The Improper Life of Bezillia Grove (24 page)

“Crazy, huh?”

“Yeah. Maybe not as crazy as seeing you here today.” And then Samuel looked at me, obviously searching for some kind of explanation. I opened the door and motioned for him to join me on the sand.

“Yeah. That’s pretty crazy too,” I admitted. “Maizelle told me you were leaving for Atlanta soon. I don’t know. I just never had much of a chance to talk to you. I just wanted to know …” I hesitated, hoping that Samuel would somehow reassure me, that he would let me know he was glad to see me. But he didn’t. And just when I thought he might not say anything, he turned and looked out toward the water.

“I’ve missed you too,” he said. Just hearing those few words left me feeling relaxed and reassured that I had done the right thing.

“You know, nothing has ever turned out the way I thought it would,” I began. “And I don’t know why I should expect it to now. But I’m tired of trying to convince myself that I don’t love you, Samuel. I just don’t think that’s ever going to be possible. And I don’t care what anybody thinks.” Samuel took my hand in his and held it so carefully, almost as if he was afraid it would break.

“But you do care, Bezellia. Why else would you have snuck all the way out here if you didn’t care? You do care. I care. Everybody’s going to care.” And then he kissed me on the cheek and smiled. “Doesn’t mean I don’t love you.”

Before I could make sense of anything Samuel had just said, I heard the sound of twigs snapping behind us. At first I didn’t think much of it; maybe it was just a deer passing by. But the sound grew louder and more persistent, and I turned around to find the three boys from the corner market standing about fifty feet behind us.

“Well, ain’t this cute. A little vanilla and chocolate right here in front of us,” said the large boy with the sandy brown hair, the one the other two called Ritchie. “You think the two of them know this is a family beach?” he asked, and then he started grinning.

His buddies shook their heads as if to tell us we should have known better than to come here. Samuel didn’t say a word, but he stood up and pulled me behind him, seemingly unafraid of the three boys moving toward us.

“Listen, boy, I don’t think you ought to be touching that girl like that. Might get you into some awful trouble, and I sure would hate to see anything happen to you way out here,” Ritchie said. But Samuel didn’t flinch, and I could see the muscles in his entire body tighten.

“You
boys
do know that there’s a war going on right now, don’t ya? I just got back from there. Served in the United States Marine Corps. And even though it’s clear you three don’t have what it takes to be a Marine, I think you need to address me with a little more respect. Sure would hate to have to teach you a lesson … way out here.”

“No nigger talks to me like that,” Ritchie said and moved directly in front of us, his two buddies following close behind him. Samuel pushed me out of the way, and I fell onto the sand. Ritchie raised his right arm and swung at Samuel. But Samuel stepped to the side, missing his blow, and just as quickly pulled his own arm back and hit the boy directly in the stomach, landing him flat on his butt. With their friend on the ground, the other two jumped on Samuel, punching and swinging. So many arms were flying in the air I couldn’t tell who was hitting and who was getting hit.

Ritchie climbed to his feet and scrambled to reach a branch left lying on the beach. I saw him raise the branch above his head and aim for Samuel’s back. And somewhere in that moment, I found a rock. I don’t even remember how it got there. Maybe somehow Maizelle had shown me where it was, but I saw it hurtle threw the air and strike that boy’s head. I saw him fall, and for minute I wondered if I had killed him. For a minute, I wished I had.

One of the other boys jumped off Samuel and came toward me.

“Looks like you need to be taught a lesson too,” he said, and he reached for my shirt and tore it open, exposing my chest. He pushed me down on the sand and climbed on top of me. I was screaming and scratching, but all I could see was Ritchie, who had made his way to his feet and was now standing over Samuel with the branch raised above his head, this time striking Samuel across the back. Samuel fell still, blood from his forehead coloring the white sand red. I screamed even louder, begging for help, as the other two boys came toward me. I could smell their stinky, sweaty skin on top of me. And as I felt my pants being tugged down my legs, I heard a shotgun being pumped and loaded, and then the sound of my grandmother’s voice.

