Paper Castles Page 18

  “I don’t want to go,” he said. He hadn’t yet moved from where he had her pressed to the wall. She was still captured, held in by his arms and eyes.

  “I want to be the one to save you,” he said.

  “Then save me.”

  THE SEA was contrite the next morning. Sitting on the beach in the late morning sun, Savannah could see no trace of last night’s storm. But it lingered in the air, just like Phil’s kiss lingered in her body.

  That kiss. Easy to excuse, brush it off by saying it came out of nowhere. Like a hurricane. But Savannah knew hurricanes didn’t crash onto shores without warning. They started as the smallest breeze sweeping across the waters. Hardly noticeable at first. But as the winds circled around one another, gaining strength, they refused to be ignored.

  Long before it made landfall, the storm was tracked. Even named.

  Had she known all this time that Hurricane Phil was heading for her?

  After the kiss, Phil said it was probably best if he went to bed, and he did, trailing his tattered ethics behind him. Savannah stayed up, staring into the fire and listening to the wind howl like a lonely lover, while her thoughts took a scenic tour around the image of Phil in his bed. Then both of them in bed. His body curled around her and the taste of him on her lips.

  She saw him walking toward her now. Head down, steps slow, wearing doubt like a heavy winter coat. Her heart went out to him. She knew what it felt like to lose sight of yourself. To find yourself on the other side of a line you thought you couldn’t cross.

  “Good morning,” he said, his voice flat and lifeless.

  Savannah guessed he spent the night listening to that inner voice chiding him for his lapse in judgment.

  “Good morning.” She took the cup of coffee he offered.

  Phil sat down, set his cup in the sand and drew his knees up to his chest. Quiet wrapped around the two of them. In spite of the ocean’s song, she was dialed into the silence. She could almost hear him breathing, thinking. She stared out to sea, letting him come to her in his own time.

  “I can’t tell you how sorry I am,” Phil said. “I feel awful.”

  “Phil, it’s all right,” she said. “Don’t beat yourself up over a kiss.” Offering him a playful escape from the situation, she leaned and nudged her shoulder hard against his. Not a lover’s caress, but a friend’s admonishment to snap out of it.

  “Yeah. Just a kiss.” He nudged back but he was looking sideways at her and she couldn’t read his expression. “I’m sor—”

  “Stop apologizing,” she said. “My self-esteem is taking a hit. You’re acting like kissing me was the worst thing that ever happened to you. “

  “You know that’s not true.”

  Now he turned his face to her. The hunger was still there. She had to look away, because if she didn’t, he’d own her. As she wrestled her gaze from his, she almost felt something physically rip inside her. Atoms and molecules wrenched apart. She turned away to save them both.

  She said the first innocent thing she could think of. “Thanks for the coffee.” She lifted her mug in a small salute.

  “Sure.” His eyes watched her drink. “You know you’re a contradiction in so many ways.”

  “Name one.”

  “Well, you take your coffee black, but you take a five pound bag of sugar in your iced tea. Makes no sense.”

  “It makes perfect sense. The two are totally unrelated.”

  He grinned and her world shifted back toward normalcy. “How silly of me.”

  She stood and dumped the last dribble of now cold coffee on the sand. “Come on, let’s go check out the graveyard.”

  “The what?”

  “The graveyard. You’ll see.”

  They walked down to the water’s edge. Exhausted from last night’s display of power, today, the waves rolled up on the beach with a sedate sigh.

  “Ah, here it is.” She waved her arm over the highway of shells running in a parallel strip along the shore. Alms the sea offered to the land every morning, taking back what remained with the next tide.

  “After a storm is when you find the best treasures,” Savannah said. “Although it’ll be hard to beat the shell I got yesterday.”

  They walked along, eyes cast down along the ribbon of tiny sea homes, their inhabitants long gone. Savannah stooped to examine shells, either putting them in her empty coffee cup to keep, or setting them back on the sand. Phil picked up shells only to throw them back into the surf.

  Savannah stopped, hands on hips surveying the horizon.” Right here is where I sent my love letter out to the world.”

