Sullivans Island-Lowcountry 1 (59 page)

come to pass. Iffin it ain’t, nothing you can do about him nohow.”

“Well, we’ll see. I might not even win it, you know. So don’t

say anything, okay?”

“Chile, my lips are sealed.”

It was a beautiful Sullivan’s Island afternoon and the sunset

was beginning. Gosh, I thought, this morning I didn’t even

know St. Anne’s existed, now I thought I might die if I didn’t

win the scholarship. How royally screwed up was that?

“Look at that sky,” Livvie said.

“Uh-huh,” I said.

“Ain’t it marvelous?”

“Yeah, it’s marvelous.”

“No, chile o’ mine, you ain’t understanding what I’m telling

you.”

Her voice was so soft and loving, it was hard to keep my

worries on my mind.“What do ya mean?”

“See them stars starting to twinkle? They’s Gawd’s diamonds.

You ’eah me? And the night sky turning so blue? That’s He

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sapphires for us. And see that streak of red across the horizon?

They’s a field of rubies.Whenever you feel troubled and poor in

the spirit, just go look at the sunset and all Gawd’s riches just be

a-waiting for you.”

“Yeah, sure, Livvie,” I said.

“I ain’t lying to you, chile. I is telling you for true.”

I looked at the sky and it was full of riches, all you could

want or spend. She put her arm around my shoulder, gave me a

squeeze and then dropped it, taking my hand into her lap. My

small white fingers were enfolded by her sturdy dark skin, her

palms rosy, her nails deep ivory and thick. Her capable hands,

roughened by years of hard work, her loving hands whose

warmth radiated and soothed. She spoke to me as though deep

sounds could penetrate my thick skull.

“Gone be all right, Susan. Everything gone be all right.Y’all

gone see, by and by. You growing up, Maggie growing up, all

y’all gone grow up. Trouble can’t stop that, no sir. Gawd gone

send help. He always does.”

We g l i d e d towa r d Easter, me holding my tongue—I had given

up swearing for Lent—and Timmy and Henry trying to behave.

Livvie and Momma were doing spring-cleaning. I don’t know

what had come over Momma lately, but she had lost a lot of

weight and the red glass was nowhere to be seen. She looked

pretty good for someone her age, and as near as I could tell that

was around forty-something. Momma never told how old she

was. She said ladies never revealed their age. Well, if you were

living right in the town where you grew up, didn’t everybody

know anyway?

One day Simon got a letter. It sat on the table by the stairs,

waiting for him. I smelled it first to see if it was from a girl but

the handwriting was a man’s and I assumed it was from his

father. It was.

Simon’s father was coming to Charleston for a visit. Simon

asked Momma if he could stay upstairs with him and Momma

S u l l i v a n ’ s I s l a n d

403

said, “Sure, why not?” He showed her a picture of his father, I

guess to show her that he was normal or something.Apparently,

he was divorced, which Simon said was for the best.

That was when the fun started. The life force flowed back

into my momma. She started manicuring her nails again and

wearing a girdle, even though she finally didn’t need one. She

got out her old Singer sewing machine and took her dresses in

so they fit right, then, to our surprise, she hemmed them up to

the top of her knees. She spent a lot of time in front of the big

old mirror looking at herself. I’d never seen her act this way and

it made me nervous.

She got on the phone to Aunt Carol and invited her and

Uncle Louis to come for Easter dinner and then she invited the

Strutherses and a bunch of people who had cooked for her in

our family’s time of bereavement. Of course, she invited Simon

and his father.

Simon’s father was the head of surgery at the biggest hospi-

tal in Detroit. Bucks, honey. Lots of ’em. I knew my momma

didn’t want to be Mrs. Rooms for Rent for the rest of her life.

Finally, Good Friday rolled around. We were all going to

Stations of the Cross that afternoon from twelve to three. Simon

was bringing his father out to the beach later.

Momma had taken charge and she was formidable. The

house was the cleanest it had ever been in my life. Momma had

on a cornflower blue linen dress and jacket, one she had chosen

deliberately because it matched her eyes. Her hair was all teased

up and she smelled like perfume. She looked really pretty.

I just hoped it would all go all right because if it didn’t she

might die from embarrassment at having tried to snag him

when she hadn’t even laid eyes on him yet. I didn’t think the

fact that he was Jewish and divorced meant anything to her at

all. She had somehow overlooked that.

Well, Simon’s father didn’t go home to Michigan until

Tuesday—that is, the Tuesday of the second week after Easter.

He promised to write to old MC every day. Seems the doctor

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caught a bad case of Magnolia fever. I even saw them kissing on

the porch.

Things got dull mighty quick. Simon was studying all the

time, Maggie was working all the time and the rest of us had

gone back to our old routines, except me. I’d been nursing a bad

throat all week and had stayed home from school.

There was no question that Momma was mooning over

Dr. Lips. She was walking around the house humming all the

time and just waiting for Timmy or Henry to bring home the

mail. When there was a love letter from Stan, she ran to her

room with it and closed the door. I guess I couldn’t blame her, it

was just that she seemed a little desperate to me. Okay, that was

not nice to say, but it was the truth.

When I finally felt well enough, I decided to catch up on

my schoolwork. Being out of class for this long had given me

terrible anxiety over all the assignments I had to do. I was look-

ing for a pen to write a book report and every pen in the house

either leaked globs of ink or was dry. I knew Momma had one

in her stationery box and thought she wouldn’t mind if I bor-

rowed it, as long as I put it back.

The twins were napping, Livvie was ironing and the boys were

I didn’t know where. Momma was gone off someplace. I went into

her room and opened her closet. I started digging around on her

shelf above her dress rack, where she had all this stuff stacked up,

and the whole blessed mountain came down on my head.

