Bed & Breakfast Page 9

  She pulled the door to and continued down the hallway. Passing the smaller guest room where she’d wrapped and stored the Christmas gifts, she went in, lifted wrapping paper, scissors, and tape from the wing chair and sat down. Light from the hallway shone on the mounds of presents, a virtual cornucopia of gifts wrapped in gold foil tied with white and gold ribbons, small vellum cards attached that she’d personally inscribed with gold ink calligraphy, “Warmest wishes from Orrie and Lila Gadsden.” The sight of them made her feel warmly secure. She didn’t care if people thought she was a softie; she loved Christmas, loved being generous and hopeful. There were presents for everyone—first and foremost for the family, but also for friends, for Sarah, for Orrie’s business associates and campaign staff, for the women on the Arts and Culture Council, for the gardener, the pool man, Susan’s tennis and swimming coaches. She even had a stack of personality neutral gifts—boxes of stationery, little pots of jam, sets of imported teas and soaps—in case she needed extras, but most of the gifts had been chosen with care and, she liked to believe, sensitivity for each person on her list. She’d searched for months to find just the right robe for Josie, something that would make her give up that old green satin thing that looked like a costume for a Tennessee Williams play, and she’d finally found a tailored, cashmere, Stewart tartan, made in Scotland, though there was nothing Scotch about the price.

  The only person for whom she hadn’t been able to come up with a gift was Cam, and that, she knew, was because she didn’t really want to give Cam a gift. Josie always said, “Cam is difficult to buy for,” but Lila thought that should be amended to “Cam is just plain difficult.” She could hear Cam’s voice—that low, sexy (actually cigarette-damaged), subtly derisive Southern drawl now spiced with a Yankee twang—saying Christmas didn’t mean a damned thing to her. Why should she buy for someone who wasn’t grateful, who didn’t care? After their last meeting, that disastrous brunch, Lila’d decided, not for the first time, that she didn’t care either, didn’t care if she ever saw her sister again.

  She could still remember sitting in the Waldorf’s Peacock Alley, waiting for Cam, who was late as usual. She’d watched Josie unfolding and folding her napkin, trying to smooth over her hurt because Cam hadn’t asked them to her apartment, saying that since they had matinee tickets and Cam had to go back to work, it was “so much more convenient to meet at the hotel.” She could still see Cam striding across the lobby, eyeing the tourists and the foreign businessmen and the swans carved out of ice on the buffet table as though they offended her, wearing an all-black outfit with black high-heeled boots, a large, peasantlike paisley scarf draped around her shoulders, and a Russian Cossack hat.

  She’d kissed Lila on the cheek, hugged Josie, then settled into the booth, making a slight gesture that instantly brought the waiter, who’d been doing a good job of ignoring Lila, to their table. Cam had gone through another of her transformations and it had taken Lila a moment to absorb the changes: the last time she and Cam had met, perhaps three years earlier, Cam’s hair had been short and showing the first traces of gray, her face had been bare of makeup and she’d talked about the virtues of “the naked face” and declared that she would never dye her hair. Lila had come away from that meeting feeling that her own face was clogged with paint and that the streak and highlight job on her hair, which had cost $150, looked obvious. Now Cam’s hair was shoulder length and just a tad more auburn than her natural brown, her eyes were accented with kohl, and her complexion was so even that Lila knew it had the benefit of a good base. Lila had felt somehow betrayed because Cam’s changed appearance reminded her of all the times while they were growing up when Cam had adopted a style or a belief, insisted on its importance, talked, actually badgered, Lila into adopting or believing in it, then changed her mind. When Cam was twelve she’d told Lila that God (“not God like they tell us in church, but a real presence, close as I am to you”) was the center of existence, but as soon as Lila’d started to really pray, Cam had reversed herself and said there wasn’t a God after all. Cam had said eating meat was wrong, but when Lila had sworn off hamburgers, Cam had told her that vegetarians were wimps. The list was endless: integration was the only possible future for the country/integration was a shuck; women and men should be friends/women were crazy to think that they could ever have friendships with men. If Lila had pointed out any of these turnarounds, Cam would just say something about foolish consistency being the hobgoblin of little minds. Of course, Lila’s sense of confusion and hopelessness was nothing new. She’d felt it from the time she’d been no more than four, and six-year-old Cam had clicked off the Daisy Duck night-light Lila had wanted kept on and told her, “Just remember, I’ll always be the big sister.”

