The next-door neighbor of the college is the Virginia Military Institute. I’ve always thought it odd, considering the school’s job is to train boys to fight in wars, that the grounds do not resemble a battlefield. But the VMI lawns are rolling, the flower beds chock-f, and the trees offer pools of welcoming shade.
If I wanted, I could see part of my land baron grandfather’s thousand-acre spread from up here, too. It’s called Heritage Farm and it starts way out on the edge of town with the longest driveway, which winds up to the house that sits atop a hill, and has pasture and springs behind it that lead straight up to the foothills of the mountains. He’s got a lot of folks around here working for him. That beautiful wheat-growing property is where my father and his brother grew up in a mansion that has always reminded me of Tara from
Gone with the Wind
, only it’s much older since it has been around since almost the beginning of historical time. Grampa lives there with his
much
better half—our ladylike grandmother, Ruth Love. But I won’t look in that direction. I won’t give him that satisfaction. Gus Carmody is a leathery bastard.
I lift my binoculars to my eyes and jigger the wheel until Blind Beezy becomes crisp and clear. Like usual, she’s got on the most outlandish outfit because a mirror isn’t much use to a sightless someone. Beezy’s grinning this morning, she almost always is. With her teeth being scarce like they are and the orange shift and green felt hat she’s got on, she could easily get mistaken for a jack-o’lantern. One of those darling kinds that you can hold in the palm of your hand, not the fat squat ones. She’s an early riser, so I knew she’d already be on the porch of her place that stands out from the rest of Mudtown like a sunflower in a junkyard. Two years ago the ladies from Old Presbyterian painted her house ridiculous yellow like that. Those Presbyterians are a sneaky bunch. They’re always doing good deeds for Beezy. Trying to lure her away from Beacon Baptist, I guess.
I check Mama’s watch and take off down the hill, shouting back at E. J. and Woody, “Hurry up. We only got forty-one minutes left.”
C
hapter Four
H
er house on Monroe Street is not large nor is it small. Just perfect, is how I’d describe it. It’s made of wood and it’s only one story high, which is good because we wouldn’t want Blind Beezy falling down a flight of stairs. She’s got a nice porch and lots of trees. Handmade birdhouses, courtesy of Mr. Cole, are hanging from almost every branch. Beezy adores birds because, “They can go anywhere and do anything no matter what color they is.” Of course, she can’t see her feathered friends, but she knows their songs and the one she especially likes is the call of the purple martin, which sounds like a gurgling brook. I also think Beezy likes birds so much because it is their God-given right to poop on people’s heads no matter what color their skin is and nobody can punish them for doing so. If I had been born a Negro instead of a white, I’d hold resentment towards some folks around here who treat the colored like they are—as my grandfather likes to say—“the shit end of the stick.” I used to, but I don’t believe in them being inferior to us anymore because it doesn’t make sense. I know some first-class Negroes. I also know some second-rate white people. (Two of the latter being members of my family.)
Beezy gets reports on how we’re doing from our caretaker, Mr. Cole. They’re sweet on each other. Sometimes he brings Woody and me over here after he’s put Lilyfield to bed. After we’re sure Papa’s fallen asleep, the three of us skulk off in the cover of darkness. Beezy makes us chicken pot pie prison-style. It’s got a lot of crust, which is our favorite part. After we thank her for her hospitality by doing the dishes, we stretch out on this porch and by the light of the moon listen to the soulful sounds of Billie Holiday or the toe-tapping Duke Ellington on her Victrola with her and Mr. Cole. Knowing how Papa doesn’t spend much celestial time with me anymore, Mr. Cole has been kind enough to talk with me on some of those nights about how the astronauts are planning to land on the moon next month. He looks up to the sky and says, “I expect they’ll do just fine, don’t you, Shenny?” I always say back, “I do,” but I don’t mean it. Mr. Cole doesn’t understand what a long shot it is to fly safely around meteors and asteroids and Lord only knows what else. Even if they manage to steer clear of all those dangers, what’re their chances of landing safe? No, I do not hold out much hope for those moon men.
