When the tune ended, everybody clapped. Jezie, who had been mesmerized, called out, “Do again, do again!” Pete and his buddies whistled and cheered. But it was Buggy who surprised Vivi most.
She stepped over to Jack and gave him a kiss on the cheek, something she never did, not even with her own children. “Thank you, Jacques,” she said.
Then she took the corner of her apron, wiped her eyes, and resumed cranking the ice-cream freezer.
It was a small thing. Nobody noticed it but Vivi. Even if they had, they might not have thought it special. But Vivi loved her mother for it. On the day Buggy died, almost forty years later, Vivi remembered the kiss her mother had given her beloved on that day and the tear she had wiped away, and she loved her mother for it. She didn’t forgive her mother for never loving her the way she needed, but she loved Buggy for that one kiss.
In late October of 1943, Vivi Abbott was playing a mean game of singles against Anne McWaters. Back in shape but still not at the top of her form, Vivi was to have played Caro that afternoon, but Caro had had to stay late at a yearbook meeting.
Anne McWaters, Vivi’s old rival, was beating her three to two, and it was driving Vivi crazy. Ever since coming home from Saint Augustine’s, she had devoted herself to tennis, and even though she was still a bit underweight, she’d picked up a lot of her old strength. But Anne McWaters could always throw her. The girl had a killer serve, and she knew how to keep her opponent running.
Vivi was determined to close in on her, and thought she saw her chance, when she noticed Pete ride up on his bicycle. Usually the arrival of a spectator wouldn’t faze Vivi—on the contrary, she preferred to play most any game in front of an audience. But Pete’s showing up anywhere without two or three buddies tailing along was unusual.
“Viv-o,” Pete called out, his voice sounding strained.
When Vivi didn’t respond, Pete came closer to the fence that surrounded the city-park courts. He was wearing a brown baseball cap over his auburn hair, and his nose was sunburned. It was October 19, 1943, around five in the evening. Teensy and Vivi had a double date planned that night to see Orson Welles’s Jane Eyre. A green parks department truck with a bad muffler passed by. Vivi’s body was perfectly poised, ready for her opponent.
Anne McWaters served hard and Vivi returned it down the line. She’d worked extra hard at her backhand since coming home, and she knew how to keep her eye on the ball. She was training herself, once she stepped onto the court, to think of nothing but that ball. In the past few months, with Jack away, she’d devoted even more time to her tennis. She still dated, of course, still had at least three boys at any one time who claimed to be in love with her, but Vivi never gave them a thought unless they were standing right in front of her. She thought more about Pauline Betz winning the U.S. Singles than she did about any of those boys. Vivi thought about tennis, the war, and Jack Whitman.
As Anne McWaters lobbed a high return, Vivi’s mind was with the ball. Her body responded easily as she stepped back to get under it, in perfect position to take the point.
At that moment, though, a bird flew close to the ball. It seemed to come out of nowhere, and it stole Vivi’s attention. Never in her life had she seen a bird fly quite so close to a tennis ball. The bird mesmerized her for a second, causing her to forget about the ball, forget about the game, forget about everything but the bird’s gray-blue wings against the October sky.
Signaling a time-out, Vivi strode off the court to Pete. “Darn you, Pete! What do you want?”
Pete looked at his sister for a moment, then turned away.
“What do you want?” she asked again.
“Why don’t yall call it a game, Viv-o?” Pete said.
“With McWaters leading? You gotta be kiddin.”
“Yoo-hoo!” Anne called out, twirling her racket.
“Just a minute,” Vivi called back. “I’m in the middle of a game, Pete. Either tell me what you want, or let me get back on the court.”
She waited for Pete to respond. When he didn’t, she started back toward the court.
As though it were easier to speak now that Vivi’s back was to him, Pete said, “Teensy asked me to come get you. She wants you over at their house.”
“Great,” Vivi said, bouncing the ball with her racket, smiling at her opponent. “Tell her I’ll be there soon as I beat McWaters.”
“I think you better come right now, Stinky,” Pete said. He shook a cigarette out of a Lucky pack, and lit it, his face pale in the fading light.
“Is something wrong?” Vivi asked, turning back to him.
Unable to meet her gaze, Pete said, “Why don’t you just come on with me? You can ride on the handlebars.”
