran’s lane. No racing heart. No dry mouth. No clenched hands. The worst is behind me. I feel more like myself than I have since I saw the news in San Francisco.

  As I drive the Mercedes through the overarching trees, I say, “You can sit up now, Sir Lancelot.”

  Ross sits up, but I can see in the rearview he’s still intent on his notebook, so I leave him be.

  When the house comes into view, it’s just as it was when I left, no better, no worse. And it warms my heart to see it.

  I’m first through the door. Ross hangs back, as if he knows I need a moment alone. I stop in the foyer, my feet frozen as I feel as if I stepped back into my fourteen-year-old self.

  The house smells the same: a distinctive blend of cinnamon, lemon oil, and a hint of Chanel N°5.

  The grandfather clock is quiet, unwound or broken.

  My gaze moves to the door of the small closet. Slowly, I reach for the brass knob, my heart hammering as if I’m in a horror film. The hinges oblige my imagining and creak as I open it. There, tucked in the front corner on the floor, are three canning jars, their red-checked ribbons gray and fuzzy with dust, the jelly darkened with time.

  I pick one up and sit hard on the floor. Hard enough to draw Ross from the porch.

  “Are you okay—Wow, is that . . . ?”

  “She left them here,” I whisper. Gran cleaned closets like clockwork every spring. “All these years and she left them there.”

  He sits behind me, his bent knees on either side. His hands settle on my shoulders. I resist at first, but finally allow him to pull me against his chest, taking meager comfort in sharing a memory with the only other person who knows the lengths I was willing to go to in order to hold my family together. I’m thankful he doesn’t now, as he didn’t then, point out the futility of such a naive gesture.

  As his arms come around me I’m suddenly struck by how much I’ve missed the warmth of human contact.

  His hands wrap around mine holding the jar with Gran’s name on it in my girlish printing. I realize those mayhaws I picked when I was fourteen did change everything. Just not in the way I’d planned.

  6

  May 1961

  Lamoyne, Mississippi

  Spring is my favorite time of year. Summer vacation is fun and all, with no school—which allows for a break from walking on eggshells—the magic of the orchard and Maisie and spending long days on the farm. In the spring, you’re standing on the edge of a thousand possibilities that can come true. For the whole month of May, I’m so filled with anticipation that I have trouble falling asleep. Well, anticipation for summer mixed with a dose of nerves about the upcoming seventh-grade spelling bee. I still haven’t landed a blue ribbon, and this is my next-to-last year. I want to contribute to the James family legacy and make Dad proud. He says words are the most powerful weapons in the world and we need to learn to wield them wisely. And a blue ribbon might get Margo to notice me for longer than the time it takes to tell me to watch after the twins.

  Even though last night’s sleep was rough and short, I wake early. Golden light from the rising sun is shining through the window, setting the swirling dust motes on fire. I blow a breath in that direction. It seems to take it a long time to reach them and redirect their movement. I wonder if life is like that, changes come from disturbances from so far back you’ve forgotten they happened. Dad says history is like that, too, dominoes set in motion in one era toppling those in the next.

  The dust slows and settles back into its lazy pattern.

  Rolling over, there’s a lump under my back. I reach around and pull out one of Dharma’s rubber-toed Keds—a hand-me-down from one of the other kids who gets babysat at Mrs. Collins’s house. My Keds never have enough life to make it through the summer, let alone get passed on. Gran says it’s because I’m a tomboy, which lately is followed with a warning that now I’ve turned fourteen, it’s time to stop running with Griff and Tommy; time to develop more ladylike pursuits. Why do girls have to change and boys don’t?

  I hear Dad singing in the kitchen—lately he’s been in what Griff and I call his shiny time; he’s fun and sparkly and we look forward to him coming home. As long as I can remember, his spirits have been like a roller coaster, high and low and speedy turns. Shiny time is the best of all his moods.

