The Improper Life Of Bezellia Grove Part 3

"h.e.l.lo, Mother. You're home," I said, sounding more like I was asking a question than making an observation. "Maizelle said you wouldn't be back until tomorrow evening."

"Maizelle was wrong, Sister," she said curtly and then stared at Samuel. "I a.s.sume this fine-looking young man is your son." Mother was obviously speaking to Nathaniel, but her eyes were fixed on Samuel.

"Yes, ma'am, I am. I'm Samuel Stephenson. Nice to meet you, ma'am," he said, not waiting for his father's introduction. He held out his hand to shake my mother's. But she kept her hand, protected in its white cotton glove, at her side.

"Sister, you better be getting in the house. Looks as though Adelaide needs a bath. Remember, you have a job to do."

"But ..."

"No, no. No buts."

I walked up the front steps, pa.s.sing both Samuel and Nathaniel, none of us willing to speak. Mother refused to exchange a warm h.e.l.lo or a welcoming hug like I had dreamed we might do. And from the top of the porch, I could see Samuel standing stiff by his father's side. He was staring through my mother as if he was boring a hole right through to her soul. He wasn't the least bit afraid of this white woman shielded in her cotton gloves and fancy silk suit. But I was. A part of me was afraid, afraid I'd never see Samuel Stephenson again. And a part of me was afraid that I would.

IRIS BALL IN FULL BLOOM AT HUNT ESTATE.

MOST LAVISH SOCIAL EVENT IN CITY'S HISTORY

Symphony to Benefit from Gala's Success More than five hundred guests attended the Iris Ball Sat.u.r.day night at the Hunt family estate in support of the Nashville Symphony Orchestra. Mrs. George Madison Longfellow Hunt V and Mrs. Charles Goodman Grove V hosted the debut fund-raiser. The Women's Volunteer League of Nashville sponsored the evening's festivities.

Guests were serenaded by orchestral music as they made their way down a candlelit path and into an opulently decorated white tent, the interior of which had been transformed into a lavish Paris garden scene.

Streamers of purple irises and red roses were strewn from the center of the tent. Under a canopy of flowers and twinkling lights, guests dined on an elaborate five-course dinner featuring potage creme de cresson, canard en croute, escalopes de veau, chocolate souffle, and French champagne.

Beautifully appointed tables were draped in a soft lilac-colored French silk and were centered with impressive arrangements of deep purple irises, red roses, and white tulips. Silver and crystal candlesticks were wrapped in ivy and held long cream tapers.

Mrs. Hunt, who greeted all of her guests in French, wore a red sequined gown with an empire waist and cap sleeves. Her dress was designed and fabricated in Paris. Mrs. Grove chose a purple silk worsted sheath with an elegant back drape and heavy beading around the neck and sleeves. Both women received a standing ovation for their fund-raising efforts.

Patrons had been treated to a c.o.c.ktail supper at the Groves' historic home earlier in the week.

Guests at the ball included Dr. and Mrs. Thomas Walter Purdy; Dr. and Mrs. Anson Franklin Johnson, Jr., of Memphis; Mr. and Mrs. Richard Ottowell Haase II; Mr. and Mrs. Francis Parsons Watkins, of Chattanooga; and Mr. and Mrs. James d.i.c.kson Holder III.

The Nashville Register

early edition

SEPTEMBER 27, 1965.

chapter four.

Mother did not wake up until noon the day after the ball. Father took her a cup of coffee and the morning paper as she intended to spend the afternoon in bed reading the society page and calling friends. He stayed by her side for hours, and I could hear them talking and laughing as they swapped stories, retelling the events of the previous night. I had never known my parents to enjoy each other's company as much as they seemed to that day. Father was very proud of my mother, and I think she was finally very proud of herself.

Everyone, including me, agreed that Mother looked absolutely beautiful, much prettier than Mrs. Hunt in her French couture gown. And with photographs of Mother splashed across the society page, we all a.s.sured her that she was now certain to be the envy of every woman in Nashville. "Purple is, Sister dear, an unforgettable color," Mother gushed.

