Lowcountry Summer

  “Lovely.”

  “Right? So you’re pissed, so pissed that you want to text your girlfriend and tell her to kiss it, right?”

  “Yep.”

  “So you know you’re not supposed to text while driving, but some little devil in your head gives you a poke in the brain and says, ‘Oh, go ahead,’ and so you do. You hit the send button and run across your lane into oncoming traffic and kill somebody. Not exactly God’s will.”

  “Look, I don’t believe any of that shit.”

  “I’m not asking you to. I’m just saying it’s a way of explaining it. In the cosmic sense. It’s a little win for the bad guys when somebody innocent gets taken out before their time. Anything that can make you rant and rave against God is good for them.”

  “Do you really believe that crap?”

  “Sometimes I do and then at other times I don’t know what I believe. But I know this much: I’d sure rather believe there’s something out there that can save us from ourselves than to believe that everything is just random.”

  “Yeah, me, too.”

  “Gimme your paw, you sorrowful son of a bitch.” I held my hand out to him and he took it. I gave him a good squeeze and said, “I ain’t leaving you, Trip. Ever.”

  “Thanks,” he said, and squeezed my hand back.

  18

  Carry Me Home

  OWEN WAS STAYING WITH TRIP for the simple reason that he preferred to be in the house where his sister had lived. Perfectly understandable, even though Trip was running out of beds. But Owen wanted to look at Rusty’s things and envision her there, to remember how her life was. I thought that was awfully sweet, really. I mean, let’s be honest; sensitive, sentimental straight men are on the endangered-species list. He wanted to get to know Trip and even his young hellions he had heard so much about.

  The unfortunate thing about this arrangement was that Trip was not up to the job of playing the gracious host. In fact, he was so bereft that he had canceled all of his appointments for this week and the next. Taking two weeks off seemed dangerous and excessive to me, but I was keeping my big mouth shut about that. He was such a pitiful mess, I found myself running back and forth to his house to preside over meals and everything else. I didn’t mind. It was only for a few more days and I thought Trip managed his emotions a little better with people around to whom he felt marginally accountable for keeping that upper lip stiff. And if I hadn’t learned anything else from Miss Lavinia, I had learned that in times of sorrow sometimes it was best to pretend that everything was going to be all right. It made terrible things somewhat easier to endure. So I showed up for every meal to at least try to make the girls feel that life was still happening and that things were close to normal, given the facts.

  To our relief and great surprise, Amelia, Belle (who had dropped her Goth getup almost completely), and Eric helped at every turn. Linnie was still smarting from her run-in with me and with her father at the cookout and she probably suspected there was another round of recrimination to come. I wasn’t done with her yet. No, ma’am. So she was actively engaged in making herself scarce, which was fine with me. And needless to say, Chloe’s interest in the goings-on was only apparent when the goings-on held some benefit for her—the delivery of a cake, for example. Otherwise, our little Chloe was to be found playing games on the computer or watching television ad nauseam. The binoculars I had brought her held absolutely no interest for her. After the memorial service, I had every intention of having a serious talk with Trip about both girls, and I would be happy, I thought, to try to knock some sense into their heads at no charge. Well, I wouldn’t be literally happy about it, because what masochistic fool would relish mixing it up with those two truculent beanbags? Worse, any guidelines we put down would require our own vigilance to see that they were carried out. Would Trip be a reliable partner in the taming of Linnie and the grooming of Chloe? There was ample room for serious doubt. Every time I thought about myself as the agent for this Olympic-level metamorphosis, I found myself releasing a deep sigh, knowing it would be I alone, not Trip, who would shoulder the burden. But somebody had to be the grown-up. For a split second, I actually wished Frances Mae was back, but only for a split second. And she would be back in the wink of an eye. Had I had any success with the girls?

