Earlene laughed, too. “I haven’t had a dog in a long time.” She paused for a moment and then added, “It’s hard to remember what it’s like.”
Helen turned her head toward her companion, hearing the wistfulness in her voice, and something else, too. A forced aloofness, maybe, and a fragileness, too. Helen thought of the scar on Earlene’s elbow and the limp and wondered if her internal scars were there, too, and if they were just as permanent.
Earlene brought them to a stop. “We’re at the tree. Where next?”
“To the left. In about ten yards or so, you should see a small dirt path that will lead us into a wooded part. If you stay on the path there’ll be a clearing with an iron fence around it. You should be able to see the tombstones from there.”
Earlene pulled her arm in close. “Be very careful here. There’re lots of rocks and debris in the grass.”
“Thanks. And remember not to come out here at dusk. The no-see-ums are out then and those suckers can bite. Don’t bother with repellent, either. That stuff is like vitamin water to them—makes them bigger and stronger, I think.”
They continued walking, listening to Mardi’s collar clink and his heavy panting as he bounded around them. The area around the cemetery was Helen’s favorite part of the plantation. It was the place she remembered colors the most: the blue of the sky, the mossy greens and browns of the trunks of the sweet gum and hickory trees, the buttery yellows of the asphodels that sprouted untended inside the cemetery gates like flaming arrows thrown by the gods. The memory of faces had faded with time, but the colors remained, bright flashes of light against perpetual darkness.
Helen could tell by the way Earlene relaxed her hold on her arm that they had reached the clearing. Slowly, they progressed around the perimeter of the fence to the gate where Earlene paused. “It’s beautiful here. The light here seems . . . I don’t know. Softer.”
“I know. When I was a little girl, I used to say that it seemed the sun was shining through angels’ wings.” Helen laughed. “I like to come here and paint sometimes when I can find somebody patient enough to bring my easel and paints and guide me in and out.”
“You paint?” Helen could hear Earlene’s struggle between politeness and curiosity.
“I haven’t been blind my whole life—not until a high fever at the age of fourteen. I loved to paint before and found no reason to stop now.” She could sense Earlene looking at her, hesitating. “What is it?”
Earlene took a deep breath. “I’m just . . . curious. Your grandmother’s house—it’s so dark. Being here, with this beautiful light, it just made me wonder . . .”
Helen reached out her hand and touched the cold metal of the wrought-iron fence, then slid her fingers up to the top of the arrows that pointed toward heaven and pressed her thumb down hard. “It’s always been that way, even when Tuck and I were children. What makes you ask?”
She felt Earlene shrug next to her. “My . . . aunt. She was that way, too. After she went away to live in a nursing home, I ran around opening up all the blinds. I’m thinking that maybe as we get older, our eyes must get more sensitive to the light.”
Helen pressed her thumb down harder, feeling a chip in the paint. “Or maybe our memories make us see things with such a bright clarity that we have to shield our eyes.”
Earlene lifted the latch on the gate. “Maybe.” The hinges squealed as she pushed open the gate, then led Helen inside.
There had been a fitful sprinkle of rain earlier that morning, just enough to torment the parched summer grass, and Helen could smell the moist earth and wet leaves that had piled up against the bottom of the fence. She’d have to remind Tucker that he needed to clean it out although she was pretty sure he’d have somebody else do it. Even as a child he hadn’t liked to come here and had once told her that it reminded him of a monster’s mouth, the white stones like sharp teeth waiting to catch him. She supposed that he had even more reason to believe it to be true now that he was grown.
Helen leaned against the closed gate. “So what exactly do you hope to find here?”
“I’m just . . . I was hoping . . .” Earlene fell silent.
Ah.
“Maybe if you can tell me the last name your client is interested in researching, I might be able to help. My family has lived in the Savannah area since before the Revolution. It’s in my blood to know every connection of every family going back at least two hundred years.”
Again, Earlene paused.
“Or maybe you can tell me what you’re really looking for.”