“I sure would hate to shoot you boys, seeing how I’ve known all three of you since you were in diapers. But if you don’t get off my granddaughter, I’m not going to have much of a choice, as far as I can tell.” Thank God, there she was, my grandmother, standing on the edge of the sandy beach in her ratty old chenille bathrobe, her hair pinned in curls against her head, and a twelve-gauge shotgun resting on her shoulder.

The three boys climbed to their feet and, without taking their eyes off my grandmother, stumbled back among the trees beyond the beach mumbling something about the crazy old woman and her nigger-loving granddaughter. My grandmother kept her shotgun pointed at her target until she could no longer see the boys, and then she turned her attention to Samuel, who was lying motionless in the sand.

I crawled next to him and lifted his head into my lap. His forehead was split open, and the blood was now spreading onto my pants. My grandmother knelt down beside him and put her fingers against his throat.

“He’s good and alive, but you better get him back to Nashville. A doctor’s gonna need to put some stitches in his head,” she told me and pulled an old dish towel from her robe pocket and tied it tightly around Samuel’s forehead. Then she turned her attention to me. “Bezellia Grove, what the hell are you doing up here?” But I just sat there, not really knowing what to say. “I swear to heaven and back that you and your mama think you can do whatever the hell you feel like, no matter what it does to anybody else around you. But I tell you what. You cannot bring your colored boyfriend up here. Shit, are you crazy?

“Now the two of you better get on your way real fast, before there is more trouble. I’ll stay here with him, and you take his pickup to my house and then get that damn Cadillac and get on back here. After you’re on your way, I’ll give Nathaniel a call so he knows what happened. Poor man, don’t you think he’s been through enough?”

“I didn’t mean for any of this to happen,” I muttered.

“Sweetie,” she said, but she said it with all the sarcasm she could muster, “I think it’s best if you don’t ever come back to the lake. People around here don’t forget things too quickly. And they’re not likely to forget this anytime soon.”

I nodded my head to let her know that I understood, that I would never come back. And even though I was crying so hard I could barely see, I managed to get the Cadillac back to the beach like my grandmother had told me to do. She helped me lift Samuel into the backseat, and even before I got to the interstate, my body was shaking so hard I could barely keep the car straight on the road. Samuel moaned and opened his eyes; his face was so swollen he didn’t look much like himself. I told him not to worry. I was taking him home.

As I slowed to turn onto the interstate, I saw the man in the blue coveralls standing inside the gas station, stacking a new collection of Quaker State motor oil. His display was looking perfect, just like it always did. He stopped for a moment and looked at me and shook his head as if he already knew what I had been doing in his hometown, on his family beach. I slowly made my turn and headed back to Nashville.

I guess Nana was right after all. Samuel was right. Nathaniel was right. Maizelle was right. Hell, even Mother had been right a long time ago when she could remember that cashmere and convertibles were all a girl like me needed in life. Maybe I was meant to know nothing else.

BEZELLIA GROVE DIES AT 93

Bezellia Louise Grove, local writer and philanthropist, died Thursday morning. She was 93.

Best known for her short story collections like
Deep in the Grove
and
She Called Me Sister
, Grove deftly depicted the dark and sometimes tragic elements of affluent Southern life.

In 2038, the Nashville native, whose family’s own rich history had been traced to the city’s first settlement, wrote
Our Final Kiss
after her personal discovery of her foremother’s diaries in the attic of her family home. Grove said the more than two-hundred-fifty-year-old diaries proved, once and for all, what she had long believed to be true—that her ancestor was a brave and fearless woman. It was her only novel and her final work.

A great philanthropist, Grove gave generously, of both time and money, to public schools and libraries throughout the metropolitan area, particularly to those east of the river. Now under construction, a new community library will open this fall on Trinity Lane bearing her name, according to the Nashville Public Library’s executive director.

Grove established and funded the Samuel Stephenson Memorial Scholarship, named for one of the city’s most successful African-Americans, who served as mayor in the late 1990s. She also donated the seed money for the first local chapter of the National Organization for Women and remained an avid supporter of women’s rights both locally and nationwide.