By Thanksgiving, the Women's Volunteer League had hosted a lovely luncheon at the country club in honor of my mother and Mrs. Hunt and then very promptly named two new women to chair the next year's Iris Ball. And just as quickly as the gla.s.ses had been raised to toast my mother, the attention she had so desperately craved slipped into the gloved hands of another.

The president of the hospital's auxiliary committee asked Mrs. Hunt to chair the gala fund-raiser for the new pediatric ward, another elaborate evening of dinner and dancing. I'm sure Mother expected her dear friend to invite her to cochair the event. After all, they were the talk of the town, and her very own husband was sure to be the hospital's next chief of staff. But the phone never rang, and Mother finally read of Mrs. Hunt's decision in the afternoon paper. Mrs. Holder would be her cochair. Her husband had just been named managing partner of the city's oldest and most prestigious law firm, a position that apparently impressed my mother's dear friend even more.

So by Christmas, Mother found herself feeling very forgotten. She spent most of her days at the club, playing bridge or lunching with a few so-called friends, trying desperately to remind them that she was a very important person. But this was a job that now seemed to overwhelm her, and she began drinking more and more, not only at dinner but sometimes even at breakfast, pouring gin into her orange juice when she thought no one was looking. Most afternoons, the manager at the club would call Nathaniel and politely tell him to come and retrieve Mrs. Grove, as she seemed to have fallen ill, yet again. By Easter, few of Mother's friends bothered to call, and she rarely left the house, spending most of her days hiding in her bedroom.

I had grown somewhat accustomed to my mother's cruel behavior when she drank, but now she didn't even seem to notice us-and that scared me even more. And although Adelaide and I saw no more of our mother than we had when she was working endless hours with Mrs. Hunt, designing table decorations and engraved invitations, our house now seemed shrouded in a sickening chill that nothing, not even an unexpected thunderstorm, could wash away.

Then one brilliantly clear spring evening, Nathaniel announced that rain was surely heading our way. He could smell it in the air. He tipped his head back and took another deep breath. "Yes, sir, the rain is coming," he said and then walked out the back door, probably wanting to check on the horses or put the Cadillac in the garage before leaving for the night. Maizelle was in the kitchen cooking some caramel icing for a yellow layer cake she had made earlier in the afternoon. Adelaide was stirring the pot of thick, sugary syrup as it slowly boiled on the stove. I headed up the stairs to study for an English test.

I could see Mother sitting in the den, staring blankly at the television set as she often did, the sound of David Brinkley's steady, commanding voice leading her into a deep, sound sleep. Maybe she got up to change the channel or make herself another drink. I don't really know for sure. But I do know that when she lifted herself out of the chair, drunk and half-asleep, she tripped and fell to her knees, dropping her Waterford tumbler and grazing her forehead on the corner of the gla.s.s-topped coffee table. I heard the m.u.f.fled thud and quickly ran down the stairs to see what had happened. But when I spotted my mother kneeling on the floor, clutching Baby Stella in her hands, I carefully dropped behind the banister. Adelaide came running out of the kitchen. Maizelle was just a few steps behind her.

Mother immediately began yelling and cursing, spitting out words I had never heard, words I later had to ask Cornelia to define. And as she steadied herself on her feet, with Adelaide's doll still dangling from her right hand, Mother spied my little sister. Adelaide slid behind Maizelle, but she couldn't hide. Without much warning at all, Mother stormed toward her, yelling something about it being time she grew up and quit living in her childish, make-believe world. It was time she quit playing with baby dolls and making those d.a.m.ned mud pies. Adelaide pressed her face into Maizelle's bottom, desperately trying to disappear.

"The real world is not very nice, little missy, not f.u.c.king nice at all. And you might as well learn that right now," Mother screamed, looking so red-faced and twisted I thought the devil himself had swallowed her whole. Mother pushed Maizelle aside and yanked my little sister by the arm, her fingernails piercing Adelaide's pale, tender skin.