  I toss the shoe onto the floor. It’s ended up in my bed every night this week because I’ve been studying so much that I wake up Dharma by spelling in my sleep. I can’t figure out how she sleeps through the hurricane of our parents’ fights but a little whispered recitation of letters wakes her like an angry dragon.

  When I sit down at the kitchen table, Dad sets a plate in front of me with a wave of his hand. “Voilà, mademoiselle.”

  “Merci, Papa.”

  I’ve only eaten two bites when he sits down across from me and says, “I have something I want to talk to you about.”

  Before long, we’re in an argument. Although Dad would call it a debate.

  “ ‘It’s not fair’ is not a rationale, beanpole,” he says. “I have no idea what that means.” His voice is smooth as buttermilk, which sets off white-hot sparklers inside me.

  “Why are you being so obtuse?”

  “Obtuse!” He slaps his knee. “That’s my girl! Now”—he nods—“your argument.”

  An expectant look comes to his face as he laces his fingers over his stomach. He’s teaching us to be good debaters, to argue with solid facts, not wishes and supposings. I hate it. And I don’t want to present an argument. I just want to go camping with Griff and Tommy on Memorial Day weekend.

  “This is all Gran’s doing, isn’t it?” Who else would care if I go? Nobody, that’s who. Nobody but Gran with her “you’ve come of an age for a young lady” lectures and constant cautions about “people’s perceptions.”

  “Again, not a rationale. And pointless.”

  I take a deep breath and close my eyes, trying to capture a thought from the thousands tumbling in my head. Something reasonable. Something unquestionable. When I open my eyes, I keep them steady on Dad’s. “First of all, if I wanted to misbehave in an unladylike way with Tommy”—I shudder a little at the idea; Tommy’s like a brother—“I wouldn’t have to go on an overnight campout to do it.”

  Dad shakes his head. “Not relevant to your position—which is, why you should be allowed to go. You’ve just given me a reason to forbid you going anywhere with the boys.”

  I grit my teeth. “You never forbid me to do anything.”

  “Correction: I never have up until now. You’re growing into a young woman. That changes everything.”

  “Why should it? You’ve always trusted me. Just because I’m fourteen doesn’t mean I’ve lost my good judgment.” Dad can’t argue with that, not after spending my whole life making sure I developed good judgment—quite often the hard way.

  “Now you’re being obtuse,” he says. “It’s not just your judgment that is at issue here. I don’t want you to get into a situation that’s out of your control—”

  “Griff will be with me! How out of control can things get? And it’s Tommy for goodness’ sake.”

  “Do I hear emotion driving your voice?”

  Nothing ruins a debate with Dad more quickly than being emotional. My next argument has to be logical and calm, or he’ll send me off to “think on it.”

  I clear my throat, stalling while my thoughts come into line. “I’m the one Gran puts in charge when she can’t be around. And I’m the one who has never been brought home by Chief Collie. I’m responsible and always to school on time. I keep good grades. I think I’ve proven myself with my behavior and have earned the right to go camping with my brother. I
n fact, you should want me to go so I can supervise him.”

  I hold my breath while I wait for a reaction.

  Finally, he smiles. “Well done, beanpole.”

  My heart lifts. “I can go?”

  “No. But you put up a good argument. That’s what counts.” He gets up and ladles more pancake batter into the skillet.

  “A good argument should ensure the desired outcome.” It’s always good to use Dad’s own lingo on him.

  “Not true. Plenty of flawless arguments still result in an undesired outcome. Just look at the Supreme Court.”

  “I don’t give a fig about the Supreme Court! I just want to go camping!”

  “It is totally inappropriate for you to go camping with boys, brother or not. You’ve come to the point when appearances count, whether we agree with the concept or not.”

  A red-hot fury takes my breath away. “I’m not the one everybody in town talks about!”

  “No camping with the boys.” He smiles and winks, like we both just thoroughly enjoyed ourselves.

  I let my fork clatter to my plate and slam out the door. What good does it do to present a strong and logical argument if it’s going to be completely ignored? And what good does it do to follow the rules, use good judgment, if you still aren’t going to be trusted and get to do the things you want?