  Meanwhile, the older three were washing glasses and dishes, taking phone messages, and answering the door to accept deliveries of flowers, all sorts of food, and of course directing a seemingly endless stream of visitors. Trip and Owen held court in Trip’s study while the rest of us scurried around like squirrels trying to maintain orderly chaos. The smaller flower arrangements we kept in the house and the large sprays and baskets were sent down to the chapel via Mr. Jenkins’s golf cart, with Millie at his side holding the flowers steady. It seemed like I wouldn’t need mother’s flowers after all.

  And the food was distributed to all of our freezers, with Millie making the call on what we could eat now, use for Saturday’s reception, and what was unworthy of our table.

  “You all ain’t eating this mess,” she said, inspecting a casserole. “Beef stew, my big fat foot! Smells like possum.”

  “Ew, ew, ew!” said Amelia and Belle.

  “Lemme see,” Eric said, and gave it a whiff. “Groooooss.” He made a gagging sound that sounded like “bluugh” and Chloe giggled.

  Into the garbage it went.

  It was Wednesday night and I was sitting across the table from Owen and Trip after a huge dinner of fried chicken and creamy potato salad, compliments of one of Trip’s clients’ wife or aunt or somebody. I had completely lost track of who was bringing what and I was grateful then that Amelia was keeping a list. There would be a hundred notes to write and a truckload of platters and bowls to return. Writing the thank-you notes could be another teachable moment. I could show the girls how to use a fountain pen and how to write the notes in two perfect succinct sentences that would cover all we needed to say. And if they balked about thanking people for their kindness at the time of Rusty’s death because she was their daddy’s lover, I would remind them that they ate the darn chickens, fish, casseroles, and cakes, had they not? I was ready for them.

  Forgive me for pointing this out, but Owen was just adorable. You could see that his hair, now shot with gray at the temples, had once been the same color as Rusty’s. Since his arrival, he had been especially kind to Trip, saying that he was so grateful to him for taking care of his sister, and no, he would not be taking her ashes back home with him, that he felt Rusty’s remains belonged with Trip because this was where her heart and soul would always be. When we came back from Charleston, they took a long walk all over the property and then a ride in the boat to inspect the majesty of the Edisto up close. We talked about Rusty’s love of the Lowcountry over dinner, a dinner that was punctuated with long gaps in the conversation as the realities of Rusty’s death choked us up again and again.

  “This is a beautiful place,” Owen said. “The river is really spectacular. I had expected rushing water, but it’s smooth like glass for as far as the eye can see.”

  Trip perked up slightly. “That’s right. And, what’s interesting is the saline balance. Sometimes when there’s a bit of a drought, it’s freshwater. But after a big rain, it turns brackish.”

  “I’ve never heard of that but then I’m unfamiliar with rivers. But if you want to know how to housebreak a puppy? I’m your man.”

  “I’ll bet so,” I said, and was reminded about Rusty’s death once again.

  “Well, down here it’s critical to know this stuff. Back in the day when our ancestors grew rice here, somebody had to really understand when it was safe to flood the fields. Well, that was all a long time ago . . .” Trip faded out, back to the Land of Despair.

  “Salt water kills rice plants,” I offered, thinking that as a veterinarian from Chicago, Owen probably had no idea what flooding the fields had to do with growing rice unless he vacationed in Vietnam. “Owen? Do you care for peach pie? Or would you like chocola
te cake, pound cake, or some of that very scary molded Jell-O congealed fruit salad?”

  “My goodness! So many choices!”

  “Owen? This is how we do things in the Lowcountry, darlin’. And it shows you that Rusty was loved by a lot of people. Me included. And so is Trip, much to my utter and complete surprise.”

  “Thank you, Caroline,” Trip said, and sighed for the billionth time.

  “No charge.” I smiled at Owen. “I’m kidding, of course.”

  “I know that. I think peach pie, right?”

  “The smart money is on the peach pie,” I said, wondering what he looked like in the shower.

  I know, I know. It’s disgusting to have those kinds of thoughts in a time of grief, but they just popped into my head uninvited all the time. Maybe it was how I kept myself functioning, especially when there was something so painful hanging in front of my face. But oh God, seriously? I wanted the night to end so that the next day could come and go, too. I wanted it to be Sunday and for the memorial service to be over with and done. It was going to be awfully hard for Trip and for Owen, too. And for me.

