Sharyn Mccrumb_Elizabeth MacPherson_07 (27 page)

The attorney general winced. “Goodbye, Amy. And could you please exit by the back way in case any reporters are lurking in the hall?”

   I-95 again. This time northbound. It's even more boring this time because it's a rerun of the previous days' drive. Same old pine trees, same old sandy soil. End of adventure. I felt a certain sense of accomplishment. The Confederate Eight, as I'd come to think of them, had been kind enough to draw up a notarized document attesting to their well-being and taking the blame for the real estate scam. I'd even bought a disposable camera at the drug store and taken a snapshot of them standing by the post office sign that said
JEKYLL ISLAND.
One of them was holding up today's newspaper, just in case anyone should doubt their affidavit. By now they would be packing to leave the Comfort Inn, heading for points unknown. I didn't ask. They weren't exactly the trusting type.

I will always remember them tramping
through the sand in their crepe floral dresses, bickering about the directions in Gabriel Hawks's letter. Was
that
the oak tree that he meant? Exactly how long is a
pace?
And we kept getting interrupted by cars full of sightseers or people wanting to ask silly questions—like when was the island settled. As if we'd been there that long! By one in the afternoon it was becoming oppressively hot. Even the sea breeze had little effect. They wouldn't quit, though. Dolly Hawks Smith said that she for one wasn't getting any younger, and she didn't want to postpone the hunt for one more minute. The others agreed. I think, too, that they were afraid that since I had found them, other people might, too, and they were in a hurry to get moving again. We tried everybody's interpretation of which tree it was and how long a pace should be and when to turn left. But we always reached the same conclusion: that is, we ran out of island before we ran out of instructions.

“I don't understand,” said Flora Dabney, swabbing her damp forehead with a little square of cambric. “Surely one of our interpretations might be right.”

“And you're getting no reading on the metal detector?” asked Ellen Morrison with a worried frown.

“None,” I said.

“Well, I can't figure out what we are doing
wrong,” said Lydia Bridgeford. “Of course,
my
father didn't write those instructions!”

“No,” Dolly Smith replied. “Your father spent his gold as fast as he could.”

“Wait,” I said before the bickering could begin again. “There is a possibility we haven't considered. The directions could be perfectly correct—for 1865. But the island may have changed since then.”

They looked at me with widening eyes, considering the implications of what I said. Finally Mary Lee Pendleton nodded and whispered, “Hurricanes.”

“Yes. There have been quite a few bad hurricanes in the last hundred and thirty years, and at least half a dozen of them have hit this part of the eastern seaboard.”

Ellen Morrison shivered. “I remember Hazel in '54. I was so frightened. I just stood at my window watching trees fall.”

“So you think a storm has altered the island since Dolly's father buried his share of the gold here.” It wasn't a question. Flora Dabney's tone said that she knew I was right.

“Look at the instructions,” I said. “Go from that tree—or any of these trees for that matter—and walk twenty-five paces and turn left. You can't. And there are even more paces to walk after that, heading west. Do you see where that would put you?”

Dolly Hawks blinked back tears. “In the sea,” she whispered.

“People get treasure out of the sea,” said Lydia Bridgeford, patting her arm.
“National Geographic
had an article about some skin divers who found a sunken Spanish galleon.”

“But it took them years,” I reminded her. “And it cost millions. I don't think a saddlebag full of gold bars would be worth quite that much, even at today's gold prices. Maybe two million, tops. If you financed an expensive recovery operation, you'd be lucky to break even. And the publicity would alert the government, who would probably confiscate the gold anyhow. The Confederacy took it from the U.S. mint in the first place, remember?”

“Besides,” said Ellen, “we probably wouldn't live to see the recovery anyhow. I say we take what we have and enjoy ourselves.”

Flora Dabney gazed out at the sea with a thoughtful frown. “I had hoped we would have more than a million and a half. After all, there are eight of us. We'll have medical expenses.”

“We can invest the money,” said Mary Lee Pendleton. “If we don't live extravagantly, we'll be fine.”

