Whitewash (13 page)

Sabrina had taken a wrong turn on her way home from Chattahoochee, her mind a million miles away. Her condo was dark except for a lamp in the far corner of the living room, set by a timer so that Sabrina never had to enter a pitch-black house. Her first impulse was to check for voice messages. No blinking red light on the cordless phone’s base. She couldn’t help thinking, out of sight, out of mind. Her friends back in Chicago were more colleagues than friends, even Olivia, whose e-mails had become less frequent and now included a forwarded joke or inspirational message instead of any personal message. They had their own families to worry about. Sabrina could certainly understand that.

What she couldn’t understand was how quickly, how easily Daniel had given up. Before she left Chicago, she had tried to give him back his ring. It wasn’t fair, she had told him, since she didn’t know how long she’d be gone. At the time he’d laughed and said she needed to stop analyzing their relationship as if it were a scientific equation.

“This is a matter of the heart,” he told her, ironically treating her a bit like one of his own students, going into a poetic explanation. “And the heart is not a thinking organ.”

They were so different from each other she wasn’t sure why she thought the relationship would work. Maybe she simply hoped to replicate her parents’ love affair, only to realize in her failure how truly extraordinary theirs was.

Sabrina dropped her car keys and wallet into the middle desk drawer and left her briefcase alongside the carved ball-and-claw foot of the cherry-wood writing desk. The desk and her mother’s upright piano were the only two pieces of furniture that made the trip with her from Chicago, not that she had much to begin with. It was easy to sell her secondhand bargains that she used to decorate her studio apartment and simply buy new things for the Florida condo.

Her new salary at EchoEnergy made her professor’s salary look like a pittance. Another reason Daniel’s phone calls had become less frequent. Last week, or was it two weeks ago, he had all but accused her of wanting to stay in Florida because of the money. “Maybe your father would get better quicker if EchoEnergy didn’t pay those huge bonuses,” he had joked, then apologized. But Sabrina still felt the sting.

Now she ran her hand over the smooth rosewood of the upright piano, circa 1905. More than a hundred years old and still a beauty, one of the few left that had been made by Bush and Lane of Chicago. Just the sight of it brought back memories that calmed and nourished her. Her mother’s musical and artistic talents were as volatile as her emotions. She played the piano rarely and impulsively, often waiting to be coaxed and usually giving in only at their famous neighborhood parties when Sabrina’s father joined her and when she had a large enough audience gathered around who pledged and promised to sing along. “To drown out my mistakes,” her mother would say with a laugh, though everyone knew there wouldn’t be a single mistake.

It was the happiest Sabrina had ever seen her mother and father when they were sitting at the piano with a crowd of friends. They’d play all the old big-band tunes, fun stuff to sing like “All of Me,” “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy,” and “Chattanooga Choo-Choo.” But always, without fail her mother would end the evening with “When You Wish Upon a Star,” and all the giggles and previous belting out of gibberish would quiet, giving in to the soft melody and the light but sobering message.

Sabrina could barely tap out “Chopsticks.” Eric had been the one who had inherited their mother’s musical talent, but not the interest. Sabrina closed her eyes and brushed her fingers over the keys, wishing that she could hear it for a second or two, just the way it was back then, mixed with the laughter and Uncle Teddy’s baritone adding harmony. She wouldn’t even mind adding the smells—her mom’s best friend, Verda May’s, cigarette smoke, the scent of candle wax and even the burnt cinnamon from her mother’s failed attempt at baking apple pie. Always at the last minute she’d send Sabrina’s father out to Della’s Bakery around the corner to pick up a replacement dessert. The parties, the laughter, the music, everything ended when her mother ended.

Sabrina plucked at a few keys, the beginning of “Chopsticks.” Someday she’d take lessons, if only to be able to play “When You Wish Upon a Star.”

She heard a scraping sound out on the patio. That damn cat. Sabrina slid open the glass door, ready to grab the broom. She stopped herself when she caught a whiff of lavender. She could feel a presence even before she could make out the old woman’s shape, sitting next door in the wicker chair. The scraping sound must have been the chair’s feet scooting against the cement floor, and now Sabrina could hear the chink of ice cubes in a glass. In the still of the night she could even hear the purring of a content Lizzie somewhere close by.

“Miss Sadie?” Sabrina said gently, not wanting to startle the old woman who had keen hearing, unlike her cat.

Out of the dark came the familiar smooth, deep voice. “Come join me, dear.”

Sabrina heard the clinking of more ice as she felt her way around the hedge of crepe myrtle that separated their patios. Her eyes adjusted to the dark and she could see the outline of Miss Sadie, her crinkled hair pulled into a neat bun at the back of her head. Her wire-rimmed eyeglasses were still in place despite the dark and on the small table beside her sat the tall glass of what Sabrina knew was whiskey and water on ice. Also on the table was an ice bucket, tongs and another glass and she remembered it was Friday night. Though unspoken and unplanned, they had spent every Friday night since March right here in the dark, sipping whiskey and water on ice, usually just sitting quietly, listening to the night birds and watching the stars.