I started gathering everything up, her letters from Stanley

and other thank-you notes she had received from the Easter

dinner, and a long envelope caught my eye. For a minute it

didn’t register, but it was from St. Anne’s school for girls. It was

addressed to Momma. Okay, I shouldn’t have opened it but my

fate was right here in my hands and the next thing I knew I was

reading it.
Dear Mrs. Hamilton, It is a great pleasure to advise you

that your daughter, Susan Asalit Hamilton, has been accepted for the fall

term with a full scholarship and all that entails.

S u l l i v a n ’ s I s l a n d

405

“Oh, my God!” I said. “I won the scholarship! I can’t

believe it!”

A flood of warmth came over me and in the next breath I

looked at the date of the letter. It was a week old.Why hadn’t she

told me? Why hadn’t Father O’Brien called me? Then my heart

sank. She didn’t want me to go. I knew it. Now what? I knew I

had to confront her. I couldn’t go without her permission.

I thought for a minute, trying to calm myself down enough

to think my way through this while my brain was going a mil-

lion miles an hour. First of all, did I really want to fight this bat-

tle? Yes, I did. I had to go. If I stayed here I’d never get to college.

The only road to Paris went through Columbia. I had decided

weeks ago that even if this school was overflowing with snobs I

didn’t care. I’d ignore them, get my diploma and get out. Four

years was nothing. After what I’d endured in the last fourteen

years, a bunch of bitchy schoolgirls looked like Cream of

Wheat.

Okay, I said to myself, when she gets home, just ask her. Be

calm and just ask her.

I was in the kitchen with Livvie setting the table for supper.

I could hear Aunt Carol calling good-bye to her and Momma

coming up the back stairs.

“Lawd, I’m so tired, I’ve got to go put my feet up!” She saw

me and kissed me on the top of my head. “Hey, honey, how’re

you feeling? Throat still sore?”

“No, ma’am, I gargled with warm salt water all day.” I was

furious and she didn’t even notice.

“That’s a good girl. Hey, Livvie! What’s for supper? Anybody

call? Mail here?”

“Meat loaf and mashed potato and the mail on the hall

table. Ain’t nobody call.”

“Nobody called, Momma.”

“All right then, wake me in thirty minutes, will you? I just

want to close my eyes for a few minutes.”

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“Sure,” I said.

Livvie just went about her work, knowing I was stewing over

something. She was waiting for me to tell her.
Chop, chop, chop.

The onions and bell pepper hit the bacon grease with a sizzle.

“Best to cook ’em a little before they go in the mix,” she said.

“You need some saltines?”

“Yeah, crush up ’bout fifteen for me, ’eah?”

“Sure.”

She put her knife down on the counter and turned to me.

“All right, now.What’s on that mind of yours? You gone tell me

what’s cooking or do I have to drag it out of you?”

“Livvie, you won’t believe what happened.” And I told her

the story.

“Listen ’eah, Miss Susan,” she said,“don’t be gone on raising

the devil about she not showing you this. Be real sweet.You gots

to know your momma gone worry ’bout letting you go, ’eah?

Take her some of this tea I just make, with a cookie, and then

you tell her.Then we see what.”

“God, you are so smart, Livvie! You’re right.”

She handed me a glass of tea and two Oreos in a paper napkin.

My mother had been resting for only a few minutes, so maybe she

wouldn’t be asleep yet. I knocked on her door.

“Come in,” she said. She wasn’t in her bed, but in the closet.

“Hi, Momma, I brought you some tea and a couple of

cookies.”

“Susan, have you been in my closet?”

“Yes, ma’am. I needed to borrow a pen for my homework . . .”

The look on her face was terrifying to me. I’d never seen

her angry like this. I’d seen her upset and crying and depressed

and drunk, but never angry. She stood outside the closet door

and I was frozen to the floor by her bed.

“How many times do I have to tell you children not to go

into my personal things?”

“Momma, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry, I just wanted a

pen . . .”

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407

“And I suppose you found the letter from St. Anne’s?”

“Yes’m.”

“And I guess you think you’ll just be picking up and leaving

me just like that?”

“I don’t know, Momma, but . . .”

“But what? Do you realize how impossible it would be for

me to get along without you?”

“That’s not my problem,” I whispered.

“What did you say?”

That’s when I lost control of myself. I knew this would hap-

pen, I just knew it. Everybody else could say that they’d step in

to help me, or that surely she wouldn’t hold me back, but here

was the truth. I was on my own and, even if I lost, a few things

needed to be said around here.

“I said that it’s not my problem, that’s what!”

“How dare you!”

“Because it’s the truth! Instead of you being proud of me

and getting excited for me, you hid this from me! How could

you do that?”

“I wanted to think about it!”

“Look, Momma, it’s not my job to raise your babies! It’s not

my fault you have so damn many kids! I’m going away to school

this fall and you can’t stop me!”

She got so frightened and she was so angry that she moved

across the room before I could think of what was coming. She

slapped me across the face with all her might. I stood there and

said not one word more.

I ran from her room, out the front door, slamming it almost

off the hinges. I went over the sand dunes to the beach. I needed

to walk for a while, calm down and think things through.

It was low tide and there were football fields upon football

fields of empty beach before me. It was warm enough to kick

off my loafers and walk the water’s edge. Tiny shells collapsed

beneath my feet, breaking apart into millions of pieces. It felt

good to break something.

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An old palmetto log was up on the high ground in the

white sand, near the dunes. I sat down on it and ran my fingers

through my hair. The white sand was as fine as the kind in an

hourglass. I let it sift through my fingers. Grains of sand, hours of

my life, chances not taken, opportunities lost, lives finished,