“We could always sign a book deal,” said Dolly Smith. “I hear that pays well.”

We went back to the inn after that and had seafood salads for lunch while we talked about
what our respective ancestors did in the war. “But we mustn't go on about it too much,” Flora Dabney whispered to me after my story about the Battle of Fort Fisher. “You know, poor dear Julia is the only soldier's
widow
here, but she isn't, strictly speaking, a Confederate woman. The late Mr. Hotchkiss was a Yankee from Abingdon. The mountains had a lot of Union sympathizers, you know.”

“Why did you let her in the Home?” I whispered back.

“Well, dear, that was a long time ago. And we felt we had a great deal in common. It's our little secret.”

Julia Hotchkiss reached for the last three hush puppies, blissfully unconcerned with her guilty secret.

After lunch, I left them to pack for points unknown and drove back to Danville—with nothing to think about but the other civil war in my life. MacPherson vs. MacPherson in divorce proceedings.
A house divided against itself cannot stand.
I wondered if I would prove any better than Abe Lincoln at preventing a secession.

   “Well, here we all are,” I said brightly for the tenth time. I was smiling like a neon sign. I could feel every muscle in my face. “Here we are.” I glared at Bill, mentally nudging him to say something positive, because I could feel my
words falling with a crash into the center of this silent, strained family reunion. Our parents were in Bill's apartment, summoned at our request, politely sipping tepid white wine out of jelly glasses and behaving like hostages who were determined to be civil to their demented captors.

“Yep!” Bill caught my glare and straightened up with a nervous start. “Here we are,” he chirped, flashing our parents an oafish grin, which they returned with plaster smiles.

They wouldn't look at each other. They sat as far apart as it is possible to get in the hamster cage that Bill calls a living room. Mother passed the time between sips by asking me carefully neutral questions about Cameron, and how things were in Scotland. She seemed determined to consider Dad a large, quaint piece of sculpture that she refused to comment on. Dad resembled a guilty schoolboy who has been hauled to the principal's office for a well-deserved whipping: determined to brazen it out by feigning indifference. Meanwhile my brother the host, to whom housecleaning is an unconfirmed rumor, kept offering to
run out to the store
for everything from napkins to crushed ice, but I knew better than to let him act on these alleged impulses of hospitality. He would run out to the store, all right. Probably to one in the next state, and he would contrive to prolong the errand until he could be sure his guests
had fled. I wasn't about to be left holding this unsavory bag.

So there we were, all of us absolutely miserable, but determined to do a wooden impersonation of a normal family. In my fifth-grade history class we read the story about the little Spartan boy who put a fox cub in his tunic on the way to school, and then sat quietly through his lessons while the captive beast gnawed at his belly until the boy keeled over dead. That lad's spiritual descendants are my immediate family—and almost the entire population of my adopted country—and I am as exasperated about it as the fox was!

It was evident that my Waspish middle-class family members considered themselves far too well-bred to indulge in shouting matches or other forms of honest, but unseemly behavior. If left to their own devices, they were perfectly capable of making innocuous small talk for the entire interminable evening, while the real issues seethed below the surface, unexpressed, but tormenting everyone. Now, my life among the stiff-upper-lip crowd in Britain had not exactly enhanced my ability to advocate plain-speaking, but the knowledge that my stay in the United States was limited compelled me to introduce a little reality into the proceedings. I couldn't afford to wait out the months that would elapse between innuendo, ironic aside, inter-family conferences, and finally the reproachful
understatement of a by-then-insoluble problem. I had a plane to catch.

In a lull just after Dad's monologue about the Cincinnati Reds and Mother's last question about the weather in Edinburgh, I said, “Look, folks, this is a charming family reunion, and I really appreciate your coming over to welcome me back, but could we stop shoveling the—the social pleasantries here and talk about what's really going on?”

Just for a fraction of a second they glanced at each other. Then after one of those little pauses, reminiscent of the silence between the lighting of the fuse and the instant of detonation, Mother said, “What is that, dear?”