  I almost wish Dad was in his shadow time—then he wouldn’t know, or care, where I am.

  * * *

  Mother’s Day is Sunday. Usually, I have the twins draw Margo and Gran each a nice card, while Griff and I sneak around town snipping flowers from various gardens—never too many at one place so they’re not missed. But I have a much better idea for Gran and Margo this year.

  About the only thing I’ve ever heard the two of them agree on is their love of mayhaw jelly. The fact that mayhaws are Southern makes Margo’s fondness for their jelly surprising. I don’t bring it up, though, because there aren’t many things Margo and Gran can talk about with any kind of accord.

  The tiny apple-like fruit isn’t even as big as our blackberries, so it takes a lot to make a good batch. Last year we had the biggest haul ever. Gran and I went out in her little boat, up the river a piece, to a place where it spreads wide and gets swampy. That’s where the best mayhaw trees grow. It’s also where we got so chewed up by mosquitoes that we were both scratching ourselves raw by nightfall. Gran’s right eye swelled shut. Margo said it was worth it because that was the best batch of mayhaw jelly Gran ever made. Gran said nothing was worth getting encephalitis. Of course, she was just being contrary because it was Margo. We’ve been chewed-up plenty of times and none of us have ever gotten encephalitis.

  Cooking in Gran’s clean, organized, well-equipped kitchen is better than cooking in ours, where dirty Tupperware cereal bowls and food-crusted plates are always piled everywhere. (Margo’s not much for cooking. If it were up to her, our stove would never get lit.) I can hardly use Gran’s kitchen, though, without ruining the Mother’s Day surprise. So yesterday, while Dad was upstairs helping Gran unclog the bathtub drain, I sneaked her recipe, some of her canning jars, and a big pot out of her kitchen and into our trunk. I barely had it closed when Dad and Gran came out the front door.

  I could tell by the sour look on Gran’s face they were in a disagreement.

  “Drayton, really, must she be so blatant about it? It’s like she wants to stir up trouble.”

  “That’s the whole point,” Dad said in his calm, logical (and misleading) professor voice. “Things don’t change if they aren’t shaken up.”

  “This entire issue is too volatile to take much shaking without an explosion, and that won’t help anyone.”

  I made myself small and still. Unlike Dad and Margo, Gran never argues about “adult matters” in front of us kids. And I wanted to know what they were talking about.

  Dad put his hands on Gran’s shoulders. “Momma, things have to change down here.”

  “Well, it doesn’t have to change overnight. People need time to adjust. Our generation—”

  “Has changed nothing. The generation before changed nothing. Most of the laws passed in Mississippi since the Civil War have had one purpose, to keep the Negroes in their place. Poll taxes. Literacy tests.”

  I should have known this is what they were talking about. Margo has been spoiling for a fight with everybody in town since she started working for civil rights. She’s just nutty over President Kennedy, which is likely the reason for her new interest in Negro matters.

  “Now you’re talking like her,” Gran said. “In absolutes. I respect the rights of Negroes. They should be allowed to vote unmolested and unintimidated. But all this other . . . the forcing of everyone to share the same space.” She shook her head slowly. “It’s too soon.”

  “It’s the law, Momma. Federal law. What’s going on here is wrong.”

  Gran sounds flustered when she says, “Certainly at times things are unjust, but—”

  “That but is the problem!”

  I didn’t like the but, either, but I didn’t dare open my mouth and draw attention to myself. Even though I want things better for Maisie and Mr. Stokes, everything about Margo’s new work for civil rights frightens me.

  Just over a month ago, she went up to Jackson to a protest for some Negroes who were arrested for using the white-only library. The “Tougaloo Nine,” she called them. Police used clubs and attack dogs on the crowd outside the courthouse—which was mostly Negroes, so nobody said much about it. Margo came home unhurt, but more determined than ever. Still, she promised she’ll be here for Mother’s Day. But I swear she looks like a wild-eyed horse ready to bolt. Just like she did when I was ten.