  “So you’ve got tickets for Phantom of the Opera,” Cam had said that day at the Waldorf, and Lila had instantly felt that the show wasn’t “in.” Later Cam’d said, “Well, I’m not exactly Leona Helmsley, but at least I earn a living,” and Lila had felt diminished, as she always did when she put wrote down “homemaker” as her occupation. The worst of it was that she couldn’t trust herself to know if she’d actually heard a mocking tone in Cam’s voice or simply imagined it, but by the time Cam had her second Bloody Mary, she’d sounded so much like Bear, so simultaneously full of charm but overbearing, that Lila had excused herself and gone to the ladies’. When she’d gotten back to the table, Cam had already picked up the check.

  Josie hadn’t talked much while she and Lila were on their way to the theater, but afterward, in the taxi, she’d said in a plaintive voice, “I just wish I knew more about what’s going on with Cam.” “Mama,” Lila had told her, not bothering to hide her impatience, “we’ve never known that and we never will.” Josie had stared out the window, her face as confused as Mawmaw’s, and said that blood was thicker than water. It sure is, Lila had thought: blood is sticky, it stains you, and it frightens you. Which is what Cam had always done and always would do. “If only Cam’d come home. Just for a visit,” Josie had said as the cab had pulled up to the curb. You still care about Cam the most, Lila’d thought as they’d crossed the lobby, you still hope she’ll be there for you, but let me tell you, she won’t be there, any more than Daddy ever was, any more than Evie ever will be. I’m it. In every family there’s one who’s “it,” just as surely as there’s an “it” in a game of tag. I’m the one you’ll rely on when the time comes.

  The bitterness of her thoughts had amazed her, because she loved her mama, sometimes loved her more than she loved her husband or her own kids, but how, she’d wondered, could Josie think of Cam coming home, even for a visit? Hadn’t Cam caused trouble every time she’d come home? When Lila and Orrie had gotten married, Josie had insisted that Cam be a bridesmaid and Cam—she’d never forgive her for this—had missed her flight, turned up at the last minute looking like the cat’s breakfast, refused to wear bows in her hair as the other girls were doing, and refused to wear a girdle, so that even as Lila had walked down the aisle she’d known that people weren’t watching her, they were watching Cam’s sassy ass wobbling behind her. And at the reception she’d found Cam in a clinch with Orrie’s father! And that speech at Bear’s funeral. Cam had been like some crazed actress going for an award. Afterward, at home, after the humiliating public display, the things she’d said, the accusations she’d made ... as though Josie, and everyone in the family—Cam being, as always, the significant exception ... had blighted Bear’s life and shoveled him into an early grave. Lila felt sick just thinking about it, and not even the sight of all those lovely Christmas presents helped. She stood up, letting the wrapping paper, tape, and scissors fall to the floor, and left the room without picking them up.

  In the kitchen, she put on the kettle, then reached into the spice rack for the earthenware jar labeled SANTA FE SPECIAL CHILIES and tipped the contents into her hand. The Halcions were small and smooth, the gray-white of an early morning sky; the Valiums were smaller yet, with that tiny heart shape in the middle; and the
Perco-dans were the palest yellow, the color of her first prom dress. One or two? And which one, or two? Everything was basically under control, she told herself. The wall clock said 11:50. No need to panic. A single Halcion would be enough. She’d have her tea and wander back to bed. She swallowed without water, feeling somehow proud, as though she’d done her homework on time. She stared across the sink at the delicately painted ceramic fruits and vegetables she’d special-ordered from Provence when she’d decided that the copper molds were out. Waiting for the kettle to boil, she picked up the remote control, punched it, hit the MUTE button, and started to click through the channels. News, news, and more news. A talk show with some transvestites. A rerun of The Lucy Show. The Weather Channel. The stock-market crawl. An infomercial about exercise machines. A World War II movie that, naturally, reminded her of Bear. Though not exactly an up-to-date, concerned parent, he’d limited their TV time, but they’d always watched Victory at Sea and she hummed its theme song as she flipped to the buyer’s channel offering tacky gold-plated bracelets. Click. There was Madonna, feeling herself up again. Hadn’t they seen everything except her dental X-rays? A woman lawyer in a designer suit facing down a judge. A couple, buck naked, in bed, sharing a tortured open-mouthed kiss. Another woman hiding in a closet while a man wielding a knife crashed through the wall. Some black rappers in baggy pants and skewed baseball caps, leaping around a garbage dump, shaking their fists at the camera. Fifty channels and nothing but ... what was that Yiddish word Cam always used? Dreck. America was drowning in dreck.

