through my hair, the early May sun practically blinding me as I look up, watch the airplane cut the blue sky.
“I did. Your daddy was nice when we were children. My mama always went on about how Mr. James picked up his clothes and was neat as a pin in the bathroom.”
That day my mother told me about my father’s death, I got off the couch, heard my mother place the vodka bottle back on the top shelf above the silky green ironstone dishes. I walked into the kitchen, my hands in my pockets, nail polish sticking to my soft blue cotton shorts. I needed her to say something to me.
She was leaning against the white counter, the small of her back pressing against it. The glass rim rested against her red lipsticked lower lip, her eyes dull—flat.
“What should I do?” I asked.
“Nothing. Not one goddamned thing. He never came around, and the funeral is over anyway.”
“Mr. Grey didn’t believe in death,” Tildy says, breaking into my memory. “I don’t think he ever accepted Mr. James or Miss Charlotte’s death.” She studies my uncle’s picture. “This was taken a few years back when Mr. Grey used to go out. That was the night of the Sons of the American Revolution annual dinner.”
“Sons of the American Revolution? They still have groups like that?”
“Yes. Mr. Grey, he was big into his groups. Liked to carry on the family name. When he got cancer his life was just sliced away, little by little. Every step was a big shock to him and I think up to the very end, he believed it wasn’t happening—like maybe it was a bad dream. Magnolia Hall held him tight, but then she had to let him go.”
Tildy takes my hand and pats it. “Don’t worry. I knew him all my life. He would have wanted you to have this house. You’re family. It’s like giving it to your daddy—no, more like giving it to his sister, Charlotte. You have to trust in what has happened.”
My mind is swimming with all the memories, stories. “What I need is a drink.”
“Can I get you some iced tea?”
I laugh, realize my chest aches. “I was thinking about something stronger.”
“There’s no liquor in the house.”
“Maybe that’s why my mother was crying.” I laugh again, I guess to combat the uneasiness I feel.
Tildy gasps then covers her mouth.
“My mother was an alcoholic. I came to grips with that a long time ago.”
Tildy hands me the picture, and I look at it again, feeling like a ship without an anchor.
“There’s more of your father in you than your mother,” she says.
“Well, he was pretty much an SOB, too.”
“You’ll find out different. Maybe we shouldn’t be talking about this right now. Have you had anything to eat this morning? All that caffeine and no nourishment can make you say things you don’t mean. Just like my daughter. Goodness alive, doesn’t anyone take care of themselves anymore?”
I lay the picture on the bookshelf. Her hand brushes my elbow and before I can take another breath, the woman guides me to the kitchen.
“It’s been a month of Sundays since I had somebody to cook for, take care of. Feels good.”
She goes to the kitchen sink and looks out the window. Recognition flashes through my mind. I watched her in this room, years ago, right before we left for California, right before our lives came unglued.
“I’m gonna cook you something real Southern, something so sumptuous your little mouth is going to water—”
“You don’t have to cook for me.”
Tildy shifts, rests her hands on her lush hips. “I have cooked for everyone in this house. You aren’t going to be any different. No arguing. What did you say you did in Las Vegas?”
“I’m a blackjack dealer.”
“Well, my, my. You don’t look like a blackjack dealer. If you wore glasses, maybe a librarian. They have libraries in Las Vegas?”
I laugh. Everyone from the outside thinks Las Vegas isn’t a real town. “Sure.”
“So why didn’t you become a librarian or a teacher?”
“I don’t know.”
“Mr. Grey, he loved books and the room he kept them in. So did your daddy.”
“It’s not much of a library.”
Tildy’s smile slips away, which makes me feel bad.
“I mean, it’s a nice room, and all, but there’s only a few books.”
“It was a wonderful library long time ago. Every shelf full with all the classics, real comfortable chairs and a sofa that was covered in a beautiful green brocade—don’t you remember?”
“No. What happened to all of it?”
“After he got sick, doctors took a lot of the money. He’d let his insurance lapse. The state helped him a little with social security. But to get all the benefits he would have had to give up Magnolia Hall and he wouldn’t. So he gave things away.”
“Gave them away…how would that help?”
“That’s what we called it.”
“What? Why?”
“The last Saturday of each month, Mr. Grey had me take something up to an antique store in Mocksville so people around here wouldn’t find out.”
“So he sold them?”
“We like to think of it as giving them away. The man had his pride. After a while, the owner came down here with a truck, every third Saturday of the month. It was so sad to see bits of Mr. Grey’s life slipping out that door, like ham on a cutter—one thin piece after another. I don’t think he died of the cancer. Giving up all his family possessions was what really killed him.”
“Maybe he would have been smarter to sell the house, buy a nice condo, go on vacation. Not worry about this place, his memories.”
Tildy looks around like she’s not listening. “It’s a better day with you here. Don’t you worry, this house is gonna be just fine. It always survives.”
She’s serious. “As soon as I get the bedroom wall fixed, I’m going to list with—”
“I told Mr. Grey he shouldn’t put off fixing that wall. Said he’d do it when he had time. Then he didn’t have no more time, no more money.”
“Do you know anyone who might repair the wall?”
“I can check around, but, honey, Magnolia Hall’s never been sold. Any of your mama’s family out there in Nevada? Or a boyfriend that might help you?”
“No