They shared bits and pieces, glimpses of their pasts, never whole stories. It wasn’t necessary. It was difficult to explain. They were like two old friends who already knew enough about each other to know they liked what they knew.

Sabrina took her place in the rickety wicker chair beside the old woman. She added several cubes of ice to the empty glass, poured the whiskey a third of the way and splashed it with water. She took a long sip, tonight grateful that the bite of liquor was stronger than usual.

“I just got back from Chattahoochee,” she said and she saw Miss Sadie nod. She could feel Lizzie rub up against her leg and begin a rumble of purrs. Oh sure, on this side of the crepe myrtle Lizzie befriended her. On the other side she swatted down potted plants like they were pesky mice.

“Chatt-a-hoo-chee.” Miss Sadie drew out the word and tasted it with a sip of whiskey. “My momma used to scare the living daylights out of us with threats she’d send us off to Chattahoochee if we misbehaved.”

“Did it work?”

“My little brother, Arliss, ended up there for a spell in ’55. He was long past being a child by then, but I suppose you could say it was misbehaving that put him there. Times were much different. It was either there or the state prison. Nothing like now.”

Sabrina leaned her head back and looked up at the stars. There was something about Miss Sadie’s voice that made everything she said sound like a melody. Maybe it was the southern accent mixed with the deep richness of each word, slow and smooth as molasses. It soothed Sabrina more than the whiskey, more than anything else in her life right now. The old woman had become a staple in Sabrina’s life, someone she didn’t need to explain herself to, someone who didn’t want anything from her.

“How is your daddy?” Miss Sadie asked, inviting as little or as much as Sabrina wished to share.

“I don’t know,” Sabrina confided. “I honestly don’t know.”

Miss Sadie nodded again, satisfied. That was all Sabrina had to say, as if the old woman knew exactly the confusion and uncertainty Sabrina felt without her having to put it into words. She got the feeling there wasn’t much in life that surprised Miss Sadie anymore. The old woman liked to say that at eighty-one she had “seen it all, up one side and down another.”

They settled into a comfortable silence, sipping their whiskeys, and Sabrina tried to erase the day’s events. After a long while she finally asked, “Whatever happened to Arliss?”

In that same melodic voice Miss Sadie said, “Five days after he got to Chattahoochee he stripped the sheet off his bed, rolled it up into a knot and hanged himself.”

Sabrina had taken a wrong turn on her way home from Chattahoochee, her mind a million miles away. Her condo was dark except for a lamp in the far corner of the living room, set by a timer so that Sabrina never had to enter a pitch-black house. Her first impulse was to check for voice messages. No blinking red light on the cordless phone’s base. She couldn’t help thinking, out of sight, out of mind. Her friends back in Chicago were more colleagues than friends, even Olivia, whose e-mails had become less frequent and now included a forwarded joke or inspirational message instead of any personal message. They had their own families to worry about. Sabrina could certainly understand that.

What she couldn’t understand was how quickly, how easily Daniel had given up. Before she left Chicago, she had tried to give him back his ring. It wasn’t fair, she had told him, since she didn’t know how long she’d be gone. At the time he’d laughed and said she needed to stop analyzing their relationship as if it were a scientific equation.

“This is a matter of the heart,” he told her, ironically treating her a bit like one of his own students, going into a poetic explanation. “And the heart is not a thinking organ.”

They were so different from each other she wasn’t sure why she thought the relationship would work. Maybe she simply hoped to replicate her parents’ love affair, only to realize in her failure how truly extraordinary theirs was.

Sabrina dropped her car keys and wallet into the middle desk drawer and left her briefcase alongside the carved ball-and-claw foot of the cherry-wood writing desk. The desk and her mother’s upright piano were the only two pieces of furniture that made the trip with her from Chicago, not that she had much to begin with. It was easy to sell her secondhand bargains that she used to decorate her studio apartment and simply buy new things for the Florida condo.

Her new salary at EchoEnergy made her professor’s salary look like a pittance. Another reason Daniel’s phone calls had become less frequent. Last week, or was it two weeks ago, he had all but accused her of wanting to stay in Florida because of the money. “Maybe your father would get better quicker if EchoEnergy didn’t pay those huge bonuses,” he had joked, then apologized. But Sabrina still felt the sting.

Now she ran her hand over the smooth rosewood of the upright piano, circa 1905. More than a hundred years old and still a beauty, one of the few left that had been made by Bush and Lane of Chicago. Just the sight of it brought back memories that calmed and nourished her. Her mother’s musical and artistic talents were as volatile as her emotions. She played the piano rarely and impulsively, often waiting to be coaxed and usually giving in only at their famous neighborhood parties when Sabrina’s father joined her and when she had a large enough audience gathered around who pledged and promised to sing along. “To drown out my mistakes,” her mother would say with a laugh, though everyone knew there wouldn’t be a single mistake.

