The Improper Life of Bezillia Grove (18 page)

“That sister of yours sure has been knitting up a storm,” Nathaniel added with a fresh lilt in his voice. “She’s done taken to that knitting like a fish to water. Surprised she hasn’t figured out a way to knit a fishing pole, come to think of it.”

“You ain’t funny, old man,” Maizelle scolded and then laughed a bit herself. “It might not be perfect. But at least we ain’t seen that Baby Stella lurking about the house for a long, long time now. Lord, that doll scares the living daylights out of me. I would have done burned her in the incinerator years ago and then thrown them ashes in the creek. That’s right, washed every last trace of that doll right out of here.”

Maizelle stood in front of the stove twitching from side to side. “See. Lookie here. See the shivers running up and down my spine. That’s just from thinking about that crazy doll.”

“To tell the truth,” Nathaniel added, “your sister’s knitting is really nice. Your mama’s given dozens and dozens of baby blankets to the home for unwed mothers. There’s probably not an illegitimate child in this town that’s not wearing a pair of your sister’s little knitted booties.”

“But what about Mother? Does she ever see any of her old friends, even for lunch now and again?” I asked, the smell of my mother’s embrace still lingering in my head. I looked at Nathaniel and then at Maizelle, but neither one of them looked at me.

“To tell the truth, Miss Bezellia, your mama hardly leaves Grove Hill ’cept to go to church or to Castner Knott to buy some more yarn,” Maizelle finally admitted. “Lord, I never thought a person could get too much religion, but I’m afraid that’s about what has happened to your mama. I think she’s done gotten it into her head, or that Reverend Foster’s done put it there, that your sister’s peculiarities are some kind of punishment for a sin she done committed long ago. Not sure what he’s preaching, but it sure don’t seem like there’s too much talk of forgiveness.

“Never have liked that man,” Maizelle declared and cast a stern look in my direction. “He still comes around here all the time, says he’s checking on your mama, but I think he’s doing nothing but looking for her checkbook. He shore don’t act like a certified man of God to me, more like a beggar than a preacher.”

“What are you talking about, Maizelle? What sin is Mother paying for? Father’s accident?”

“Lord, child, I don’t know. I’ve said way too much already. Nathaniel, how’s them potatoes coming?” Maizelle wanted me to know what was on her heart. She wanted me to know everything, but she turned and faced the stove, carefully stirring her creamed corn and waiting for Nathaniel to tell me what she couldn’t say.

Nathaniel put the potato he was holding back in the bowl and carefully set the knife down on the table. He looked at Maizelle, and then he looked at me. He cleared his throat and sat forward in his chair. He spoke very carefully, as if he had been rehearsing this speech for some time now. And once he started talking, I was sure that he had.

“Your mama’s been thinking it might be best for Adelaide to go to school somewhere else. Away from home. Reverend Foster believes it would be the best thing for the both of them. He thinks your mama needs an opportunity to fully devote her time and talent to the Lord’s work. Never known a preacher not to think of raising a child as the Lord’s work. Anyway, there’s some Baptist school up in Kentucky that’s supposed to be real good for all these Christian teens with problems that their own parents can’t seem to handle. It’s on a lake. You know how your mama feels about you girls being on the water.”

“Oh, Lord, Nathaniel, you wasn’t supposed to say nothing about that,” Maizelle scolded, obviously relieved that
it
had been said, that
it
had all been said.

My skin instantly turned warm and then red-hot. “I don’t believe that. Mother wouldn’t do that. She knows how Adelaide feels being away from home. That doesn’t make any sense at all.”

“It’s probably nothing more than talk, Miss Bezellia,” Nathaniel said. “But I do think you need to know that Reverend Foster’s been putting all sorts of ideas in your mama’s head, and some of them seem to be costing her a whole lot of money.”

Reverend Foster was older than my mother but not by much. And even though I had learned he was nothing but evil, he spoke with the authority of a parent or a respected teacher, and my mother had willingly deferred to his opinion from their very first meeting, just a day or so before my father’s funeral. But now the thought of Reverend Foster anywhere near Adelaide made me furious. I did not trust his advice or his intentions, and I certainly didn’t hear much of anything else Nathaniel had to say, because I was already out the back door, looking for my mother.

