Diary of a Wildflower (20 page)

I
won’t tell him that his tiff with his mother is the talk of the slave
quarters.  Instead I say, “Good for you, Brody.  How did they take
it?”

“Father
is indifferent because he thinks I won’t last.  He says I will hate having
to get up every morning to be somewhere, and sticking to a routine, and doing
what the average man has to do all his life.”

“What
about your mother?”

“She
said she simply will not stand for it.”

“And
how did you respond to that?”

“I
repeated what a very wise person said to me once.”

“And
what was that?”

“This
is
my
life.  I’m the one who has to live it.”

“What
a remarkable thing to say.”

We
smile at each other.

I
am curious about how Angel will feel about being married to a professor, but
Brody has not brought up her name, so neither will I.

As
we walk around the campus, I see a group of young women with books in their
arms. I ask Brody if they are students.

“Yes,
I think so.”

“I
was under the impression this club is for boys only,” I say.

“There’s
a summer program for girls.  It’s for training teachers.”

I
linger to watch them.  I am envious.  Brody suggests we drive back to
town, and I remind him that he came to see one of his professors.

“It
can wait,” he says.   

We
find we have missed the matinee of
Ladies of the Mob,
but there’s another
showing at five.  I am disappointed because I think Brody will be on his
way before five.  But I am wrong.

“We
didn’t have lunch,” he says.  “I know a good place where we can get a late
lunch or an early dinner, whatever you want to call it.  Hungry?”

I
nod happily.  He takes me to a private country club.  It’s very
fancy, and at the moment almost empty of diners.  The staff greets us
cordially, and they address Brody as Mr. Myles.  We are given a small
square table in front of a window overlooking a golf course.  At first we
sit across from each other, but Brody soon moves over to sit caddy-corner from
me.

I
ask him to pick something from the menu for me, and he orders filet mignon for
us both.  We sip tea as we wait, and we talk about anything and everything. 
In fact, the words spill out of us as if they have been waiting forever to be
spoken.

“You
really love dogs, don’t you?” Brody says.

“I
like all dogs, but I
love
Dixie.”

“You
mean Trixie,” he says.

“No,
I mean Dixie,” I say, and I tell him the story of my Dixie.

“You
were a little girl all alone in a cold, dark barn in the middle of the night?”

“Dixie
was with me,” I say, “at least for a while.  Then I felt her spirit slip
out of her.  One minute she was there, a warm living little being, the next
minute she was gone, and I was holding an empty thing.”

“And
what happened to that spirit?” he asks.

“Nobody
knows.”

“Do
you have a theory?” he goes on.

“I
have a lot of theories, none of which come from theology.”

Brody
looks out the window, and in his brown eyes I can see a reflection of the
sky.  “Me too.  Someday I’ll tell you about my grandfather who owned
Dixie.  We were very close.”

“Why
not now?” I probe.

“It’s
too sad,” he says, “so…maybe…I don’t know…well, okay, I’ll make it brief. 
One night I had this very emotional dream that Grandfather was wrongfully
imprisoned.  He was desperate to escape, and I was trying to help him, but
we were not successful.  I woke up in a panic.

“Not
long after that, Grandfather was devastated by a stroke that took everything
away from him, except his mind.  He couldn’t walk or talk or even move
normally.  He became a prisoner inside his own body.  At night, when
I sat with him, his windows rattled, and I knew it was his spirit trying to
escape.  Finally, I went to the window and flung it wide open.  Then
I held his hand and told him he was free to go.  He looked at me with love
in his eyes, and died shortly thereafter.  The windows never rattled
again.”

Silence
falls between us for the first time today.

“I’ve
never told anybody else the part about the windows rattling,” he finally
speaks.  “I felt kinda goofy talking about it – until now.”  He
glances at me sideways, and I can see that he is anxious to know my
opinion.  “You must think I have bats in my belfry.”

“Not
at all,” I say.  “Sometimes unexplainable things happen.”

I
tell him about Jewel’s mystical Randal, Doris and Willa, and he listens
intently to every word.  Then our food arrives, and the afternoon slips
away.  I’m surprised when Brody tells me it’s almost five, and we don’t
want to miss the next showing of
Ladies of the Mob
.  He pays our
food bill with his signature, and we leave to go to the picture show.