“You told her about the separation yourself, remember?” said Bill. “And I told her everything else. Even the goldfish injunction.”

Mother looked thoughtful. Finally she gave a little shrug, smiled, and said, “We have always tried to shield you children from any unpleasantness. I suppose, though, that you are no longer children.”

“I was your attorney,” Bill reminded her.

“Look,” I said, hoping to forestall any embarrassing speeches about people drifting apart or the male mid-life crisis. “I'm sure that if you two find a qualified marriage counselor, you can work out whatever little problems are causing all this fuss.”

“Problems?” said Daddy in that gruff voice
he uses when he's annoyed. “We don't have any problems. We have simply decided to go on with our lives. You children are grown, so you are no longer a consideration in our staying together. So we decided to please ourselves.”

“You certainly did,” said Mother, with more than a touch of sarcasm.

“I'm seeing someone,” Daddy muttered.

I think I said “Oh.” I must have—because my mouth was in exactly that round shape that it forms when you say
oh,
except that I forgot to close it for quite some time afterward. I must have been mentally flipping through
Redbook
articles, trying to come up with an appropriate response. Finally I stammered, “Well, of course. You're at the dangerous age, aren't you, Daddy? Fear of mortality and all that. I'm sure the counselor will cover all that. I mean, you couldn't be seriously considering leaving Mother—”

Nobody said anything.

“And if marriage counseling is expensive, then I'd be happy to pay for the sessions,” I said gently. “I can't stand by and see Mother's heart broken.”

My mother chuckled.

Bill and I looked at her suspiciously. “Don't worry about me, you two. I don't want him back,” she said.

“What?” we cried.

“Oh, for years I've been thinking that once you children were launched safely into the world, I'd be free to do what I want to do. Until now I've spent all my life being told what to do by some man. First there was Dad. Then I married Doug when I was too young to know who I wanted to be. Since then I've been a den mother, a bridge partner, a housekeeper, a wardrobe consultant, a chauffeur—but I got lost in the shuffle. Now I want to be Margaret, not Doug's wife or Bill and Elizabeth's mother. I suppose I wouldn't have had the courage to try life on my own, but when Doug had his hormone attack with that sweet young thing”—she giggled—“I decided that I was entitled to start over, too.”

“She's just saying that,” said Bill. “She doesn't want any of us to worry.”

“I don't mind if you worry,” Mother replied. “I certainly worried enough about you two when you were growing up. Since you seem to be concerned, I'll tell you that I'm going white-water rafting on the New River next weekend with Troy Anderson. I met him in my karate class at the community college.”

“Karate class,” Bill echoed.

“We'll be all right, kids,” said Daddy, looking disgustingly cheerful. “But if you two need any counseling sessions to get over the trauma of your parents' divorce, I'll be happy to foot the bill.”

Sarcasm is a very irritating habit. Unfortunately it runs in our family. It practically gallops. There seemed nothing left for me to do but return to Scotland, where my wonderfully unsarcastic husband was waiting.

My parents left after that. Daddy said he had dinner plans; Mother murmured something about expecting a phone call. Bill and I looked at each other across the table of half-f wine cups and shrugged.

“Well, we tried,” said Bill. “And Mom is right. We are grown. Powell Hill tells me that the state has dropped the investigation. The law firm is solvent. I guess I'll be all right. And you have a husband and an inheritance, so you should be fine.”

“Fine?” I echoed. Honestly, men have no sense of values. “Where are we supposed to have
Thanksgiving
now? And who gets the Christmas tree ornaments? And what about the tin punch picture I made for them at camp? Don't they care which one of them gets to keep that? Our whole history is being fragmented by a legal process.”

“Yeah. Kind of makes you feel like an Eastern European country, doesn't it?” Bill mused.

“So you are going to let them do this?” I demanded.

He shrugged. “Mother fired me, remember? I don't think either of us can stop it. All we can do is try to stay close to both of them in their
separate lives. And remember we've always got each other.”