Adelaide started crying and shaking uncontrollably, which only seemed to further fuel Mother's rage, like a match thrown into a bucket of kerosene.

"Shut up! Do you hear me! Shut up! I don't want to hear any more of your d.a.m.n screaming."

But Adelaide couldn't stop. Her heart was broken into too many tiny pieces. And Mother didn't care. She slapped her across the face and then grabbed her small frail-looking arms and shook her back and forth, back and forth, my sister's curly-haired head looking like it might snap right off. Maizelle tried to squeeze her body between Mother and Adelaide. But Mother slapped her too, fortunately only sweeping the top of Maizelle's shoulder. I saw Maizelle's right hand go up as if she was intending to hit my mother back. Then, just as quickly as she had raised it, her hand fell behind her back.

"Get your n.i.g.g.e.r a.s.s out of my house!" Mother screamed. But Maizelle didn't move. I thought for a minute she really might strike my mother, just punch her square and hard in the mouth. And I hoped for a minute that she would. Then the back door slammed shut. Maizelle relaxed her stance a little bit and took a full step back, carefully pulling Adelaide along with her. Nathaniel walked into the front hall. I guess he was coming for his hat or to tell Maizelle good night. But there he stood, tall and strong, trying to make sense of the confusion that was unfolding right before his eyes.

He stepped toward my mother, who s.n.a.t.c.hed Adelaide in her arms and charged up the stairs, not even noticing me crouching in the corner of the landing. She threw my sister on her bed and slapped her thigh over and over again. I shook every time I heard the sharp sound of her hand striking Adelaide's smooth, fair skin. Then she started slamming drawers and doors, one right after the other. It sounded like a tornado was ripping through my sister's room, and in the midst of it all, Mother just kept shouting at Adelaide, demanding she take one good, last look at her baby dolls as she stuffed yet another one into her arms. Adelaide would never see them again, Mother promised. Never. Then she stomped out of the room, with her arms full of plastic arms and heads and legs, not even bothering to look back at the little girl left crumpled on the bed.

As soon as Mother slammed the door to her own room, directly across the hall, Nathaniel ordered Maizelle to run and check on Adelaide. She turned and grabbed onto the handrail, pulling herself up the stairs with such strength that I thought she might knock me down. I could feel her feet almost on top of mine and her breath, heavy and labored, against my neck. She was desperate to comfort her baby girl.

My little sister was lying on her side with her knees tucked against her chest. She wasn't crying anymore. She was just staring at the wall.

Maizelle said she had been shocked into silence, said she'd seen it before. She quickly dampened a cloth and washed Adelaide's face. She gave her a couple of baby aspirin and then opened her top dresser drawer and pulled out Adelaide's favorite pink pajamas. I sat down next to my little sister and put my arm around her shoulders. She was so thin and small I could feel her bones poking through her skin. I patted her back and told her not to worry about Baby Stella and the others. Nathaniel would find them. And Maizelle promised she would wash their faces and give them some baby aspirin too.

Adelaide suddenly started crying with such force and conviction that I wasn't sure she would ever be able to stop. "Baby Stella. Baby Stella," she moaned, repeating this tearful, tiny plea as she rocked herself back and forth. She finally closed her eyes, and Maizelle and I held our breath, hoping she had fallen asleep. But then her body jerked forward, and she started sobbing again, repeating the same tearful refrain.

Nathaniel opened the door just enough to push his head into the room. He winked at us and smiled, trying to rea.s.sure us that everything was going to be okay. Then he told Maizelle to stay with the children until she heard Dr. Grove come up the stairs. He said he'd be sitting on the front porch. My eyes must have widened with surprise, because he looked right at me and told me not to worry.

"It'll be all right, Miss Bezellia. I just need to have a few words with your daddy." Then he closed the bedroom door, motioning for Maizelle to lock it behind him. Maizelle stood up and whispered something to Nathaniel and then locked the door. I knew right then she hated my mother as much as I did.