  “Love letter?”

  “I was thirteen. Angela’s age.” She smiled at the memory. “I put a message in an old Coke bottle, my plea for Prince Charming to find me, and I tossed it out to sea. I was so sure I’d get a response.”

  Phil laughed.

  “I’m still down here checking,” she said, laughing with him, relaxing into the sound. “Every time I come to the beach.”

  “Good luck with that,” Phil said. “I’m starving. We missed breakfast, it’s almost time for lunch. Let’s eat.”

  They hiked back up the dune, the sun on their backs, food on their minds. As they neared the house, Savannah saw a teenage boy in the driveway, waving.

  “Mrs. Palmerton?”

  “Yes?” Savannah didn’t recognize him.

  “Your father sent me out here to fetch you. The phone lines are down.”

  “Fetch me? What’s happened?”

  “I don’t know. He just told me to tell you something happened at the house.”

  “The house? My house or his house?”

  He looked confused. “I don’t know.”

  Savannah and Phil exchanged looks, then spoke at the same time.

  “Beverly.”

  JUSTICE KENDALL’S car was in the driveway when Phil pulled in front of Savannah’s house. Her stomach churned, a feeling all too familiar: coming home at ten, or sixteen, or twenty, because something had happened to Beverly.

  “I think I should leave,” Phil said.

  The car was still running and Savannah wanted to throw it in reverse and head back out of town.

  “I suppose you’re right,” she said. It was pointless to drag Phil into the middle of private family business. Yet she didn’t seem to have the courage to move. A headache had already started at the back of her skull and her nerves jangled like Phil’s car keys against the steering wheel.

  He leaned and took her hand. “Whatever this is... It’s not your fault.”

  “Right.”

  Phil gave her hand one last squeeze. She closed the car door and waved as he backed out of the long driveway.

  Her father and mother were in the kitchen. Beverly looked fine. Distraught, but fine.

  “Darling.” Jack Kendall walked up to his daughter and placed both hands on her shoulders.

  Savannah felt her heart rise up in her throat.

  “What?”

  “There’s no easy way to say this. It’s Neenie, honey.”

  “Neenie? What happened?” She shrugged off his hands, and bolted toward the stairs. Jack was right behind her, reaching for her arm.

  “No honey,” he said. “She’s not there.”

  “Where is she? Stop this.”

  He pulled her back into the circle of his arms. “She’s gone, honey.”

  Gone where? Neenie wouldn’t leave without her. Wouldn’t leave without telling her. What nonsense was this?

  “She’s gone,” Jack said.

  “No.” It was the only word with the courage to step forth. No. A thousand no’s. She saw her father’s face twist in pain as she slid to the floor and her soul cried out, again, “No…”

  Claudia had been the one to find Neenie, shocked to see her boss was still in bed at nine o’clock, instead downstairs barking orders. A closer look showed Neenie wasn’t sleeping. No sign of struggle on her face, no hint of pain or distress. Some time in the night she’d slipped away.


  Claudia called Jack and Beverly. The Kendalls called everyone else: the police, the coroner, Kip. Everyone but Savannah, who couldn’t be reached on Tybee. Without her, decisions were made and Neenie had been whisked away before Savannah even knew she was gone.

  Standing in Neenie’s empty room, Savannah seethed with helpless rage. They could have waited for her. They should have waited.

  It was Neenie’s heart, they said. Of course it was her heart. What else would it be for a woman who had stepped into a family at loose ends and wrapped them all up in her big brown arms, giving them a transfusion of love from that enormous heart?

  The covers were pulled back on the bed as if waiting for Neenie to return from the bathroom down the hall. Savannah’s fingers smoothed over white sheets. She didn’t understand why there wasn’t any blood. With this much pain, there should be blood everywhere. Evidence of this tragedy. How could the end of an era, fade into history without so much as a whimper? Would Walter Cronkite take off his glasses and wipe the tears from his eyes tonight?