  She reached for the kettle just as its whimper went into a squeal. Putting her tea bag in the trash can, she saw an ice-cream carton of double fudge with a smear of chocolate inside. Susan, who always refused dessert, must’ve eaten it after they’d all gone to bed. And she hadn’t bothered to hide the evidence because she’d expected Sarah to empty the trash first thing in the morning.

  Was Susan sneaking food all the time? How could Lila possibly ask her about it? She knew Susan would look her right in the eye, say she was crazy and point to the fact that she had organized her fellow students to petition the school to have healthier lunches, that she weighed her food, that she was on a training diet. But who could have left the ice-cream carton if not Susan? She would have to ask Sarah about it. It was humiliating to ask your housekeeper about your daughter’s secrets.

  She sat down heavily and stared into her teacup. When the phone rang she jumped and lunged, picking it up on the second ring. “Hello.” She hoped it might be Ricky but she heard her mother’s voice.

  “Lila, it’s me. I hope I didn’t ...”

  “No, you didn’t wake me. I was just sitting in the kitchen having some tea.”

  “I wouldn’t have called so late, but I left a message on the machine late this afternoon and again this evening, and when I didn’t hear back ...”

  “I think we have to blame Ricky for that. After he’s listened to his own messages, he erases everything. I was going to call you when we got in from—” She stopped in midsentence. “Is anything the matter? You sound funny.”

  “Peatsy Gibbs had a heart attack while we were playing bridge today.”

  “Oh, no!”

  “They took her to Emergency. Last time I checked they said she was stable, but you know what they say about women surviving heart attacks.”

  “Oh, no!” Lila said again, wondering why she sounded so insincere. She didn’t particularly like Peatsy—Peatsy was such a snob, a living example of the adage that South Carolinians were like the Chinese because they ate rice and worshiped their ancestors. Peatsy was always saying how developers had ruined the coastline, even though she knew that Orrie’s family had made their money as developers—but she didn’t wish the woman any harm. “Tell me what happened,” she said, taking a sip of tea. She expected Josie, who could turn a trip to the Piggly Wiggly into a saga, to give her a long-winded story, but all she heard was Josie’s breathing. “Mama, are you all right?”

  “I guess so.”

  “You don’t sound all right.”

  “It’s just . . .” A pause “It’s just that it set me to thinking, Lila. Really thinking, you know?” A longer pause. “About death and dying.”

  “Oh, Mama, please,” Lila said with cheery admonishment, “don’t be so morbid.”

  Another pause, so drawn out that she asked, with real concern, “Mama, are you all right? Because I can throw on some clothes and drive over.”

  “At this time of night! Don’t be silly. I’m fine. It’s just ... I know I should have spoken to you first, Lila, because I know you’ve made all sorts of plans, but I decided I want to fix an old-fashioned Christmas dinner, here in my own home, and I think we should all be together, so I called Evie—”

  “I already told Evie we’d be happy to have her join us.” That was an invitation it’d been hard to make since she was still annoyed with the let-me-spill-my-guts-about-my-family columns Evie had written while Orrie was running for office.

  “Evie said,” Josie went on, “that she’d made tentative plans, but she could probably change them.” That means, Lila thought, that she’ll come if her married boyfriend isn’t in town, which he’s not likely to be during the holidays.

  “And,” she went on in a rush, “I called Cam.”

  “You what?”

  “I called Cam.”

  After an intake of breath, Lila said, “I heard you the first time. I just couldn’t believe my ears. Why would you call Cam?”

  “I told you. I’ve been thinking about things and—”

  “Mama, Cam won’t come.”

  “She said she would.”

  “She also said she’d never come back and she’s held to it for ten years.”

  “She said she’d come.”