She was in her garden as she had promised, bent at the waist, all but her hat hidden from view by a soft ribbon of purple and pink hydrangea flowers. A cloud of tireless gnats quietly danced above her head. She raised her gloved hand and swatted them away. I marched toward her, shaking the ground beneath me with every step. Slowly, she stood up straight, a pair of metal clippers clutched in one hand and a bouquet of perfect hydrangeas squeezed too tightly in the other.

“Mother, are you sending Adelaide away to school?” I asked, not bothering to preface my question with polite or pointless prattle.

“Lord, that woman couldn’t keep her mouth locked tight if those lips of hers were glued shut,” Mother said, as much to herself as to me, shaking her head with obvious irritation.

“It wasn’t Maizelle who told me,” I interrupted, no longer tolerant of my mother’s unkind words. “And that’s not the point. You can’t do that to Adelaide. She needs to be here, at home, at Grove Hill.”

“Bezellia dear, you really are not one to talk about what Adelaide needs or doesn’t need,” Mother snapped and then turned to clip another hydrangea. “You have not been here, or do I need to remind you of that?” she asked, refusing to take her eyes off her flowers.

“I’m here right now. None of your friends are here, Mother. But I am. And I do know that you can’t dump Adelaide at some school just so you can hide her from everybody in town. She’s not weird. She’s not sick. She’s not damaged. She’s just a little different. She’s just not like you. And there’s nothing wrong with that.”

“First of all, I am not
dumping
anyone anywhere,” Mother shouted. Then she took several steps toward me, stopping quickly to smile and regain her composure. “I think you’d best watch your mouth,” she resumed, speaking with a slow and yet strained precision, the way she sounded after the afternoon’s first gin and tonic. “Besides, you know nothing about this school. Reverend Foster says that everyone there is a born-again Christian and that it may be Adelaide’s only chance for salvation.” And then Mother paused for a moment. “It’s by a lake, you know, and being by the water should be very good for her, Sister.”

Sister. Sister
. I’d heard it a thousand times before today, always said with a certain amount of meanness attached, never with love or even a playful sense of affection. I had never corrected her, never demanded an apology, and surely never admitted that I hated the very sound of it. But now, in that garden, among all those beautiful flowers, it was as if she had taken a match and lit a full keg of dynamite. Years of anger and disappointment came blowing right out of my mouth in one deadly explosion.

“My name is Bezellia, damn it! Do you hear me, Bezellia. B-E-Z-E-L-L-I-A!” I was screaming so loudly my mother took two steps back, afraid, I imagine, that the force of my words might knock her right down. But I just kept firing.

“Being by the water has nothing to do with this, and you know it! That’s exactly what you told us when we were little. And if you remember, Adelaide cried and begged you to let her stay home. But that didn’t matter to you then, so I guess there’s no reason to think it’s going to matter to you now.” My mother began to step backward, hoping, I guess, to take refuge among her flowers. But I pressed on.

“You just wanted to go about your very important business. Remember, Mother, playing cards with your friends and getting so drunk Nathaniel would have to carry you home? So don’t start acting like you’re doing the
loving
thing here by sending Adelaide away where no one will see her knitting or making mud pies or anything else that embarrasses you. And I don’t know what this Reverend Foster is telling you, Mother, but you need to start listening to those of us who still love you—who haven’t abandoned you or who don’t just want your money. Whatever soul you’ve got left, apparently he’d sell to the devil himself.”

And by the time I was done, I was standing directly in front of my mother, digging my shoes into the soft, warm dirt. She raised the metal scissors toward my face and gripped the flowers, now surely suffocating in her grasp, even harder. “That’s enough, Bezellia. Just watch your mouth,” Mother shrieked, drenching us both with her anger and hate. And for once my name sounded so ugly that I wished she hadn’t said it at all. “Do you have any idea what I’ve been through? Do you have any idea how long it’s taken me to get Adelaide to the point she’s at now? Do you? Do you?” Mother rambled on, her voice sounding more and more shrill with every syllable she spit into that garden.

“What point is that, Mother? Tell me, what point is that? Holed up in the house knitting baby booties?”

“I think you better shut your mouth. You don’t know what you’re talking about. Being away at college has certainly given you a healthy dose of attitude. But listen to me, Sister, it has been damn difficult since the tragic event. You wouldn’t understand. You haven’t been here. But since I’m the one left to deal with this mess, I will be the one making the decisions about what is best for this family.”