“No,” Vivi said. “I don’t want to come now. I want to finish this game.”
Focusing her attention, Vivi resumed the game, smashing the ball hard. In the few minutes it took for her to win the game, each sensation was heightened for Vivi.
She shook hands with Anne McWaters, then took her time gathering her racket press, the extra can of balls, her jacket. Stalling, she took a long drink of water, and ignored Pete, who stood waiting, watching her every move.
Finally, Pete rolled his bike to where Vivi stood, pulling on a sweatshirt over her blouse. “Will you come on with me now, Viv-o? Please, Baby-cakes.”
“You’re being too nice to me,” she said. “What the hell’s going on?”
“Come on,” he said, pointing to the bicycle handlebars. “Hop on.”
Carrying her tennis racket, Vivi climbed onto the handlebars and balanced herself. As Pete pedaled, she looked straight ahead, and they did not speak. When they reached the bottom of the circular drive that led to Teensy’s house, Vivi felt dizzy.
“Turn around,” she said.
“What?” Pete said, continuing to pedal.
“I said turn around, Pete. I don’t want to go in there.”
Pete stopped pedaling.
Vivi jumped down from the handlebars, her breath coming fast. She could feel herself begin to sweat as though she had been the one pumping the pedals for eight blocks.
“What did you bring me here for?” she asked him, accusing.
“Cause Teensy wants you.”
“I want to know why. Tell me this instant.”
Pete set his bike down on its side. It seemed to Vivi that it took him an inordinately long time to do it, like everything was happening in slow motion. She watched as he walked over and put his hands on her shoulders. She could smell spearmint gum over the scent of tobacco on his breath.
“It’s Jack,” he said, the weight of his hands heavy on her shoulders.
Vivi appeared not to have heard. “What did you say?” she asked.
Pete pulled her to him. She could smell the healthy smell of sweat, and did not know whether it was her brother’s or her own.
“It’s Jack, little sister,” Pete said.
Vivi jerked away.
“Genevieve got a telegram,” he said, choking up.
“You’re crazy,” Vivi said, giving a small laugh. “You’re joking.”
“I wish to God I was,” Pete said.
“You’re messin with me,” Vivi said. She shoved him on the arm as if to say the joke was over. “Shake your head and say you’re messin with me.”
“I’m not messing with you, Vivi,” Pete said, wiping the sleeve of his jacket across his face.
“Shake your Goddamn head, Pete.”
“Vivi—”
Taking her brother’s head in her hands, Vivi shook it from side to side. Pete let her do this for a moment, and when she did not stop, he reached up and took her hands in his. Lowering both their hands to his chest, he looked at her.
Tears rolled down onto Pete’s cheeks. “You got to listen to me, baby sister. I am not making this up. This is real.”
Vivi stared at their hands. She stared at her tennis racket, which lay on the ground where she had dropped it. She thought of homemade blackberry ice cream and the way Jack’s face lo
oked when he played music. She thought of the touch of his hand on her shoulder when they danced. A long thread of pain entered her through her feet, and worked its way up into her heart, where it knotted, twisting so tightly that Vivi had to drop Pete’s hands and rub her throat in order to continue breathing.
Shirley, the Whitmans’ maid, sat on the bottom step of the winding staircase. Her head was in her hands, and when she looked up at Vivi and Pete, her black face was streaked with tears that shone silver in the fading light.
“I knowed something bad was comin. Jes yestiddy I done heard the screech owl. Oh, I helt that baby boy in my arm when he was born, I done blessed him wit magnolia leaves like Miz Genevieve want. Poor Miss Vivi, you done lost yo sweetheart. I done tried to get Miz Genevieve to drink her nerve tea, but she won’t take it. Ça, c’est dommage!”
Vivi could hear Genevieve’s screams coming from the master bedroom. She ran past Shirley and up the stairs. When she stepped into the bedroom, Genevieve was slapping Mr. Whitman on his face, his neck, his arm, whatever she could reach. Teensy stood by herself, near the bay window, her hands covering her face.
“Mon fils de grâce!” Genevieve screamed as she slapped her husband. “You killed my bébé. You and your patriotisme!” Her reaction was so strong that it seemed to push the very air out of the room, leaving little space for anything else.