At
first Brody and I chuckle a bit at the antics of Laurel and Hardy, who are
starring in a short segment before the real show begins.  Then we laugh
out loud.  After a while we can’t stop.  During the main feature we
find ourselves choking with smothered laughter even when the story is not
funny.  Brody slides low in his seat trying to be invisible, and in this
position our upper arms fit snugly together.

The
memory of Trula and Mack holding hands at the show in Skylark crosses my
mind.  I would love to have Brody clasp my hand inside his like that, but
I know in my heart that we are playing charades, and holding hands would
violate the rules of the game.

When
the movie is over, we walk out into the street where I’m sad to see that
darkness has come.  The day is almost gone.

Monday evening, June 24
^th
, 1929

“Is
there somewhere you have to be tonight?” Brody asks me.

“No,
why?”

“Good. 
There’s somewhere I want to take you.”

He
turns me in the opposite direction from the automobile.

“Where
are we going now?”

“To
The Last Supper.”

I
laugh.  “I hope it’s not the last.”

“Not
the last and not supper either,” Brody says.  “They serve a little food,
but nothing like a meal.  It’s a front for a speakeasy.  The real
business is in the back room.”

“Won’t
somebody be wondering where you are?” I ask him.

He
jerks his head around to look at me.  “What do you mean?”

“Your
mother and father,” I hasten to explain.  “Aren’t they expecting you back
for dinner?”

“No. 
Mother took to her bed this morning.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning
I have disappointed her so dreadfully, she is in a fit of depression.”

“I’m
sorry, Brody,” I say.

“What
are you sorry for?”

“For
the stress this must create for you.”

“No
stress,” he says.  “Today I’m happy.  I haven’t laughed so much since
I was a kid.”

We
come to a stairwell that leads below the street.  A rusty sign reading The
Last Supper hangs in front of a doorway.  We enter a tiny restaurant
with dim lights, checkered table cloths and the sound of classical music being
mutilated by a scratchy victrola needle.  There are two couples seated at
the tables.  A big man comes forward to greet us.  Brody addresses
him as Fats.

“Welcome
back, Mr. Brody,” Fats says in a near whisper, then looks at me.

“This
is Miss Starr,” Brody says, also in a low voice, “a good friend of the
family.  She’s trustworthy.  I guarantee it.”

“Any
friend of the Myles family is a friend of mine,” Fats says.

Then
he ushers us through a pair of beaded curtains which closes behind us. 
Down a hallway we come to a door.  I can hear muted sounds from the other
side. 

As
Fats fits a key into the lock, Brody whispers in my ear, “In the future, if
somebody asks you where do you get your hooch, you’re not to blurt it out.”

“I
promise.”

Fats
opens the door, and Brody and I step inside.  Behind us the door is shut
quickly.  It’s as dingy as any room I have ever seen.  There’s a
thick cloud of smoke hanging low over everything.  The laughter is shrill
and the music too loud.  There are people sitting around at tables
drinking only god knows what, smoking cigarettes, some of them eating, and some
of them cavorting on a circular dance floor in the middle of the room.  I
have read that the speakeasy has become the great social equalizer during
prohibition, and I can see it here.  These people appear to range from
high society to those on the skids.

Many
of them call to Brody, and he greets them by name.  He leads me to a table
in a far corner.  In spite of the drabness, I am exhilarated by my first
sight of a speakeasy.  Brody takes off his skimmer, lays it on the corner
of the table and runs a hand through his thick dark hair.  As soon as we
are seated, a woman comes to attend us.  She is middle-aged, big, blond
and blue-eyed, wearing a low cut dress and a frilly apron below her ample
bosoms.

“Hey,
Judy,” Brody says.

“Brody,
my lad,” she says. “Where’s the little brother tonight?”

“I
found more interesting company,” Brody says.

“Well,
ain’t she the lucky gal?” Judy says as she looks me over.  “How old are
you, dahlin’?”

“She’s
eighteen,” Brody says quickly before I can respond.  “What difference does
it make?”

