The Memory of Lemon, page 17
Dorothy had given Vangie a recipe for Shaker lemon pie that you made with thin sliced whole lemons. But lemons were a luxury right now. That would have to wait.
Later that Tuesday evening, when they had finished their dinner, the family went into the middle room to sit around the radio. Vangie cleaned up the dishes. Stella Mae looked beat, so Vangie offered to bathe the kids and put them to bed.
When Vangie came downstairs an hour later, Harold sat in his favorite chair and Stella Mae was stretched out on the divan. Into the room on the WLW airwaves came Fibber McGee and Molly, a tall-tale teller and his commonsense wife who lived in a place called Wistful Vista. Fibber’s get-rich-quick schemes never panned out except for laughs, and even Harold chuckled.
When Harold and Stella Mae went up to bed, Vangie indulged in her third form of escape—her fiddle. It was an old one, as old as the abiding cabin. The red velvet lining in the bottom of the fiddle case had faded to pink. A paper pasted to the inside lid held the signatures of all the women who had played and loved this instrument: Abigail Newcomb, Sarah O’Neil, Little Abigail, Lizzie, and, lastly, Vangie’s mother, Daisy Ballou. One day, Vangie would sign her name to the list, but not yet. Who knew what lay ahead of her? Maybe she’d meet a movie star and get married.
Vangie picked up the fiddle and tucked it between her chin and shoulder, just like her mama had taught her. Lightly, she drew the bow over the strings and felt the familiar tingling that went through her arm and into the instrument.
She played the first few notes of “Wildwood Flower,” her mother’s favorite song.
I will twine, I will mingle my raven black hair
With the roses so red and the lilies so fair . . .
In the corner of the room, Vangie conjured the image of her mother, lit only by the pale light of the cabin’s kerosene lamp, and it brought tears to her eyes.
He taught me to love him and promised to love
And to cherish me over all others above
My poor heart is wondering no misery can tell
He left me in silence, no word of farewell.
That song, as beautiful as it was, left Vangie feeling unsettled rather than comforted. Her mother used to say that such a feeling was a portent. But who was leaving? Who was staying?
MAY 1949
AUGUSTA, KENTUCKY
Vangie’s heart was heavy.
She had to grow up. And grow up fast. All those stupid dreams about Hollywood.
Real life had a way of smacking you in the face.
Vangie rocked on the steps of the dogtrot, soothed by the evening breeze off the river below. She smoked a cigarette, taking a long draw and puffing out the smoke into rings that floated off into the night air. She would have to make a new life right here where her old one had been.
Deuce and Cadence were tucked in under the rafters upstairs.
Oh, if her mother were only here now. Vangie brushed away a tear. It was not good to cry. That wouldn’t help anything.
When Stella Mae lost the baby, it started a downward spiral. Stella Mae was never right in the head after that. Vangie had to quit her job and stay home to take care of the little ones.
And then Stella Mae started wandering. She’d get up in the night, take off all her clothes, and roam the streets, talking to imaginary people and telling stories that would make your hair curl. Stella Mae, the quiet one, as noisy and showy as a guinea hen. The police would bring her back, muttering, “Damn hillbillies,” under their breath.
Harold was mortified. And scared. And helpless as a man usually was in a domestic crisis.
Eventually, Harold had to put Stella Mae in a mental hospital in Queen City. It was all very hush-hush; it had to be if Harold was to keep his job. If they knew you had a wife in a mental institution, they looked at you funny, too, Harold had said. So Harold and Vangie just told everyone that they were taking Stella Mae and the kids back to Kentucky.
Good riddance, their neighbors seemed to indicate. No one had offered to help them pack up the truck that Harold had borrowed.
After Vangie and the kids were back in Augusta, Harold moved to a boardinghouse. He promised to send money to Vangie every month.
Step by step.
The first week, Vangie had cleaned out the abiding cabin, washing the windows, airing out the mattresses, reacquainting herself with fireplace cooking. There wasn’t anything she couldn’t make in a big iron pot or a skillet with a lid.