From Adelaide's bedroom window, I could see Nathaniel sitting perfectly still in the green wicker glider, gazing up at the stars, patiently waiting for my father to pull in the driveway. He sat there for what seemed like hours, with his hands resting on his thighs and his head slightly tilted toward the sky. I wondered what all he saw when he looked at those stars. Then Adelaide's room suddenly filled with light as my father's car eased its way to the house, the headlights boldly announcing his arrival. I ran to the window and hid behind the heavy floral draperies, carefully spying my father as he stepped out of his car.

Nathaniel stood up and walked to the edge of the porch. "Good evening, Dr. Grove," he said with a firm, direct voice, not even waiting for my father to make his way to the front steps.

"Good evening, Nathaniel." My father answered slowly and carefully, suddenly looking like a buck who had been grazing in the field at dusk. It was as if he could sense some sort of danger, hidden but surely there. He probably wanted to run for cover, but instead of scanning the horizon for a thicket of trees or some heavy brush, he just froze in place. "What are you doing here so late? Everything okay?"

"No, sir, it's not. Nothing here is okay. But you already know that," Nathaniel said and then paused for what seemed like a very long time. I guess he was searching for the right words to say to the man he had once taken fishing down by the creek, steadying his fishing cane so he'd be certain to get a bite. But now, Nathaniel sounded more like a parent chastising a naughty child than an old friend or a colored man careful of his position. And even though my father would have had every right to make him stop, he did not.

"I have known you for a long time, and maybe 'cause of that I feel I can say what's in my heart. Or maybe I'm just plain afraid if I don't, one of your girls is going to end up in that hospital you're at all the time.

"You know as well as I do that Mrs. Grove's taken to drinking every day, pretty much from the time she wakes up in the morning till she falls asleep at night. She sneaks that gin into her orange juice like n.o.body knows what she's doing. But you do. You know. And you ought to know by now that she can't care for herself, let alone those two sweet baby girls of yours. That's bad enough for sure. But today she hurt Adelaide, could have killed her, I think, judging by the look in her eyes. And I'm afraid, Dr. Grove, if you don't start paying attention to what's going on inside that house of yours, well, you may come home one day and find something really tragic has happened right here under your very own roof."

Nathaniel didn't wait for my father to respond. "There. I've said my piece. I best be getting home now. My family's probably worrying where I am," he concluded, and he tipped his hat and walked down the front steps to his old blue pickup truck.

"Nathaniel, wait a minute," my father stammered. He wrung his hands and lowered his head. Whatever he wanted to say seemed stuck somewhere deep inside his throat. He coughed a couple of times, as if he was trying to force the words out. "I didn't really know things had gotten this bad. I mean I knew Elizabeth hated me, but I guess I thought the girls were ..."

Nathaniel slipped in behind his steering wheel. "Charles, this really isn't about you anymore," he said, and he shut the door of his truck and drove away, leaving my father standing motionless at the bottom of the steps.

The next day all of Adelaide's babies reappeared, each one shiny and clean and wearing a neatly pressed dress. Baby Stella even had a pink satin ribbon tied around her plastic head, making her look prettier than she had in months. Maizelle never said a word about where they had been, and Mother acted as though she didn't remember what she had done. But Adelaide never forgot. And a few days later, Mother left for a vacation of sorts. Father said she needed to go to a special place to get better, someplace in Minnesota. I think it was near a lake.

Father still worked long days at the hospital, but with Mother gone, he was always home for dinner. And there, at that perfectly polished mahogany table, my father tried at last to get to know his daughters. He seemed uneasy at first, unsure of what to say to the two little girls who were so thirsty for any tiny bit of his attention. He talked about family mostly, about the first Bezellia fighting the Indians at Fort Nashborough and about a young Teddy Roosevelt kissing his grandmother when her fiance was too busy looking at his horses. He said a small heart was engraved on the bottom of the silver teapot the future president gave his grandparents on the eve of their wedding, a heart that represented his own hidden love for my great-grandmother. I wanted to run and see if it was there just as he said it would be, but I guess it really didn't matter if what he was telling me was true or not.