Although Grove never married and led a relatively quiet life, it is believed that she was the inspiration for the 1970 country music sensation “Big City Girl” by Ruddy Semple. Grove repeatedly denied claims that she was Semple’s muse, although he was known to spend afternoons on the Grove Hill estate when he was in town recording.

Grove died in the home that has belonged to her family for more than two hundred years, and private services will be held there Saturday afternoon.

She is survived by her sister, Adelaide Elizabeth Grove Ewing, of New York City, and two nieces, Bezellia Louise Davis, of Washington, D.C., and Elizabeth Maizelle Kilkelly, of Los Angeles, as well as four great-nieces and two great-nephews.

The Nashville Register
final edition
MAY 15, 2044

a cognizant v5 original release september 16 2010

acknowledgments

I
t took coming home again to find Bezellia Grove. But it took a family to find her voice. I want to thank the following people for loving us both.

Shaye Areheart, my beloved editor, whose kindness was always appreciated but whose faith in me was life changing.

Christine Kopprasch, who has never missed a step and now continues on this journey with me.

Barbara Braun, my agent, who trusts my love of storytelling and my commitment to share it with others.

Rick and Karen Miller, who invited me to a dinner party, but offered lifelong friendship and a girl named Bezellia.

Bonnie MacDonald, whose passion and courage was inspiration for Bezellia and continues to be for myself.

Lee Smith, whose generosity as writer, teacher, and friend has been a model to emulate.

Darnell Arnoult, who shares her love of storytelling as generously as she does her heart.

Roy Morris Jr., whose encouragement has been always appreciated and whose talent is always inspiring.

Becky Brothers, a Southern girl, who has a thirst for big stories and a patience for their telling.

Annaliese and Albert Vergara, who come whenever called.

Lisa Morse, Athena Wood, Carey McAniff, Kathleen Chapman, Ann Watkins, Babs Behar, Audrey Wilcox, Dana Battaglia, Mary Hackett, Kisha Campbell, Julie Schoerke, Ellen Ward, Karen Schettman, Jackie Tanase, Kaye Richardson, Christy Strick, Debbie Berletic, Nancy Ellen Libscomb, Paige Crutcher, women who have journeyed with me, some longer than others, some farther than others, but all willing to walk another mile.

Jamie Kyne, Susie Caro, Kate McReynolds, Beth Peshkin, Claudine Isaacs, Jan Price, Ingrid Meszoely, Emily Kurtz, Shannon Kilkelly, Rick and Karen Miller (again!), healers who may have been doing their jobs but whose kindhearted care, patience, and wisdom have reminded me that there is always hope, always joy, and we will find a cure.

And my big, wonderful, growing family, specifically, Mary Hall Gregg, Alice Gregg Haase and Vicky Gregg, Susan Moore, Tricia Gilmore and Fred Gregg, Tom Purdy, Dick Haase, and Chuck Gilmore, sisters and brothers, whose love and generosity is never-failing … and a whole passel of cousins, nieces, and nephews that I just downright adore!

My precious husband, Dan, and my three spectacular daughters, Claudia, Josephine, and Alice, every day you remind me of my greatest blessings.

And my sweet, kindhearted, tender mother, Mary, if only Bezellia had been loved like I am!

about the author

S
USAN
G
REGG
G
ILMORE
is the author of the novel
Looking for Salvation at the Dairy Queen
. She has written for the
Chattanooga Times Free Press
, the
Los Angeles Times
, and the
Christian Science Monitor
. Born in Nashville, she lives in Tennessee with her husband and three daughters.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2010 by Susan Gregg Gilmore

All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Shaye Areheart Books, an imprint of the Crown Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
www.crownpublishing.com

Shaye Areheart Books with colophon is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Gilmore, Susan Gregg.
The improper life of Bezellia Grove: a novel / Susan Gregg Gilmore.—1st ed.
p. cm.
1. Interracial dating—Fiction.   2. Family secrets—Fiction.   3. Nashville
(Tenn.)—Fiction.   4. Domestic fiction.   I. Title.
PS3607.I4527I57 2010
813′.6—dc22            2009048110

eISBN: 978-0-307-59233-0

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