The next week, Vangie had planted a big garden. She kept the herbs that had been there forever. Horehound, comfrey, sage. She could maybe make the tinctures her mother had taught her, sell them to people who still valued home remedies.
Vangie leafed through her mother’s recipe book, one of Vangie’s little brown composition books that she had used for writing practice in school. She brushed her fingers over her mother’s sprawling writing.
When it got too dark to see, Vangie stubbed out her cigarette and went back in the abiding cabin.
A kerosene lamp lit the way.
Vangie took down the fiddle case from the mantel over the fireplace. She had forgotten to put it up the night before and in the morning Deuce had opened it and ripped that old pastel drawing of a mother and baby by that artist whose name she could barely read. Was it J. J. Anderson? J. J. Andubon? That wasn’t a name. Oh, well. It was so faded, though, it wasn’t worth keeping. Why her mother and her mother’s mother had kept it all these years, Vangie didn’t know. She used it to help light the fire.
She picked up the fiddle and tucked it between her chin and shoulder, feeling the calming presence of her mother and her grandmother—and all the women before them—called to life again in the dark corner of the room. Lightly, she drew the bow over the strings and felt the tingle that told her the song and her loved ones were there, waiting.
JULY 1970
AUGUSTA, KENTUCKY
In a pale blue sleeveless blouse and denim short-shorts, Cady Ballou watched her old life recede as the ferry plied its way across the Ohio River from Kentucky to Ohio. She had her ash brown hair in a ponytail but tied a scarf on all the same. From where the ferry docked on the Ohio side, it was a fifty-mile ride to Queen City on the back of Deuce’s motorcycle, and her brother tended to go really fast.
Roped to the back of the motorcycle was her turquoise and cream Samsonite suitcase, which held the clothes she’d need for her new city life. Minidresses that Vangie had sewn, a pair of white go-go boots, baby-doll pajamas, a few A-line skirts and sweaters. She’d had to leave her hair dryer with the hood at the cabin; there was no room on Deuce’s motorcycle for anything else. But once she started her job, she’d buy another one.
At twenty-two, Cady’s only regret was leaving Vangie, who had been a mother to them both.
“I know you gotta go,” Vangie had told Cady the night before as they sat on the dogtrot, the breeze blowing up from the river. “I was like that myself when I was your age. Just promise me that you’ll take care of yourself and go see your mother every now and again.”
“You are my mother, Vangie,” Cady had told her. And it was true. Vangie had raised them, practically all by herself. After Stella Mae had been in the mental institution for a few years, Harold had divorced her and married a secretary at the mattress factory. They started another family. After that, Cady and Deuce hardly ever saw their father.
When Vangie took them to see Stella Mae, it was hard. It wasn’t that Stella Mae got emotional and clung to Cady and Deuce, it was more like she wasn’t there anymore. Stella Mae could remember events from her distant past, but not the little house in Millcreek Valley, not her babies. Electric shock therapy, a nurse had stage-whispered once to Vangie when Cady was still little, as if that explained anything.
Until Cady and her brother started school, Vangie had raised a big garden, made her old-time remedies, sold her famous pies, and took in a little money from the lease of their land and barn to a tobacco farmer. As soon as Cady started first grade, Vangie got a job at the drugstore in town. Now she was the manager.
And Vangie had done well for them all. The abiding cabin had electricity, a little kitchen, a color television, and a bathroom with a claw-foot tub. The working cabin had a lean-to addition for the washer and dryer.
Still, Vangie liked to keep things simple. “Old-timey,” was how Deuce always described it. The beds, dressed in homemade quilts, were still tucked away in the loft. Blue-green glass Mason jars filled with flowers from the garden or whatever Vangie could gather on her walk to and from town. Simple white curtains at the windows, the cabin snug and quiet. Old rocking chairs in the shade of the dogtrot and in front of the fireplace.