Vivi wanted to hold Genevieve, she wanted to hold Teensy. She wanted them to hold her.
“Oh, man,” Vivi heard Pete whisper as the two of them watched Genevieve claw at Mr. Whitman, dragging her nails along the side of his face. Mr. Whitman did not attempt to stop her as she began to kick at him and punch him, pummeling him wherever she could reach. The man stood there motionless in his gray pinstripes.
Pete took Vivi’s hand, and the two of them stood at the door. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion.
There was a lull, a drawing-in of breath from Genevieve. Mr. Whitman slowly reached into his pocket and drew out a monogrammed handkerchief. Without speaking, he wiped his tears with the cloth, and then cleaned the blood off his lips. Only when he was done with the handkerchief did he offer it to his wife. But she took no notice.
Jack would have offered the handkerchief to Genevieve first, Vivi thought. He would have shown good manners.
Genevieve turned to look at her daughter, then at Vivi. Both girls took steps toward her. Genevieve will hug us now, Vivi thought. She will take us into her arms and tell us everything is all right.
But Genevieve took no one into her arms. Instead, she let out a low keening sound, then pulled the skirt of her dress up over her head, revealing a beige slip and bare legs. It was the gesture of a small girl, hiding her face. It was the gesture of a woman whose grief was too much to bear.
The longer Genevieve stood there with her skirt above her head, the more Vivi’s grief compounded. This was the woman she looked to when her own mother was absent. Now this mother, too, was turning away.
“Son,” Vivi heard Mr. Whitman say.
Stepping forward, Pete answered, “Sir?”
Pete did not know Mr. Whitman well, only to be polite to him at the bank or on the street. Mr. Whitman did not know Pete well either, only enough to nod if he passed him, perhaps note the touchdown he’d made the Friday night before.
But on that day, as Pete stepped forward, Mr. Whitman reached out his arms and the man and boy fell into an embrace. Vivi would never again witness anything like it between two men. Often, later in her life, she would long to have her own sons and husband share such a moment, but that afternoon in the Whitman home what she felt was envy. Envy that she herself was not encircled in the arms of a mother or a father.
Finally, Vivi stopped waiting for Genevieve to lower her dress and hug her. She crossed the room to Teensy and took her into her arms. The two girls began to sob.
Torie was working points from the base of Vivi’s skull down into her shoulder blades when Vivi began to sob. Torie was not alarmed; it was not the first time that a client had cried in her massage room.
Vivi took a deep breath as she lay, facedown, on the massage table. Her body shuddered. I lost all my patriotism that day, she thought. I lost my cheerleading self. From that day forward, when I jumped up and down for the team, I was an actress. A damn good actress, only nobody gave out Oscars.
“Forgive me,” she muttered to Torie. “I’ve got to get a grip.”
Torie began to work Vivi’s shoulders. The touch was so sure, so utterly free that it released even more tears. Vivi’s body shook, and the massage therapist stopped briefly to hand her a Kleenex.
Vivi propped herself up on her elbows and blew her nose.
“Do you want to talk?” Torie asked.
“No,” Vivi said, reaching for more tissues.
“Okay,” Torie said.
I will not ruin this massage by crying, Vivi thought. But the more she strained not to cry, the more tense her body became. When Torie began to knead her shoulders, Vivi began to weep again.
“Let’s just call it a day, shall we?” Vivi said, lifting her head. “I cannot seem to stop crying. I’m terribly sorry.”
“Well,” Torie said, pumping more lotion into her palm from a small plastic bottle she wore strapped to her waist. “Don’t call it a day on my account. You can cry and get massaged at the same time. Why don’t you trying picturing your tears like soft rain?”
Vivi lowered her head back into the padded face cradle.
Torie began to lightly stroke Vivi’s back, and to rock her ever so slightly. Her hands were warm against Vivi’s skin, and as Torie stroked, Vivi could feel her own breathing start to steady. Sometimes she could not believe that anyone could touch her body like this, with such acceptance, such loving detachment, asking for nothing in return. There were places she still could not bear to be touched. Her belly, for one. Her belly stuck out too much, she was ashamed of it, could not accept the idea that it was anything but hideous. There were other spots, though—her legs, her neck, her head—which luxuriated in being massaged. There were moments during her sessions with Torie that Vivi could only describe as religious. Moments when she came home to her body in ways she never had before—moments when she felt its aches, varicose veins, and wrinkles so intimately and gently that she groaned with a happiness she could never describe. Fleeting seconds when Vivi knew that her body, in all its imperfections, was her own lived-in work of art. She lived there and she’d die there. Her body had borne four children. Five, if you counted Sidda’s twin, which Vivi always did.