  She reached for the pillow. The case still smelled of Neenie’s talcum powder. A faint hint of gardenia. She hugged it to her, a flimsy substitute for the woman, but Savannah buried her face in the scent and softness, never wanting to breathe anything else. She lay down on her side, pulling the pillow close, and she cried. Cried for Neenie. Cried for herself. Cried for her children. Cried for the unfairness of it all.

  All day, Savannah couldn’t stop crying. Later that evening, curled up in her own bed, she wondered how her own heart could continue to beat when Neenie’s had ceased.

  Beverly was sitting in a chair beside the bed, watching over her. The doctor left a few pills in a brown bottle and she saw him bend to whisper something in her mother’s ear before he closed the door behind him.

  Savannah reached for the little yellow pill in her mother’s outstretched hand. Dr. Fritz was wise to only leave a few. She might have swallowed the whole bottle if she had the chance. The thought wrapped around her conscience and pulled tight. Why not succumb to her destiny? She’d spent her life fighting against Beverly’s genes, but still they swam through her blood. They might win after all.

  Sleep. Sleep. She clung to Neenie’s pillow as her eyelids fluttered a few times. Beverly rocked in the chair, and Savannah could hear the hum of voices downstairs, but she was alone. More alone than she’d ever been.

  THE HOUSE was in mourning. Its big shoulders slumped as the window shades were pulled down. No life left in the kitchen, no chamomile tea on the bedside table. Savannah wandered through the empty rooms by day and haunted the halls at night.

  A drug-induced sleep kept her down on the first night. After that she could only find comfort in Neenie’s bed, the smell of fresh linens in her fists. Pretending the covers were Neenie’s arms wrapping around her. Sometimes she sat on the edge of the bed holding the pillow’s imaginary hand, trying to conjure Neenie’s last moments, and put herself there. Present, attentive, whispering the right words.

  I wasn’t here. I should’ve been here. Why didn’t you wait for me?

  Beverly stayed at the house. They didn’t talk much, but every time Savannah came downstairs, her mother was there. Angela and PJ were on their way back from Clearwater. Rebecca was coming, Kip was on his way, too. Savannah waited for the reinforcements, but these troops would already be battle-weary. She could only hope if they joined hands, the circle would be strong enough to hold them all up.

  Phil stopped by, shattered by the news. He and Savannah stood in the kitchen, gripped by an awkward silence. He told her he was heading back to Philadelphia for a week. This was her time to mourn with her family. He’d just be in the way.

  “Here’s my card,” he said.

  She stared at the formal lettering, Philip J Hannigan, Attorney at Law and a Philadelphia phone number. It felt cold and impersonal. Then he turned the little card over pointing to his sharp handwriting on the back.

  “My home phone number,” he said. “Call me if you need anything. Or even if you don’t need anything. Day or night.”

  “Thank you.”

  He closed her fingers around his card, around his name. She wanted to clutch at him. Ask him, even beg him to stay. To hold her hand and keep reassuring her: it’s not your fault. Because it felt like everything was her fault. Instead, she nodded and let him go.

  The doorbell heralded a continuous stream of visitors, mourners making a pilgrimage to Savannah’s door. Young, old, black, white—they came to honor the woman. They brought dishes of food which piled up in the kitchen, waiting for someone with an appetite. Every woman outdid her neighbor with secret family recipes. Cakes and pies and cheese straws. Home-made pickles, tomatoes fresh from the garden and, fried chicken. Oh, the fried chicken. A southerners version of the Last Supper.

  Neenie always said, “A good Baptist knows the surest way to get into heaven is with a covered dish.”

  They brought covered dishes and deep casseroles. And they brought stories. Wonderful stories. Women she’d never heard of stopped by to tell her how Neenie used to carry on about her Baby Girl. Savannah’s aching heart found comfort in the shared memories. Just hearing Neenie’s name was a cool cloth on a fevered brow, but the anecdotes and jokes of a long, well-lived life made Savannah gather her courage. She took everything they gave her. Fists closed tightly around every word. Then tucked them into the wound in her heart.

  The stories reminded her how far the little brown girl had traveled in her seventy-one years. Neenie may have only made it to the other side of town, but it had been a long walk. And a walk not made alone.