Woody and I also come to Beezy’s because that’s what Mama told us to do a bunch of times. “If anything should happen to me, peas, you can count on Beezy or your grandmother to watch over you until things get sorted out.” Woody and I told her, “Sure,” but what I was thinking at the time was, how foolish can a person be? With the way Papa keeps tabs on her every minute of every day, what could possibly happen to her? (Nowadays I think my mother might have been blessed with the gift of second sight.)
Woody, E. J., and I have dashed through the backyards of the colored neighborhood to avoid prying eyes. We are playing the same game we always do. Beezy told us if ever we could sneak up on her, she’d give us all quarters. We’ve tried for years. The three of us are creeping alongside her tall hedge, not more than ten feet from her porch, right next to her birdbath. I’m not that nuts about this game and neither is Woody because we know what it’s like to get snuck up on, but we do it for E. J. With the way he’s grinning I know he’s already thinking how he’s going to spend that quarter. Beezy sings out, “Are those chick-a-dees settin’ to shower themselves or is it those fine-looking Carmody twins and that hard-workin’ Tittle boy?”
We have never once gotten past that birdbath. The old girl is sort of uncanny.
E. J.’s muttering something in frustration because he could really use twenty-five cents, but I’m yelling, “Wait up.”
I can see Woody taking the porch steps two at a time and landing not so lightly in Beezy’s familiar lap. My sister is so jazzed up. Beezy is special to her and me because she helped Mama take care of us when we were itty-bitty. Woody’s the one that gave her the pet name—Beezy. Her real name is Elizabeth, but my sister had a hard time pronouncing that when she was a little kid, so she started calling her Beezy, and then so did everybody else.
There was also a time that Beezy got paid to clean my grandfather’s house at Heritage Farm, but she got fired from that job because my grampa is Simon Legree mean. After that, she married no-account Carl Bell, but then she killed him and had to go to the Big House. Being curious of nature the way I am, I asked her once what it feels like to murder somebody. “I don’t rightly know, hon. I don’t feel like a murderess,” she answered with a good-natured shrug. “More like a laundress ridding the world of a soul that was stained beyond repair.”
It was my own father that sent her to Red Onion State Prison. Even though most all the coloreds and some of the whites in town, including my mother, believed that Beezy should be set free. She testified in court, “Carl beat me about the head ’til I went blind and then he began choking me with chicken wire.” She opened her blouse collar so the jury could see the still-red welts around her neck. “I didn’t mean to kill him. I was only attemptin’ to defend myself.” (Beezy plunged that skinning knife into Carl’s neck and he bled to death right on the spot because, according to Mr. Cole who told me this story, “The skinner nicked his juggler’s vein.”)
After six days of deliberation, the jury didn’t let Beezy off scot-free, but they did take pity. She didn’t get convicted of first-degree murder, but manslaughter, which is exactly what it sounds like. This is one of the reasons I think Beezy is not so fond of Papa. I can understand her holding that against him, but I don’t think she’s seeing the big picture. Of course, he could’ve been more lenient when he sentenced her to five years with time off for good behavior, but like always—Judge Walter T. Carmody was right. Because when she wasn’t busy washing and wringing the prison’s sheets, Beezy got taught by one of the lady guards how to knit and purl and that’s how she makes her living now. Folks travel to Lexington from all over Rockbridge County and beyond to buy her sweaters and scarves and caps. Maybe they just come to have something that they can brag to their friends was made by a murderess. I don’t know.
I charge up the steps of the house in hot pursuit, shouting, “Get off her right this minute, Woody. Can’t you see that you’re crushin’ Miss Beezy?” She pops up looking alarmed so even though she pretends she can’t
some
times, my sister can hear me just fine
all
the time. “Come see what I brought.” I open up my lunch box. Besides leftover breakfast for E. J., I packed her drawing supplies. If I don’t keep her busy, she’ll end up creating more trouble and we don’t have time for that this morning. We’re on a deadline. “Why don’t you get comfy right over here?”
Following directions for a change, Woody spreads out her crayons and pencils, smooths out her sketching paper, and gets arty at Beezy’s feet. E. J. is edging towards the screen door. His tiny nose is busy picking up the scent of something yummy just like mine is.
White peonies are lining Beezy’s fence in all their glory and filling the backyard with their heady scent. And my mind with memories of Mama. They are her favorites. She had them in her wedding bouquet because they are a good omen for a happy marriage.