Father said our mother would not be back until September. He said he was sure we were missing her but we needed to be patient. Sometimes it took a long time to get well. I tried to miss her. I wanted to miss her. But to tell the truth, I didn't think about my mother much, except when Maizelle made me get down on my knees and say my prayers before going to bed. And even then, sometimes, I forgot to mention her name.

Mrs. Hunt started coming by not long after Mother left, just to check on us girls and let "our daddy" know she would love to do anything to help us in this truly difficult time. She loved our mother, she said. She couldn't have chaired the Iris Ball without her, she said. Now she only wished her dear friend the very best and a speedy recovery from this most difficult condition-all the while the most perfect little smile remained painted across her face, a smile I had seen on my own mother's face, a smile that surely hid at least a thousand perfect little lies.

Our father really appreciated Mrs. Hunt's special attention, and one night he invited her to stay and have a drink. They talked for hours while sitting on the front porch sipping whiskey sours and listening to Frank Sinatra alb.u.ms left playing on the record player in the living room. I couldn't hear the specifics of what they were saying, but I did understand the laughter and ease in their voices. And before long, Mrs. Hunt started visiting at least twice a week to check on the poor little Grove girls and deliver another chicken noodle ca.s.serole that her Emma had baked just for us. Maizelle didn't like Mrs. Hunt coming by any more than I did, and she certainly didn't like her thinking she couldn't care for her own family. She'd tell Mrs. Hunt how much she appreciated her thoughtfulness, and then she'd walk right through the kitchen door and dump that ca.s.serole in the trash can out back. Father always hugged Maizelle and rea.s.sured her she was the best cook in town. Then he made a couple of whiskey sours and joined Mrs. Hunt on the porch.

Of course when the two of them had tired of polite conversation, Father started coming home well after dinner, just as if Mother were here. Naturally he was very sorry about needing to be away so much. He said the hospital was short-staffed, and everyone was working much longer hours this summer than they'd like. Adelaide and I obediently nodded our heads and said we understood, but we both knew it wasn't the hospital that demanded our father's attention. He never mentioned sending us to the lake, as Mother surely would have. I guess he was trying to keep his wife's condition a secret even from her own parents, although I'm sure everyone in Nashville knew the truth, or at least some mangled version of it. And even though Maizelle was always nearby, Adelaide and I found ourselves, once again, feeling very alone at Grove Hill.

I was going to run away from home that summer. I schemed and plotted but never managed to pack my bags. Maybe I didn't want to leave Adelaide, or maybe at the end of the day even I was too scared to consider a life beyond Grove Hill. I hated myself for thinking that. But then one afternoon my plans, imaginary or not, abruptly changed. Cornelia called the house blabbering something about her father and the Buffy Orphans.

"Cornelia, slow down," I told her. But she didn't. "Cornelia! Stop! I can't understand a word you're saying!" Nothing she said was making any sense, not one word, until she said Samuel.

"Bezellia, you have to come over. Now!"

"Why?"

"Listen, just do what I said. Tell Nathaniel to bring you. Tell him I need you to help me, um, um, bake some brownies or something. I don't know. Tell him anything you want. No! Ride your bike. Yeah, yeah, that's better."

"My bike? Are you kidding me? It's kind of far, Cornelia, and only about a hundred degrees out there."

"What else have you got to do? h.e.l.l's bells. Get here however you like, but just come on. Daddy has gone and hired Samuel to help him rebuild that G.o.d-awful-looking chicken coop. Apparently he was really impressed with that dumb barn of yours. Come on. I'll be waiting for you in my room."

Click.

chapter five.

Almost a year had pa.s.sed since I had seen Samuel Stephenson. Now my heart was racing and my palms were sweating, and I wasn't really sure why. But I did exactly as Cornelia told me and ran downstairs and started looking for Nathaniel. He was in the backyard carefully watering the impatiens that bordered the walk leading to the kitchen door. Mother had Nathaniel plant flowers there every spring. She said even those of us coming to the back door deserved a proper welcome. Two fuchsia, three pink, three white, and repeat. This year she hadn't been here to tell him what to do. But he did it anyway. Out of respect, he said.