“Lord, Mother, you can’t even say it. There was no
tragic event
. There was an accident. And if
it
wasn’t an accident, well, hell, the Lord’s going to forgive you for that too. Father didn’t treat you right. We all know that. Everybody in Nashville knows that. And his death, however it happened, maybe it’s the best thing that ever happened to you. What do you think, Mother?”

My mother could barely catch her breath, and her body seemed to waver in the afternoon sun.

“I can tell you this for sure,” I said, now speaking in a more hushed tone, “it took Father dying to get that bottle out of your hands for the first time in years. And you’re right, I don’t know what’s going on now. I don’t know if you’re drinking again or if your head is just so messed up on God you can’t think straight. Which is it, Mother? Huh? Which is it?”

“Shut up! Shut up, Bezellia! Just get out of here. You hear me? Take those damn suitcases of yours and get out of my house!” Mother cried, tears now streaming down her cheeks. She wiped her eyes with her gloves, smearing fresh dirt across both sides of her face.

“I am not leaving, Mother. Neither is Adelaide. And if Father were here, he would never let you send her away.”

“Your father isn’t here, damn it!” Mother screamed. “He was never here. He was either at that damn hospital or with another woman. But he was never here! He was a spineless, spoiled man. The most cowardly thing he ever did was fall down those stairs and leave me with four children to raise—two little white babies and two little colored ones.”

Mother’s hat was lying on the ground now. Her left foot was pressed against the brim, smashing it deep into the dirt. Nathaniel, Maizelle, and Adelaide were standing on the steps by the back door, absorbing everything that had been said. They looked confused, disappointed, maybe even scared. And I imagined there were times when I had looked just like they did.

“Maybe he was all those things, Mother,” I said. “Maybe he was born that way. Maybe you made him that way. But one thing I do know for sure”—and my voice began to weaken—“is that you’re no better.” Then I turned away and walked into the house, leaving my poor mother standing motionless in the garden, the flowers clutched so tightly in her hand that the stems had broken in half.

Later that evening, Nathaniel carried a tray to Mother’s room while Adelaide and I sat at the dining room table by ourselves, just like we had so many times when we were children. I asked Maizelle and Nathaniel if they wanted to join us, but they said they preferred to eat their meal in the kitchen. In front of me sat a silver vase full of hydrangeas, all of them drooping toward the table.

chapter twelve

A
delaide and I sat on the front porch for a while after dinner, staring at the sky and eating pieces of Maizelle’s pound cake. It was so moist it melted in my mouth, and I knew without asking that Maizelle had added an extra stick of butter, something she did for real special occasions.

My sister started talking and only stopped to put another bite of cake in her mouth. She never said a word about what had been said in the garden. Instead she chattered on and on about school and about her new friend Lucy, the only girl in her class who wasn’t afraid to talk to her. Lucy had even invited her to spend the night a couple of weeks ago, but Mother wouldn’t let her go for fear she might embarrass herself. Adelaide knew she was a little different from the other girls, but that was okay. Maizelle had told her that was what made her special. Besides, she liked to be alone—it didn’t scare her like it did most people. And Lucy understood that.

“I know Mother’s always trying to fix me,” Adelaide said softly. “But I’m not broken.”

I reached for my sister’s hand and told her I already knew that. She sighed, releasing a full and steady breath, seemingly relieved that somebody finally believed her.

“Adelaide, come on,” I said and stood up, motioning for my sister to follow me.

“Where are we going?”

“Not far.”

“How far?”

“You know a friend of mine told me once that if you weren’t willing to walk to something, then it just wasn’t worth seeing. I promise this is worth it. Now come on. Trust me.”

I ran a few feet ahead of my sister, drawing in the evening’s remaining heat with every stride. Adelaide followed, obviously giddy to be out of the house without Mother watching over her. We stepped through the grass and clover, easily finding our way across the familiar field behind our house. Even from a distance, I could see the moonlight dancing off the water in the creek and the weeping willow gently swaying in the breeze.

“This? This is what you wanted to show me? The creek? You know I’ve only seen this a few hundred times already,” Adelaide puffed, sounding confused and slightly irritated. I put my finger to my mouth and motioned for her to hush. Then I sat down on the ground and gazed up at the stars and said a little prayer to anyone who might be listening, to anyone who might know what I should do when morning came pushing itself up and over those old trees. And then I picked up a handful of mud and started shaping a ball. I smashed it with my right hand and set it on the ground and started making another.