“We
might be illegal, but we ain’t immoral,” Judy says.  “Still I’ll take your
word for it.  What can I get‘cha?”

“How
about a glass of champagne?” Brody asks me.

I
nod.

“One
glass for the two of us,” he says to Judy.  “The good stuff.”

Judy’s
penciled eyebrows go up.  “You mean the best?”

“Absolutely. 
The best you got in the house.”

“Brody,
you know I can’t sell that pricey stuff by the glass.  You’ll have to buy
the whole bottle ‘cause it don’t save.”

“Okay,
the whole bottle,” Brody agrees.  “Then bring us one glass and give the
rest of it away.”

“Give
it away?”

“Yeah,
I’ll tell you who gets it when I see the right person.”

“What
a darb you are!” Judy says with a grin.

“And
bring us bread and cheese and strawberries,” Brody goes on.

Judy
nods and leaves us.

“We’ll
just split the one glass,” he says.  “I’ll not be responsible for
corrupting you.”

“I’ve
been corrupted already, remember?” I say.

He
grins at me.  “You’re not eighteen, are you?”

“I
am older than the hills,” I say.

“That
old?”

“I
was never a child.”

He
gives me a searching look.  “You do seem to have a wisdom beyond your
years.”

Then
we both watch the dancers.  To my inexperienced eye some of them look very
good, but others not so much.  The music ends.

Brody
takes a nickel from his pocket.  “Wanna give it a whirl?”

“I
can’t dance.”

“Says
you!”

“That’s
right,” I say.  “I’ve never been to a place where there was dancing –
until the party at your house.”

“Then
let me teach you,” he says.  “We’ll start with something easy like the
jitterbug.”

I
clap my hands together like a little girl.  “Oh, yes!”

He
grins again.  “I know just the song for you.”

With
these words he goes to the nickelodeon, drops in the nickel and punches his
selection.  I can hardly believe it when
Five Foot Two
begins to
play.  He stands by our table and holds out both hands to me.

“You
can’t go wrong with this one,” he says.  “Just move your feet to the
beat.”

So
I listen to Brody’s instructions, follow his lead, and experience my first real
dance.

He
watches my movements.  “Good!”  A minute later he says,
“Ducky!”  And later still, “Terrific!”

We
finish that dance, and stay on the floor for another fast one on somebody
else’s nickel.  Then, laughing and breathless, we go back to our table to
find that our drink and food have arrived.  Brody drops a strawberry into
the glass, making the champagne fizz and sparkle like so many shooting
stars.  Then he takes the glass by the stem and tips it to my lips.

“Sip,”
says he.

I
sip.  It’s as light as a misty rain trickling down my throat. 
“Umm..mm.”

“Good?”
he asks.

“Oh,
yes.  A far cry from Appalachian blackberry wine!”

He
takes the glass, turns it around and sips from the spot my lips have
touched. 

“Yes,
it is good,” he agrees, “but what would your mother say?”

“She
would jump up and down in her grave,” I say.

He
slaps his forehead with the palm of his hand.  “Oh, god, she’s dead?”

I
have to laugh.  “It’s okay, Brody.  She died years ago.  Too
many babies.  She might have lived longer if she had had a glass of
champagne once in a while.”

“How
old were you?”

“Ten.”

“And
you were left to take care of the house and younger siblings?”

I
can smell the strawberries.  I take a piece of cheese and bread.  I
take another sip of champagne.  No, I won’t return to Starr Mountain
tonight.  Not even with Brody.

“Sorry,”
he says.  “Want to dance again?”

At
that moment a nice-looking young man appears beside our table and slaps Brody
on the back.  “Hey Bo!”  Before Brody can speak, the man turns to me
and says, “This has to be the lovely Miss Temple.”  He takes my hand and
kisses it.

Brody
jumps to his feet.  “No.  This is Miss Starr, a close family friend.”

“Oh,
I’m so…so sorry, Miss Starr,” the young man says.  “I do beg your pardon.”

“Think
nothing of it,” I say.

Brody
holds out a hand to me.  “Excuse us, Luke,” he says to the man, “but we
were on our way to the dance floor.”