"Nathaniel," I hollered, my voice sounding much too high-pitched to hide my excitement. "Will you drive me over to Cornelia's?"

At first he ignored me and continued tending to the flowers. I took a few more steps toward him and cleared my throat. But he was already suspicious. I could see him looking at me out of the corner of his eye. He put the watering can down next to his feet and stared directly at me. "Why all the sudden do you need to be going to your cousin's house, anyway?"

"She called. Didn't you hear the phone ring?" I spoke very quickly for fear that even the slightest hesitation would reveal my true intention. "Well, it did. The phone rang, and Cornelia wants me to come help her make some brownies for some church youth group thing she's going to tonight."

Nathaniel was a regular churchgoing man. He had earned a gold pin for perfect attendance every year since he was twelve years old. He brought them all to the house once to show me, hoping, I think, it would encourage me to find my way to church at least once a week. He probably should have shown them to Mother. But I knew that any man with all those shiny pins in his pocket would never want to keep me from helping my cousin do the Lord's work.

"That girl can't make those brownies on her own?"

"Nathaniel, will you take me or not? I'll ride my bike if you won't," I said and then turned around and started walking toward the garage.

"All right, hold on. I'll go get the keys. But what do you want me to tell your daddy when he gets home for dinner and you're not here?"

I just stared at Nathaniel. He and I both knew that my whereabouts were no longer my father's first concern, and so, out of either duty or heartfelt pity, he emptied the watering can and slowly walked inside the house. I had grown quite accustomed to lying to my mother-and my father, for that matter. I could do it with the most sincere and honest expression, but I was having a hard time even looking at Nathaniel. So I climbed into the backseat of the Cadillac and focused my attention on a long thread hanging down from the hem of my denim shorts.

A couple of minutes later, Nathaniel tossed his hat onto the front seat and stepped into the car, releasing a slow, almost desperate moan as he settled behind the steering wheel. He carefully placed the key in the ignition and then found me in the rearview mirror. "You know, Samuel is working at your uncle's this summer, helping him with his chicken coop."

My awkward silence surely confirmed what he already suspected.

"Yes, he is. He's working real hard. Wants to go to college, Miss Bezellia, just like you. Except he's going to be the first Stephenson to do that. His mama and I are mighty proud of that boy. He's talking about Fisk or maybe Grambling State, if he can get a scholarship, that is. He's making the grades all right." And then he paused for a minute as he eased the car out of the dark garage and into the bright sunlight. "You know his mama and I sure are looking forward to that day."

I wanted to tell him not to worry. I wanted to tell him I understood what he was saying, but I really didn't. And I really didn't know why I was going to my cousin's house, but I didn't see how it had anything to do with Samuel going to college. So nothing came out of my mouth, not one word. I just slumped down in the backseat and rode in silence, never brave enough to say anything at all.

Cornelia was downright giddy when I walked into her bedroom. She was already dressed in a blue, two-piece bathing suit and had another one, a deep raspberry pink one with little white ruffles across the seat, in her other hand, waving it like a flag. Mother would never let me buy a suit that revealed my stomach. She said those were for tramps. Cornelia didn't look like a tramp, but she sure did look like a girl who knew what she was doing.

"Here, put this on," she ordered and tossed me the suit.

"I brought one."

"Yeah, I know. Wear mine," she repeated, giving me that I-know-best look that Cornelia had perfected. "Bezellia, I can see why you like him. He is so cute, so powerful-looking, like some kind of African prince."

"Lord, Cornelia. What in the world are you talking about?"

"Oh, come on, Bee, you with Samuel. It's so cool. It's like your own little march on Selma."

"d.a.m.n it, Cornelia. This is not some kind of sit-in. I haven't even seen him since last summer. And we didn't particularly hit it off then, if you remember."

"Uh-huh. Yeah. But if we hang out by the swimming pool, we'll have a great view of the chicken coop and anybody who happens to be working on it, if you get my drift."