It was the happiest Sabrina had ever seen her mother and father when they were sitting at the piano with a crowd of friends. They’d play all the old big-band tunes, fun stuff to sing like “All of Me,” “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy,” and “Chattanooga Choo-Choo.” But always, without fail her mother would end the evening with “When You Wish Upon a Star,” and all the giggles and previous belting out of gibberish would quiet, giving in to the soft melody and the light but sobering message.

Sabrina could barely tap out “Chopsticks.” Eric had been the one who had inherited their mother’s musical talent, but not the interest. Sabrina closed her eyes and brushed her fingers over the keys, wishing that she could hear it for a second or two, just the way it was back then, mixed with the laughter and Uncle Teddy’s baritone adding harmony. She wouldn’t even mind adding the smells—her mom’s best friend, Verda May’s, cigarette smoke, the scent of candle wax and even the burnt cinnamon from her mother’s failed attempt at baking apple pie. Always at the last minute she’d send Sabrina’s father out to Della’s Bakery around the corner to pick up a replacement dessert. The parties, the laughter, the music, everything ended when her mother ended.

Sabrina plucked at a few keys, the beginning of “Chopsticks.” Someday she’d take lessons, if only to be able to play “When You Wish Upon a Star.”

She heard a scraping sound out on the patio. That damn cat. Sabrina slid open the glass door, ready to grab the broom. She stopped herself when she caught a whiff of lavender. She could feel a presence even before she could make out the old woman’s shape, sitting next door in the wicker chair. The scraping sound must have been the chair’s feet scooting against the cement floor, and now Sabrina could hear the chink of ice cubes in a glass. In the still of the night she could even hear the purring of a content Lizzie somewhere close by.

“Miss Sadie?” Sabrina said gently, not wanting to startle the old woman who had keen hearing, unlike her cat.

Out of the dark came the familiar smooth, deep voice. “Come join me, dear.”

Sabrina heard the clinking of more ice as she felt her way around the hedge of crepe myrtle that separated their patios. Her eyes adjusted to the dark and she could see the outline of Miss Sadie, her crinkled hair pulled into a neat bun at the back of her head. Her wire-rimmed eyeglasses were still in place despite the dark and on the small table beside her sat the tall glass of what Sabrina knew was whiskey and water on ice. Also on the table was an ice bucket, tongs and another glass and she remembered it was Friday night. Though unspoken and unplanned, they had spent every Friday night since March right here in the dark, sipping whiskey and water on ice, usually just sitting quietly, listening to the night birds and watching the stars.

They shared bits and pieces, glimpses of their pasts, never whole stories. It wasn’t necessary. It was difficult to explain. They were like two old friends who already knew enough about each other to know they liked what they knew.

Sabrina took her place in the rickety wicker chair beside the old woman. She added several cubes of ice to the empty glass, poured the whiskey a third of the way and splashed it with water. She took a long sip, tonight grateful that the bite of liquor was stronger than usual.

“I just got back from Chattahoochee,” she said and she saw Miss Sadie nod. She could feel Lizzie rub up against her leg and begin a rumble of purrs. Oh sure, on this side of the crepe myrtle Lizzie befriended her. On the other side she swatted down potted plants like they were pesky mice.

“Chatt-a-hoo-chee.” Miss Sadie drew out the word and tasted it with a sip of whiskey. “My momma used to scare the living daylights out of us with threats she’d send us off to Chattahoochee if we misbehaved.”

“Did it work?”

“My little brother, Arliss, ended up there for a spell in ’55. He was long past being a child by then, but I suppose you could say it was misbehaving that put him there. Times were much different. It was either there or the state prison. Nothing like now.”

Sabrina leaned her head back and looked up at the stars. There was something about Miss Sadie’s voice that made everything she said sound like a melody. Maybe it was the southern accent mixed with the deep richness of each word, slow and smooth as molasses. It soothed Sabrina more than the whiskey, more than anything else in her life right now. The old woman had become a staple in Sabrina’s life, someone she didn’t need to explain herself to, someone who didn’t want anything from her.

“How is your daddy?” Miss Sadie asked, inviting as little or as much as Sabrina wished to share.

“I don’t know,” Sabrina confided. “I honestly don’t know.”

Miss Sadie nodded again, satisfied. That was all Sabrina had to say, as if the old woman knew exactly the confusion and uncertainty Sabrina felt without her having to put it into words. She got the feeling there wasn’t much in life that surprised Miss Sadie anymore. The old woman liked to say that at eighty-one she had “seen it all, up one side and down another.”

They settled into a comfortable silence, sipping their whiskeys, and Sabrina tried to erase the day’s events. After a long while she finally asked, “Whatever happened to Arliss?”

In that same melodic voice Miss Sadie said, “Five days after he got to Chattahoochee he stripped the sheet off his bed, rolled it up into a knot and hanged himself.”