“I do want to talk,” Vivi said softly.
And so Vivi opened up to the massage therapist. She murmured her words in between sighs and tears, haltingly, but with an ease she had never known in a confessional.
“I try to believe,” she said, “that God doesn’t give you more than one little piece of the story at once. You know, the story of your life. Otherwise your heart would crack wider than you could handle. He only cracks it enough so you can still walk, like someone wearing a cast. But you’ve still got a crack running up your side, big enough for a sapling to grow out of. Only no one sees it. Nobody sees it. Everybody thinks you’re one whole piece, and so they treat you maybe not so gentle as they would if they could see that crack.”
Vivi sobbed. Torie placed one palm at the base of her spine and one at the base of her neck, and pressed lightly. Vivi felt as though the massage therapist were touching her actual spinal cord, sending it messages to calm down.
“I’m thinking,” Vivi said, “about an afternoon in my life when all the cracks were clear. Like a pile of broken crockery.”
Torie moved her hands to Vivi’s shoulders. Vivi gave a little jump, as though from pain.
“It is not in my personality to talk like this,” she said.
Another sob escaped from her body.
“But one of these days I might trade in my personality for a new one. I might say: ‘To hell with being popular. Yall don’t think I’m fun enough, then go screw
yourselves.’ ”
Then Vivi forced a little laugh and started to sit up. “My God, I’m starting to sound like Blanche DuBois: ‘I have always depended on the kindness of strangers.’ ”
“Maybe I’m not a stranger,” Torie said, pressing into Vivi’s shoulder blades with her thumb.
“Ouch!” Vivi said. “That hurts.”
“Why do you think your shoulders are so sore?” Torie asked.
“Oh, I carry a lot of heavy luggage with me, Dahlin,” Vivi answered. “I carry footlockers.”
“Well, put them down for a few minutes while we work on this kink,” Torie said. “Okay?”
“Okay,” Vivi said, and sank down into the massage table. This table, she told herself, is held up by the floor, which is held up by the building, which is sunk deep into the earth, which is my home.
23
Vivi put on her sunglasses before stepping out of the massage room. She did not want to talk to any of her health-club pals. Not the young men who always flirted with her, and not the young women who worked for the cable TV station.
Once in her little convertible Miata, a “surprise” from Shep that she had broadly hinted for, she slipped the Barbra Streisand CD out of the player. She could not bear anything else that might make her cry. It was almost evening, but she didn’t feel like going home. Instead she drove toward Teensy’s house.
Vivi and Teensy had not just lost Jack. They lost Genevieve too. For weeks after the telegram arrived, Genevieve saw no one, and when she did, it was to announce her belief that her son was not dead. According to Genevieve, Jack had survived his plane crash, and with the help of the French Resistance was being cared for by village people in southern France. From that day forward, she refused to use her son’s anglicized name, which her husband had always insisted on. “Our Jacques is alive,” Genevieve said. “Without a doubt.” All she had to do was find him.
In the few first months after Jack’s death, Genevieve’s fantasy impeded Vivi’s own mourning. It was easy, with Vivi’s imagination, to enter into the sad deception Genevieve offered. Falling asleep at night, Vivi would envision her sweetheart under the same moon she could see from her bedroom window. Together with Teensy and Genevieve, she spent countless hours studying maps of France. She devoured every shred of news she could find about the French Resistance. She helped compose countless letters to the Army Air Corps, which Genevieve instructed Mr. Whitman’s secretary to type. Wanting so hard to believe, for a while Vivi did believe. Joining in Genevieve’s tireless conversations about how Jack was doing, what food he was eating, what sort of bed he was sleeping in, Vivi sometimes grew giddy with the fiction they were creating. She agreed with Genevieve that yes, of course, Jack was learning French folk songs on his fiddle. He was playing music and thinking of the time when he could come home.