Cady would miss the sound of Vangie playing the old songs on her fiddle, always peering into the dark corners of the cabin as if she expected someone to walk right into the room from there.
But Cady’s taste was more Rolling Stones than “Barbry Allen.” And she couldn’t just fossilize here, waiting for her boyfriend to come home from his tour of duty in Vietnam. She had to do something.
When the ferry docked on the Ohio side, Deuce revved up the ’cycle. Cady threw one leg over behind Deuce, put her arms around her brother’s midsection, and braced herself for what she hoped would be a thrilling ride.
20
Neely
After everyone left, I tidied up the parlor, put the dishes in the dishwasher, and had a strawberry-rhubarb turnover at the ready.
Like clockwork, I heard my mailman’s familiar tread on the front porch.
I opened the door and handed him the turnover, wrapped in a paper napkin. “We have to stop meeting like this,” I deadpanned.
“Except it’s my job,” he replied, handing me my home mail. He was always going to be a literal, connect-the-dots kind of person, the type who never skipped a step in following directions.
I hoped the telescopic lens on the camera being aimed at me from across the street was catching this exciting moment in my life.
A short letter from my dad. He was applying for a free cell phone, some disadvantaged veterans’ benefit that required a lot of paperwork. He had to live at the scrapyard for three months and have someone certify that residence in order to get the phone with 250 prepaid minutes.
The luxury of that struck me. I knew where he was. I knew he loved me. I knew I loved him, in spite of everything. He was taking steps toward a normal life.
I read on:
You wanted to know what it was like to fly a helicopter.
It was an adrenaline rush, for sure. It was the worst place you could be and it was the best place you could be.
The Huey lifts off, slow, struggling, shaking, whipping up dust or whatever shit is on the ground, fanning the smell of diesel fumes and rotting fish and cordite. I can still smell that. You think to yourself, “This could be my last moment on Earth.” And then you’re up. The white sands of the South China Sea or the jungle canopy and the hell that hides in it recede like they never existed at all. The air is cooler. It smells fresh. You’re in this tin can up in the sky, but you’re far safer than you would be on the ground.
I always dreaded landing in the jungle. Anytime I had to drop off or pick up troops in the LZ—that’s the landing zone—it was always life or death. You’re under fire from rockets, rifles, tracers, you name it.
When I got back to base, I just wanted to zone out. Somebody always had beer or booze or dope. And then sometimes there was a package from home. A letter. A book. Mom and Helen were good about sending stuff. This one time they sent bar cookies—lemon—that were still moist and intact when I got them, a rare feat, even packed well in a tin. I took a bite and I was back at home, in my old room. I promised myself that if I got back home, I would never drink another drop. I would never work at Hinky’s again. I would never cause my mother or anyone I loved another moment of anguish. I would be good.
I’m still trying to keep that promise, Claire.
Love,
Dad
On impulse, I packed up the rest of the lemon tartlets, a taste of home, to send some to him in Kansas City. I was pretty sure that the Blue River Scrapyard was not on the FedEx or UPS route, so I stopped at the post office to mail the package, trailed by the black SUV.
I waved to the man in dark glasses and a baseball cap.
Knock yourself out.
I took another box of the lemon tartlets up to Mount Saint Mary’s. Maybe something in the tart would spark Gran’s recognition, just for a moment, and I would have her back with me again. This was her recipe, one she made for every family occasion, even Thanksgiving.
But when I got to the memory care wing, she was sleeping. I didn’t want to wake her. I left the tartlets with the duty nurse. I’d make extra tarts for Lydia’s wedding and try this again.
When I got back to Rainbow Cake, I sorted through the bakery mail. There was a letter from Ozarks Treehouse Cabins. The handwriting was familiar, so I went back to the baking area, quiet with Norb gone for the day, to read it.
Neely,
I hope you got my message through Dave Pearce about my fishing trip. He helped me find a pair of waders and a new fishing reel. He said he’d let you know.