  “Mama, what in the world’s the matter with you?” Her voice was more incredulous than angry. “Mama, don’t you remember all the times before? You know what it’ll be like. She’ll stir everyone up. Especially you.” She waited, hoping Josie would see the truth of what she was saying. “Mama,” she went on, softly, reasoning, “I know you want to do the right thing. I understand that but, remember, last year when I had to give up tutoring that black boy in the literacy program? Remember that? I told you how upset that made me. I told you how I hated to give up on him, because I really loved that boy, but after a while Mama, unless you’re blind in one eye and can’t see out of the other, you have to admit defeat.” And now her voice came out loud. “Don’t buy heartache! You’re in good shape but you’re not as young as you used to be. You...”

  “Do you know what it’s like when you’re older, Lila? You don’t sleep the same. Sometimes, when you only sleep for a couple of hours at a time, the night seems so long, you tell the whole story of your life, tell it ten times over, waiting for the dawn to come, but other times, when you think about your life, it just spins out so fast it’s like a spool of thread you’ve dropped and you’re watching it roll across a polished floor.”

  Lila put her head in her hand. “Mama ...”

  “I’ve already asked her and she’s coming.”

  “She won’t be able to get a flight this close to the holiday. She ...” The choking sound she made sounded close to a laugh. “I guess I’ll just have to think about that tomorrow. I’ll just wait to think about it when we get Cam’s flight number, because, frankly, Mama, it wouldn’t surprise me if she doesn’t come, no matter what she’s said. And just tell me the truth, when you spoke to her, had she been drinking?” This was the thing she wasn’t supposed to say and, as she’d expected, the response was a long time coming.

  “I don’t know. She sounded a little ... I think she just has a cold.”

  “Well, dollars to doughnuts, Mama, she’s not gonna come.” And now she wanted to finish up the conversation so she could call Cam and tell her not to come. “Listen, Mama, I’m kinda tired. I’ll call you first thing in the morning, okay? And we’ll arrange a time to go see Peatsy. Now, get some rest.”

>   She found her phone book and checked Cam’s number. Didn’t matter if it was after midnight. She wasn’t going to let her mealymouthed manners stand in the way now. She was just going to put it to Cam. Stand up to her for once. Tell her not to come. She punched in the numbers hard. She was geared up, she was ready. But on the first ring, she hung up.

  Five

  AT 5:30 THE next morning Cam jerked out of a fitful sleep, fumbled for the OFF switch on the clock radio, and started to slide back into a dream in which she was wandering through underground tunnels of a Bram Stoker—type castle trying to find someone she was supposed to rescue. Some little girl ... or maybe it was her mother ... or ... She opened her eyes, struggling to untangle herself, and reality hit her like a wave she couldn’t surf. Her mother had called the night before because Peatsy Gibbs had had a heart attack. Her mother had asked her to come home for Christmas. And she had said she would. Which was worse? The nightmare or waking reality? She turned the clock radio back on and the vibrant trilling of a flute seemed like needles drilling into her brain. I can’t face it, she thought. I can’t face anything.

  Then she could hear Bear’s voice bellowing, “Up and at ’em,” and as she shivered, pulled on her robe, and straggled out to the kitchen to grind coffee, she remembered all those mornings when Bear had roused the family before dawn to go on camping trips. He’d stride through the halls, flicking on lights, pounding on doors, commanding them to come front and center, and she, usually a slugabed, was always first to answer his call, sometimes she even slept in her clothes so she could get the jump on the others. “You’re the only volunteer in this operation,” Bear would tell her as she helped him load the car with camping gear, “the others are just draftees.” And she’d glow with pride, knowing it was true. Lila would obey orders as she always did, her general willingness to conform slowed by resentment that made her complain about a sore throat or a tummy ache. Evie would whimper that it was still dark and sit helpless on the edge of her bed waiting for someone to help her dress. And Josie would be in the kitchen, simultaneously fixing breakfast and packing groceries, pots and pans, a first-aid kit, and other necessities, her face resigned, even though she couldn’t understand why Bear wanted to sleep in a tent, cook over a wood fire, and eat out of tin plates when he could enjoy the comforts of clean sheets, flush toilets, and good china. But, even as a kid, Cam had understood that the seeming hardships of camping out were better than staying at home. When Bear stayed at home too long he got antsy, then downright morose. He’d settle into his big chair, reading, then staring into space. It was better to escape, to sweep all problems and miseries aside by making decisions about where to go, what route to take, what to pack. “Just as I’m doing now” she thought as the whir of the coffee grinder zapped her into full consciousness.