Twigs and leaves crunched as Earlene shifted her feet. She sounded almost relieved when she finally spoke. “I’m actually doing this as a personal favor. For a friend.” She paused again. “Her name’s Lola. She’s writing a history about Asphodel Meadows and the Harringtons. She tried to reach your grandmother but your grandmother made it very clear that she wasn’t interested in talking to anyone.”
“And since you’re a genealogist who knows how to research, it made sense for you to come here and see what you could learn.” Using the fence as her guide, Helen began walking around the periphery of the cemetery. “I’m not surprised that Malily wouldn’t help your friend. She never talks about the past—even to us. She’s not the cold woman she likes to portray to the world, you know. You’d never guess there’s a lot more underneath that powdered veneer. Did you know that she used to be a well-known equestrian? Years ago, of course, but still. She told me once that she wanted to be a jockey when she was a little girl, and live in the stable with her horse.” Helen paused to make sure that Earlene was following her. “Hard to believe, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Earlene said slowly, “it is. I never would have guessed.”
“I think it’s a good example of how we’re never really who we say we are.” Helen turned her head to face the direction she knew Earlene was standing. “We’re made of so many different layers, and each one tells a story.” She stopped, remembering something her grandmother had said. “My mother hasn’t been back to Asphodel for almost five years now. When she left that last time my grandmother said almost the exact same thing, something about how so many of our stories stay hidden under other layers. But how a daughter should know her mother’s stories to pass on to her daughters.”
“But she’s been reluctant to share her story with you.”
Helen shrugged. “I always thought that she was making me wait my turn, that my mother should go first. But I don’t think Mama’s planning on coming home any day now and Malily isn’t getting any younger.”
Earlene’s voice sounded small, the words barely having enough room to escape. “You should talk to your grandmother now, before it’s too late. Ask her to tell you her stories.”
Helen forced her voice to sound light. “Asking Malily to do anything is like moving a mountain. But maybe someday soon.”
Earlene shifted, twigs and leaves crunching under her feet. “So what happened next?”
Helen shrugged. “My mother left. She told Malily that she already knew all she wanted to know.”
“And she hasn’t been back since?” Earlene’s footsteps walked toward the center of the cemetery toward the large pyramid monument.
“No. But that’s not unusual. Our parents are missionaries. We stayed here while they were out there, saving the world.”
“I’m sorry.” Earlene’s footsteps returned. “That must have been hard for you.” She took a deep breath. “My own parents died in a car accident when I was six. I don’t remember them very well, but I still miss them. I was angry for a long time that they’d left me behind.”
Helen touched Earlene’s arm again, feeling the scar. “Is that where this came from?”
Earlene rapidly sucked in her breath. “No.”
Helen dropped her hand, realizing she’d touched that fragileness, reminding her of a china plate wobbling on the edge of a table. She wanted to explain that in her world without light or colors, the boundaries between herself and others had become blurred. Tucker had once told her that instead of seeing people’s faces, she could see directly inside their hearts.
Helen held out her hand again. “Well, if you want to learn about Lillian Harrington-Ross, this would be the right place to start. Her great-great-grandparents and everyone since are here, as is her husband, Charles Ross. The monument in the center is his.”
Earlene’s fingers were cool again as she took Helen’s hand and placed it on her arm before leading her toward the tall, narrow pyramid. With her free hand Helen touched the marble monument, running her fingers over the engraved letters. “He designed the monument himself, but my grandmother added the words.”
“But it’s only his name, and his birth and death dates.”
Helen brushed the letters again with her fingers. “I know. My sister-in-law, Susan, pointed that out to me. We both thought it odd that there weren’t any sentiments. My grandparents were married for over fifty-five years, after all, and had two children. You would think she had more to say other than he was born and died.”
“Two children? So your mother wasn’t an only child?”
“She had a brother, but he was killed in Vietnam. He’s buried near his father.”
Earlene pulled away and Helen felt her kneel. “It’s the biggest monument, though. And somebody’s brought flowers recently.”
Helen let her hands trail down the monument until she was kneeling next to Earlene. “Yes, well, Malily comes here dutifully once a month and puts flowers on his grave. She’s always been good with appearances.”