Adelaide looked at me. Her eyes were wide open, like two beautiful little moons set right in the middle of her face. I motioned for her to sit down. And this time, without question or reservation, she dutifully lowered herself to the ground and picked up a handful of mud. And there we sat, shaping pies and sharing stories, neither one of us keeping track of the time.

“Remember when Samuel made you a crown, a crown of clover? Do you, Bezellia? You didn’t like being a princess. Remember that?”

“Yes. I do remember that. And do you remember wishing that Samuel was your big brother?”

“Yes. But I still wish that,” Adelaide said in a hushed tone, allowing her wish to float away into the still summer night. She made another mud pie and set it down on the ground next to mine. “When do you think Samuel’s coming home?”

“I don’t know for sure. Nathaniel is hoping by Christmas.”

“Is he your boyfriend?”

“No,” I said, but my answer was so slow and deliberate that even Adelaide seemed to understand I wished he was. She stood up with her back to the creek and her hands on her hips, looking just like Maizelle for a moment, and admired our collection of freshly made pies. She smiled and then started giggling.

“You know Mother told me if I ever made another mud pie she would rub my face in it. Kind of wish she had, always thought that sounded like fun,” my little sister said, and then she scooped up some mud in both hands and rubbed it on her cheeks. “Feels pretty good,” she oozed and started laughing again.

When Adelaide was a tiny girl and would stomp her feet and snort and squeal, Maizelle would beg me to be patient with her. “Just like a fuzzy little caterpillar,” she’d say, “someday your sister will bloom into a beautiful butterfly.” I was never so sure if she was telling the truth. But tonight, admiring my beautiful little sister with mud streaked all over her face, I knew she
was
right.

I have no idea how long we sat there or how many mud pies we made. Finally, we realized we had made enough, so we picked ourselves up and walked back to the house. Every so often we just stopped to look at each other, with mud on our faces and in our hair, and laugh out loud. By the time we got back to the house, Maizelle was standing outside the kitchen door, her hands resting on her hips. She didn’t see a butterfly like I did.

“Where you two been? Lord, I knew something wasn’t right in this house. You girls came to me in a dream. You were drowning in that creek, holding on to each other and hollering for help. I could hear you but couldn’t get to you.” She squinted her eyes and moved a step closer. “Is that mud? Oh, my Lord, your mama’s gonna have a fit. What in the world has got into you, Bezellia? Lord, child.” Maizelle was no longer worried about us drowning.

“Your mama’s gonna hit the ceiling when she finds out you had Adelaide out in the middle of the night playing in that mud. Oh, dear, precious Jesus.”

“Maizelle, calm down,” I said as I smacked my hand over Adelaide’s mouth to keep her from laughing right in Maizelle’s face.

“Don’t tell me to calm down, child. Your mama’s gonna wear your hide out. And mine too. She’s already on edge. Lord have mercy! Get the garden hose and get yourself washed off. And then your sister. Take them clothes off and put ’em here on the porch. Don’t you bring one speck of mud in this house. Your mama will find it. Those eyes of hers have magnifiers on them. Lord, Bezellia, you know your mama don’t like your sister playing in the mud.” Maizelle groaned and rubbed her hands together and then walked back into the house mumbling something about Jesus and mud and a miracle.

Mother was asleep in the den by the time I got cleaned up. Her body, partly buried in the down-filled cushions of the club chair by the large picture window, looked unusually small and frail in the soft moonlight. An open Bible was resting across her chest, and an almost empty glass was wedged under her hand. “The Star-Spangled Banner” played quietly on the television set. Her head bobbed slightly up and down as the bombs began bursting in air. The black-and-white test pattern flickered on the screen, and the room went silent except for the hushed sound of my mother’s breathing.

I carefully reached for the glass under her hand and lifted it to my nose. I wondered if Nathaniel had fixed her a drink with crushed ice and fresh mint from the garden, then left for the evening, tipping his hat as he walked through the back door. I wondered if Maizelle had covered her with a blanket before heading upstairs and if Adelaide had kissed her good night and, seeing the glass filled with ice and gin, simply whispered that tomorrow she would be a good girl and knit another sweater.

No one was more to blame than I was, hiding at school and ignoring her letters, not really wanting to know how she was doing. When Mother woke in the morning, she wouldn’t remember much of this day. And maybe it was just as well.