  Later, after we said good night to Trip and Owen, and Eric and I were back at our house, in the kitchen having a bedtime snack, I was talking to Eric about that very topic. He had not had much experience with death, beyond my mother’s and some grandparents of a few of his friends.

  “So what’s wrong, Mom?” He dipped his chocolate-chip cookie into a glass of milk, let it hang there until it was about to dissolve, and quickly ate it. I was amazed it didn’t splatter all over the table. “I think everything is going along the best it can, I mean, considering. Don’t you?”

  “Oh, it is, except for Linnie’s smoldering rage and Chloe attaching herself to anything with an LCD screen for hours on end. I just keep thinking about Saturday. I mean, can you imagine what it’s going to be like for Trip to see an urn with Rusty’s ashes in it? I just think he’s going to go to pieces; that’s all.”

  “Worse than he already is?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know.”

  “Hey, nobody’s said anything about it to me, but do y’all think old Aunt Fan is doing the happy dance or what?”

  “Eric! Merciful God! What a terrible thing to say! Anyway, how would she even find out?”

  “Internet? Maybe one of the girls called her?”

  “Well, as far as I know, she can’t take calls, but she probably could get a message. Who knows? Listen, I actually had a weak moment today when I wished she was back. Then I got over it. But I’ll tell you, I am very worried about Trip. I’ve never seen him like this.”

  “Yeah, he’s pretty out of it.”

  “Before I forget, I want to thank you for all you’ve been doing. You and your cousins—well, two of them anyway—you’ve all been a big help.”

  “No worries. But, man, it sure is a lot of work to have somebody die, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is. Wears you out.”

  “Mom?”

  “Yeah, baby?”

  “I’m thinking of spending the summer in Columbia taking some summer school classes. Is that okay with you?”

  I knew this wasn’t about summer school. This was about that woman Erica, the cradle robber. But if I objected, wouldn’t that make him want her more? I was so beat from all that was going on. I didn’t have the strength to argue and I thought it was best to think it through.

  “I don’t know, sweetheart. Let’s talk about it tomorrow.”

  Eric rinsed his glass, put it in the dishwasher, gave me a kiss on the cheek, and went upstairs.

  “No worries,” he said, over his shoulder. “We can talk tomorrow.”

  I was feeling empty and blue and decided to call Matthew.

  “Hey! How’s it going?” he said. “Rusty’s brother get in okay?”

  “Yeah, he’s a doll. And he looks like her, which is strange, to say the least. What are you doing? You still working?”

  “Yeah, but I’m done at ten. Want some company?”

  “Yeah. I do. Maybe for a little while. You know, I haven’t seen you since Sunday.”

  “I figured you were up to your neck.”

  “I am.”

  “Then I’ll see you in half an hour.”

  “Great,” I said, and pressed the end button.

  Well, there it was. I missed Matthew. And I needed him. That was kind of a surprise to me, but it was true. When the world went to bed for the night, I went to bed alone. Well, usually. When Eric was home, I was a freaking cloistered nun. But now that fate had ripped through the fabric of our world and snatched Rusty away, I realized there was no one to console me. Oh, Millie had her eye on me just like Miss Sweetie did, and even Eric showed concern for how I was doing. But they weren’t a substitute for having a relationship with someone who was really mine. And I was really his. I wondered then if I had it in my character to make that kind of commitment again, and I’m sorry to say that at that moment I thought I might just be out of juice. Or maybe I was so traumatized by Richard that I was still terrified. And every time I looked at Trip, I was reminded of the dangers of loving someone too much.