Shortly before she disappeared, she’d been acting mopey, so I cut her a bunch off one of these bushes and ran all the way home. I found her looking out the kitchen window. “Look what I brought you,” I said, bursting in on her.
She startled, and said sort of sad, “Thank you, Shen.”
When she reached up to the cupboard to get the crystal vase, her long-sleeved blouse fell back. I pointed at her arms and asked, “How’d you get those marks?”
Mama rushed to cover them up and said, “I . . . I got my arm caught in the linen chest.”
“You should be more careful,” I said, not surprised. My mother is a very accident-prone person. Always has got a black-and-blue mark either fading or blooming.
Once she got those flowers just the way she wanted them, she turned to me and told me thank you again, but her eyes didn’t look so grateful.
I asked with hurt feelings, “Don’t you like them?”
Mama hesitated for a moment, then cupped my warm face in her hands that were cool from the sink water and whispered, “‘I will be the gladdest thing under the sun! I will touch a hundred flowers and not pick one.’”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked.
Kissing the confusion off my face, she replied, “What Edna St. Vincent Millay means in this poem is . . . if you keep something all for yourself . . . while I love that you’re thinking of me, it’s important to let flowers grow. People, too. Do you understand?”
I told her, “I do,” but I really didn’t.
Beezy hears E. J. making his snorting noise and says, “Sure ’nuff, there’s fritters in the warmer, but my ankles tell me there’s also grass that needs shortenin’.” That’s the deal they’ve made. Apple fritters for mowing. “I expect you’ll wanna do something about that sooner rather than later.”
E. J. knows better than just about anybody that it’s not smart to bite the hand that feeds him, so he says, “Yes, ma’am. I’ll get over here first thing tomorra to give it a trim,” and makes a beeline into the house.
After I sit down next to her, Beezy says, “Good thing you showed up today. I was preparin’ to pay you a visit this evenin’.”
“We tried to get away yesterday, but Louise is working us to the bone. Gramma will be here soon for Founders Weekend. You know how she can get if everything isn’t white glove clean.”
Beezy runs a lace hankie across her neck scar and says, “Indeed I do.”
“That still doesn’t give Lou the right to be such a pain in the patootie. I swear, that girl could start an argument in an empty house,” I say, already knowing that Beezy won’t agree with me. She feels violin-playing sorry for Louise. Whenever I complain about how our housekeeper bosses us about and what an all-around drip she is, Beezy tells me to, “Go easy on her, Shenny. She reminds me of myself at that age.”
“Will Ruth Love be comin’ to the festivities?” Beezy asks. “I know she wasn’t feeling up to it last year.”
Woody, who has been coloring like a demon, jerks her head up at the sound of our grandmother’s name. “I think so,” I say, hoping my sister can’t hear me.
Beezy asks, “Ruth Love been stayin’ on track?”
“Mostly.” I wish she wouldn’t go down this road. I know she and Gramma used to be on friendly terms so she always asks after her, but Woody’s been having a bumpy time of it with our gramma, who if there ever was a race for the best Southern belle in this county would win by a mile. She does beautiful needlework. Can make a pot roast that just falls off the bone and mashed potatoes without one lump. And her pies? They win every prize at the county fair. She’ll also play card games with Woody and me, not poker though, since she is also real holy and gambling is against the Bible. All in all, we couldn’t ask for a more lovely grandmother.
Most of the time.
Occasionally, Gramma has what we’re supposed to call “episodes,” but I always tell Woody to stay clear if I think Gramma’s winding up to “pitch a conniption fit.” Some conniptions are a lot worse than others. She took a hatchet to the grand piano in her parlor a few years back because the Lord told her she was getting too much enjoyment out of playing ragtime music. Grampa Gus told folks that his wife had a heart problem, not a head problem, and that’s why she had to stay in her bedroom with the curtains drawn for a month. Then he sent her off to the Virginia State Colony for Epileptics and the Feebleminded over in Lynchburg to get better and thank goodness, she did—after the doctors told her to quit being so religious and gave her some electrical treatments.
“What do you mean
mostly
?” Beezy asks suspiciously. She knows things about Gramma Ruth Love that outsiders don’t because Mama told her. Even though she wasn’t supposed to. We’re not to tell anybody what goes on in the Carmody family. “Ruth Love hasn’t gone haywire, has she?”