  Before Rebecca was even through the doorway, Savannah was reaching for her. “Beck, thank God you’re here.” The two sisters clung to one another, Savannah’s tears becoming Rebecca’s tears as they rocked back and forth. They got through the day hand-in-hand and later that night, in Savannah’s room, Rebecca sat brushing Savannah’s hair.

  Savannah looked in the mirror at her younger sister’s serene face. Where Savannah was constantly wringing her hands, Rebecca remained calm. The ugliness didn’t seem to stick to her. When was the last time they’d shared an intimate moment like this? Savannah couldn’t remember.

  “You know Beck, you’ve been doing an awful lot of hand-holding for me lately,” she said. “I’m supposed to be the big sister. “

  “You need it more right now. Besides, I’m glad to play the big sis for once. My whole life I’ve wanted to be you.”

  Savannah turned on the little stool and pulled Rebecca down to her level. “What are you talking about? You were the baby. Everyone’s curly-haired darling.”

  “But you were glamorous.” Rebecca sat on the floor, her legs crossed, an elbow on her knee. She looked fourteen.

  “Glamorous? Were we in the same house?”

  “Well, to a pip-squeak, you were glamorous. Floating down the stairs in a formal. You were practically a movie star.”

  “Like a movie star, it was all smoke and mirrors.”

  Rebecca looked up into Savannah’s face. “I wish I’d known how miserable you were.”

  “I wish I’d told you.”

  “You can tell me now.”

  The bond stretched across the six-year age gap as Savannah told her story. Not glamorous older sister and pip-squeak, but two adult women having a real conversation about love and life. About growing up in a house full of secrets. How Savannah had learned the lessons so well she carried them across the threshold when she married Price. Exchanging one set of secrets for another. Rebecca reached out and held Savannah’s hand.

  “I had no idea.”

  “No one did,” Savannah said, then smiled shyly. “Want to sleep over?”

  They rolled back the years and curled up in Neenie’s bed, holding hands as they drifted off to sleep.

  THE SOUND of car doors closing in the driveway had Savannah on her feet, rushing to the front door. Her babies were home again. More bad news to fill up their suitcases before the return
trip.

  How would her children survive this latest blow?

  “You don’t have to be strong,” Savannah whispered to PJ as they clung to one another. She reached out to gather Angela into the circle, but her daughter brushed past, heading into the house.

  Savannah’s shoulders slumped. She hadn’t really expected a change in only the few days the kids had been gone. But she had hoped.

  “It’ll be all right, Mom.” PJ tucked her under his arm and walked her into the house. She couldn’t remember when this switch had happened. Only yesterday, she was carrying him on her hip, soothing fears and scraped knees with a kiss. Now almost sixteen, he was tall enough to shelter her.

  “I’m not staying here,” Angela said as Savannah walked into the kitchen. “Please, Grandma, can’t I stay with you?”

  Beverly looked from Angela to Savannah, trapped.

  “It’s all right with me, Momma,” Savannah said. Everyone had to make it through the next couple of days and she didn’t intend to spend them arguing with Angela.

  Thanks to all the visitors, they had plenty of food to serve for dinner that night. Mixed platters and dishes were passed around. Kip and Jack ironed out the logistics of getting everyone to the funeral on time. Savannah sat back, toying with her tuna casserole, wondering if her black dress needed ironing. A faded memory floated to the surface and Savannah grabbed it before it blew away: little Savannah standing on a wooden crate, Neenie standing over her, giving precise instructions on how to iron Jack Kendall’s handkerchiefs. Savannah smiled at the picture.

  She looked across the table. Angela’s eyes were boring into her.

  “Did you kill her, too?”

  The air in the room collapsed in a collective gasp, followed by a chorus of raised voices, forks dropped, napkins thrown down.

  Jack Kendall stood up. “Young lady, apologize to your mother.”

  “I’ve had about enough of your attitude,” Kip said.

  Recriminations came from every seat. Shame on you. How dare you? And a crimson tide spread across Angela’s face, as the entire room turned on her.