No, that idiot Dave Pearce had not told me. No surprise there.
I sent this to you at the bakery so it wouldn’t be lying around for Somebody to find on your porch.
Every year in May we go to the White River in the Ozarks and fish for trout. We drink a lot of beer, paddle around in canoes, stay in treehouse cabins, and eat a lot of country fried steak. Fun, huh?
And we unplug. No cell phone service. No Internet. Kinda perfect for our situation, right?
But to get back to your letter.
Definitely a claw-foot tub. And I did like the perfume.
It’s a good thing I’m far away or I’d be tempted to carry you off, Luke be damned.
We will be together.
Ben
Later that night, loud cricket chirps woke me out of a sound sleep. What was that? My phone.
“Hello?” I answered, groggily.
“What’s going on, Claire? What’s with all these ‘let me go’ texts you’ve been sending?” The deep, velvety voice was one I immediately recognized, a voice like a he-knows-what-he’s-doing caress. Once again, it stirred something deep within me and I almost let myself get swept away. With half-closed eyes, I looked at the display: 513 area code. The safe phone.
I could just see him as clearly as if he were beside me. Tall, athletic build. His sun-streaked hair, green eyes, the intensity he could turn on like a high-voltage current.
Gone was the “poor me” Luke. Here was the Luke I knew so well.
He would be great on TV.
I threw off the covers and sat on the side of the bed, alert. I had to be alert. I had to get this done.
Breathlessly, I launched in. “Did you know that Charlie Wheeler is having me followed? That you’re paying for around-the-clock private detectives who take photos of me opening my mail?”
“What are you talking about?”
“I tried to file for divorce last week, Luke. But I couldn’t. Charlie says that I have violated the terms of our prenup. The clause that says that if I were unfaithful, you could revoke the settlement. Charlie has photos of Ben and me having dinner—with him, by the way, although Charlie conveniently left himself out. And we both know who was unfaithful during our marriage.”
There was silence on the other end.
“Charlie says you could take everything and leave me with nothing. Is this what you want to do, Luke? Is this how you want things to end?”
I heard him sigh. “Claire . . .”
“Do you know how much it costs to have Gran in the memory care wing each month? Her money is going to run out soon. And I can’t pay that out of my own pocket yet. The bakery is exceeding projections, but it won’t really turn a profit until maybe late this year, if we’re lucky and I work my ass off.”
“Claire . . .”
“And on top of that, my attorney now wants a fifty-thousand-dollar retainer because he thinks our divorce is going to be really, really difficult. I don’t have fifty thousand dollars.”
“Claire . . .”
“This isn’t like you, Luke.” I took a deep breath and tried not to sob. “This isn’t like you.”
“Can I say something here? Okay, I’ll admit it. I didn’t want this divorce. I still think we can work this out.”
“Work out what? How many more times we’ll go through this same thing? I don’t have it in me anymore. I just don’t.”
“I can change.”
“No, you can’t. We could be having this same conversation thirty years from now. I want to be with someone I can trust. I want kids.”
“We can have kids, Claire. Someday.”
“It’s always ‘someday.’”
Neither one of us said anything for a long moment.
“Okay. I probably wouldn’t want to live with me, either.” I could imagine Luke’s trademark grin.
Then he got serious. “Okay, I had you followed. I wanted to know what was going on in your life because you wouldn’t talk to me. You’re my wife, Claire.”
“How could you think that was a good idea? I felt threatened, especially financially. I got angry with that moron in the black SUV who photographed my every exciting move. It has made me think a lot less of you, Luke, not more. Spying on me did not make my heart grow fonder. Quite the opposite.”
“That’s not what I meant to happen. I would never harm you. I was just trying to buy some time. I wanted to know if there was somebody else. Like Ben.”
“I like Ben. I’ve always liked Ben. You know that.”
“When Charlie sent me the photos he took of your dinner at Boca, you and Ben—”