I
take his hand and we leave Luke standing there.

“No
introduction?” I chide Brody.  “That’s an unforgivable breach of
etiquette.”

“Believe
me,” he says, “this breach is forgivable.”

We
do a fox trot, which is easy, then attempt the tango, which is hard, but so..oo
exciting I almost want to shout for joy.

“Now
you’re on the trolley!” Brody compliments me as we finish.  “The tango is
a difficult dance.”

Then
there comes music I recognize.  “The Charleston!”

“You
can do this one?” Brody says.

“A
little.”

Every
couple in the room hits the floor for the Charleston, and I have this
wonderful, warm sense of belonging, so unlike the feeling I had at the Myles party. 
Brody is impressed with my Charleston.  I impress myself.

We
go back to the table, and I have another sip of champagne.  I am beginning
to feel its effects.  Or maybe I am so happy I imagine it’s the champagne.

Brody
watches me, smiling.  “Your face is pink,” he says.

“Yes,
I’m excited.”

“It’s
very becoming,” he says.

His
eyes are deep and adoring.  I could get lost in those eyes.

“Just
lookit!” an uneven voice startles me out of my reverie.

I
glance up to see an older woman, unsteady on her feet, trying to manage a glass
of something which keeps spilling over the rim.

“Just
look at them faces!” she cries again.

“Hello,
Geneva,” Brody says.  “What’s the latest?”

“You
two love birds!” she hollers.  “Can’t hardly believe what I’m seeing.”

Brody’s
eyes dart around at the people near us.  The woman has attracted attention
to us, and he’s obviously uncomfortable.

“Y’all
are gonna have the prettiest little babies this world has ever seen!” Geneva
goes on, and everybody laughs.

Judy
appears to rescue us.  “Come on, Geneva,” she coaxes the woman. 
“Leave Brody alone.”

“But
it’s the truth, Judy!” Geneva cries again.  “Just look at’em.  Don’t
you think they’ll have
bee..u..tee..ful
babies?”

After
a few moments Judy manages to nudge Geneva away from me and Brody, and the
people politely turn their attention elsewhere.  Now I don’t know where to
look.  Nor does Brody.  There is no music at the moment, therefore no
dancers to watch.  So we stare at the table cloth.

“Will
you excuse me for a moment?” he finally says.

“Where
are you going?”

He
smiles.  “To iron my shoelaces.”

“To
what?  Oh…sorry.  Sure.  Go.”

I
watch him walk away.  Luke, who is sitting with two other young men, grabs
Brody’s arm as he goes by.  Brody stops for a word with them.  Luke
turns and looks at me, says something to Brody and smiles.  Then all the
fellas look my way and smile.  Brody pulls away from Luke and goes on his
way.  I avert my eyes.

Samuel
pops into my head. 
Whatever you do, have a good time.  You never
had a chance to be a little girl.  You never had time to play.

I
look down at my hands where the callouses are healing nicely.  Then I
watch the dancers who are beginning another Charleston.  On returning to
me, Brody takes a circuitous route around the room, apparently to avoid going
by the the table where Luke is seated.

“Did
anybody bother you?” he asks.

I
shake my head.  I think he’s referring to Geneva, but he glances at Luke’s
table.

“Are
they all friends of yours?” I ask.

“College
chums.”

“Were
they invited to the party?”

“Luke
was, but he was in Europe with his family.”  Then he changes the subject
quickly.  “Let’s dance.”

And
so the evening goes.  I forget about everything and everybody else as we
talk and laugh and dance.  As he tips the last of the champagne up to my
lips, a figure looms over our table once again.  It’s Luke.

“Do
you mind if I ask Miss Starr to dance?” he says politely to Brody.

“Oh!”
Brody seems a bit confused.  “Uh..well, sure, go ahead.”

Luke
turns to me.  “Miss Starr, will you do me the honor?”

I
hesitate.  I don’t want to be rude to Luke when he is so respectful, but I
don’t want to offend Brody.  What is a girl supposed to do in this
situation?  I haven’t had enough experience to know.  Then I remember
that at the Myles party most everybody danced with partners other than the ones
they came in with.  It seemed to be the thing to do.