“What do you mean?”
Helen stood and turned away, picturing the row of smaller head-stones that rose from the earth like historical markers, indicating the periods of epidemics that took the lives of children and left the parents with cold marble in a cemetery. She faced Earlene again, not sure why she’d chosen this stranger to confide in. Maybe it was because they were both essentially orphans. Or maybe it was Earlene’s admission that her parents’ deaths had felt like a desertion worthy of her anger. And Helen knew all about that.
“The first time Malily brought me here, I was about seven or eight. She either thought I was too young to remember or to understand, but when she put down the flowers for Grandpa Charlie, she didn’t say anything sentimental. Nothing like ‘I love you’ or ‘We’ll be together again.’ ”
“What did she say?”
Helen shook her head. “It sounded a lot like ‘I’m sorry’ and then ‘Thank you.’ Not that Malily is prone to sentimentality, but I’ve always remembered how strange it was to say that to a man you were married to for so long. Look, Earlene. . . .” She stopped, not really sure if she wanted to continue, recalling Earlene’s words.
My own parents died in a car accident when I was six. I don’t remember them very well, but I still miss them. I was angry for a long time that they’d left me behind.
She took a deep breath. “I’d like to help you with your research. If you’d like. I was helping Susan before . . . before she died. She’d found some old letters of my grandparents and other miscellaneous papers in the attic. I think that’s what started her genealogy kick. Anyway, I don’t think Malily would mind you seeing them—at least after I speak with her. And if you think it would help, I could bring you over to the house for the two of you to get to know each other better. She might even offer information on her own once she gets to know you. At the very least, I could answer any of your questions that I can.”
A rustle of wings disturbed the silence above them. “That’s very generous of you, Helen, but I don’t . . .”
“Please don’t say no. It’ll give me something to do besides helping Malily with the estate and painting. My brother’s not much company these days and I’d welcome the distraction.”
Earlene was silent for a long moment as if weighing her need to find information with her need to stay aloof. Finally, she said, “All right. Thank you. I promise not to take advantage of your generosity, though, and put you at odds with your grandmother.”
“I’m glad to help. You’re the most interesting thing that’s happened here since . . . well, for a while.”
“That makes two of us then. That’s the first time I’ve been called interesting in probably as long.”
They both shared a laugh until Helen heard Earlene’s stop abruptly. Crunching leaves and sticks marked her passage to the far side of the cemetery. “Is this a moonflower vine?”
“Yes, it is. But it refuses to bloom. I think Lillian’s given up on it now, but she used to tell me that she’d come here at night to see if it would bloom, but it never did.”
Earlene didn’t say anything but Helen heard her take a few steps. “There’s a grave here—but it’s on the other side of the fence, outside of the cemetery, and it has fresh flowers on it. I can’t read the inscription. Do you know whose it is and why it’s there?”
Helen’s lips began to tremble as they always did when she remembered. She could even still smell the scent of rain when they’d come to tell them that they’d found Susan in the river. Even now, she could hear Tucker calling Susan’s name as he’d searched for her and taste her own tears on her lips. Odd, she thought, how something she hadn’t seen could be so imprinted on all of her other senses.
“That’s Susan’s grave. My grandmother wouldn’t allow her to be buried in sanctified ground.”
Earlene didn’t respond right away, but Helen could hear the rush of breath as she sifted through the possibilities.
“Why?”
Helen swallowed. “She killed herself.”
Earlene’s breath came heavier now. “Oh. I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean to intrude. . . .”
“That’s all right. You’d find out eventually anyway. It was very sad, especially for her children.”
“She had children?”
“Two girls. Lucy and Sara. They’re eight and five now. Young, but old enough to remember her.” Helen paused, listening to the whir of cicadas hang in the summer air for a moment, suspended over them like anticipation, then evaporate into silence. “They actually seem to have come to terms with it. Susan wasn’t . . . a happy person, I guess you would say. The girls probably see it as some sort of relief.”