  “Those men shouting damnation to race mixers and pointing fingers at imaginary communist plots are paranoid crazies,” Dad said.

  “They’re afraid, Drayton!”

  “Of what? They hold all the power.”

  Gran took Dad’s hands off her shoulders and held them tight in her own. “Yes, they do. Think, Drayton!” She gave his hands a little shake. “Think! You could lose your job if you get mixed up in all of this. Wickham is private—separate from the dictates issued to public universities. Your daddy and granddaddy put their lives into that school. It’s too much to risk. Let other people fight this fight.”

  “We need to help, not sit here and watch the rest of the country burn.”

  Burn? My stomach flipped. How could Dad even want Margo anywhere near something so dangerous? I wished she was back fighting for Algeria again, a place so far away that the violence can’t touch her.

  Maybe the bus riders won’t come to Mississippi. Maybe the Negroes here are happy with their own supermarket, seats on the bus, and segregated schools. My history teacher says they are, that it’s all the work of agitators from up north trying to tell us what to do; that the Negroes don’t want to come to our schools. Kind should live with kind, he says. It’s that way in all of nature.

  I sure don’t want it that way. If Maisie went to my school, I’d have one friend I could trust.

  But even though I want Maisie at my school, I don’t want Margo arrested and sent to Parchman Farm, or attacked by dogs. If change is coming anyway, maybe Gran’s right. We should just wait. Stay safe.

  When I give Margo the jelly for Mother’s Day, I’ll try to convince her to stay away from sit-ins and the fights and the buses. Maybe she can be like she was for Algeria, someone who writes papers and goes to meetings and visits Washington, DC, to talk to the government. Maybe when she sees how much we love her, she’ll stay home.

  * * *

  As I leave for school the next morning, I meet Mr. Stokes coming to check on his hives.

  “Mornin’, Mr. Stokes.”

  As he passes, his dark hand tips his white bee hat with its netting all gathered up on the brim. “Good day, Miss Tallulah.” His bee gloves are tucked under one arm.

  Mr. Stokes knows everything about nature and how one thing depends on another and how God’s creatures insti
nctively know the special part they play.

  I stop and turn around. “Can I ask you something?”

  He half turns to me, his head tilted to the side. “Of course, Miss Tallulah. You know I always answer your questions.”

  “It’s about nature.”

  He nods. “I know some about that.”

  “You said all bees are born knowing their place . . . I mean their jobs, what flowers make the best honey and when they bloom, and what hive they belong in.”

  “True.”

  “And they don’t ever go doing another kind of bee’s job, right?” He taught me all about what drones, workers, and queens do. The drones seem pretty much like freeloaders to me. But I guess them dying right after their single job is done and being left out to starve in the fall might be nature’s way of evening out the scales.

  “No, miss, unless the hive goes queenless or gets ready to swarm—when some of the workers start turnin’ into queens and take on the egg-layin’ work.”

  “And you said they don’t go dallying around with wasps and yellow jackets, even though they’re similar creatures.”

  His eyes get narrow and curious. “You sure you wantin’ answers ’bout bees? Or somethin’ else on your mind?”

  This happens all the time: Mr. Stokes sees through to the secret questions that I’m afraid to ask. Maisie says it happens to her, too. I try to think how I can ask my question without sounding like I’m either being disrespectful or an agitator.

  Finally, I shrug. “Never mind.” I start walking before he can ask me again. “Have a nice day . . . and tell the bees I said hello.” This is a joke we have, that he’s teaching me bee language—even though sometimes it seems like Mr. Stokes actually does know how to talk to bees.

  “I will,” he says. I take a couple more steps before he calls, “Anytime you want to continue this conversation, just let me know.”

  I wish I was brave enough to ask Mr. Stokes outright what he thought about mixing the races, but he and Maisie are my friends, and I don’t want him to think that them being colored makes any difference.