  I was upstairs in my bedroom, the room formerly known as Lavinia’s boudoir, running a brush through my hair and checking my makeup. Maybe it was time for me to bring Mother’s big statue of Shiva down from the attic and reinstall her. Mother had used her arms to hold handbags, but maybe a daily dose of Shiva would remind me to be strong and to keep my wits about me. I had once been a pretty serious student of Eastern religions, sort of a Zen-style minimalist, halfway vegetarian and an unflappable yoga-girl, but all of that alternative curiosity had gone by the boards as I tried to retool myself to fit back in the Lowcountry groove. Gosh, now that I’ve spelled it out, it doesn’t seem like I was terribly committed to any of it, does it? Well anyway, no more “downward dog” for me.

  These days found me surrounded by generations of opulence and excess, praising the tasty attributes of the almighty pig at meals, giving serious office space to Millie’s magic, and getting it on with the county sheriff every chance I had. And, because I was the last player standing on the ball field, I had all but assumed the temporary oversight and care of Frances Mae’s girls. Well, my situation with the girls couldn’t last forever. And Millie was a huge help.

  I gave my wrists and throat a spritz of Joy thinking if Matthew knew what my perfume cost he would pass out cold on the ground. But men didn’t have to know everything, did they?

  I decided to wait for him outside on the veranda. The night was clear and beautiful and the air carried the loamy smells of the earth, pine, and the river. I hoped the weather held through the weekend. There was nothing more maudlin than a soggy funeral. Through the trees I could see the lights from Millie’s cottage. She was still awake. Lord knows, she had the stamina of ten women. I wondered if she was praying for Trip and I hoped she was. Poor Trip. His heart was so low that his spirit was literally dragging.

  “Lavinia? If you can hear me, you had better do something more for your boy besides getting yourself tangled up in the roses!”

  I had replaced her picture in the chapel with one of her and Daddy taken on their wedding day. Daddy was wearing a Panama hat and Mother was all decked out in her “going away” ensemble. She had always told me that her suit was made by Dior and that Rich’s in Atlanta had ordered extra fabric to custom-make a little pillbox hat with a veil to match it. They looked very chic. She was so young and smiling so happily, on Daddy’s arm, looking like a million dollars. Mother had loved her clothes with the same passion that she loved everything else.

  Maybe that was a weird picture to have chosen. I suppose I just thought it was sort of symbolic, you know, that Rusty was to have been Trip’s bride by the spring of next year, and here she was now, going away. But I had made the calculated guess that no one would make that connection except perhaps Millie. God, Rusty’s death was so damn unfair. And I missed my mother then, missed her something fierce. I was fighting off a bad case of the
blues.

  Matthew’s headlights were coming up the road and I stood so that he would see me. He rolled to a stop and got out. He wasn’t in his patrol car and he wasn’t in uniform. It was clear he had dressed to see me because he had just shaved and I could smell a trace of his cologne right before he reached me. He smelled like citrus and strangely like sugar as well. Edible, okay? I know, I know. Eric was upstairs and I had a friend’s life to lay to rest. It was futile to flex the muscles in the southern quadrant.

  “Hey,” I said. “You look nice.”

  “Thanks,” he said, staring into my eyes, “so do you. New dress?”

  “Matthew? I’m wearing pants.”

  “Right.”

  Some pretty animated smooching and moderate groping ensued and I was feeling better already. There was no better medicine in the world than a good-looking good-natured man who wanted to throw you down.

  “Eric here?” he said.

  “Yeah.”

  “Damn,” he said.

  “Matthew? He’s gonna be here until August, unless he goes to summer school so he can shack up with that baby thief.”

  “Nice. I’ll pay his tuition.”

  “Very funny. Are you sure you don’t live with your momma?”

  Since Matthew and I had begun fooling around, I realized that I had never been to his house.

  “No, I do not live with my momma, but my house is very modest.”

  “You always say that like you live in a tree or something. What? A rusted-out trailer? So fix it up or move. There’s nothing longer than a Lowcountry summer and I’m too old to do it in the hayloft.”

  He laughed quietly. “What’s wrong with a hayloft? I think they can be pretty romantic!”

  “Oh, sure!”

  “Come on, let’s get a glass of wine and I want to hear everything that’s happened since I saw you last. God, you look good to me.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “So do you.” I had already told him that, but compliments are one of those things that are okay to repeat.