Perennials Page 12

  As Bitsy’s words echo, I wonder what lesson the kudzu wants to teach me. Have I, too, done better in foreign soil, opting to grow far from the challenging conditions of home? Have I been able to thrive out there in Arizona, living without any real competition? Or am I nothing more than a wayward transplant, an aimless seed taking more than my fair share?

  With our tongues tainted from the colorful dyes, Bitsy and I climb into the backseat like two young kids. Within minutes Chief pulls up to our next surprise destination. Mother becomes radiant as he parks in front of a pristine Tudor revival, the historical home of Pulitzer Prize– winning author Eudora Welty. The house rests across from Belhaven University, a picturesque Presbyterian enclave that anchors the community Welty and her parents once called home. This stretch of Jackson is undergoing regentrification, an effect that transports us to a simpler era, to a quiet street where children played freely beneath arching bowers of hardwoods, where all that stood between sunrise and sunset was a leisurely lunch and a book or two.

  “Jim, you are something else!” Mother cheers. Bitsy and I clamber behind them, making our way to the well-kept museum. It’s a next-door home purchased to display the author’s accomplishments, an honorable collection the down-to-earth garden lover would likely find a tad pretentious.

  As we enter I am immediately drawn to an arresting sketch of a younger Welty. The ink profile has been perched on a shelf in the foyer gift shop, allowing the writer to greet guests with her confident stare. It’s as if she wants to make clear she is a bold and daring soul, a woman of her own means who will give her name away to no one.

  While Mother, Chief, and Bitsy move ahead, I can’t take my eyes off this portrait. I can hear Eudora’s voice, steely and Southern, breaking the words with her infamous cadence, a flutter of hurried syllables parsed with a few that drag. “Eva, listen. Liars only have as much power as you give them. Claim your own truth.”

  When I give the front-desk employee a strange glance, she smiles in return while organizing a stack of bookmarks. “Questions?”

  Indeed, I have many. Do you hear voices? Has anyone ever received a message from Miss Welty? But I don’t dare admit these ridiculous notions. Instead, I regain my composure and discuss the price of the sketch, Welty’s works, and the hardcover garden books that would make a nice addition to Mother’s coffee table.

  “That’s what won her the Pulitzer.” The young clerk pulls The Optimist’s Daughter from the shelf. “Start with that one.”

  We exchange a few back-and-forths about Mississippi authors, listing a long line of Southern scribes whose works have stood the test of time. “Welty truly is my favorite,” she insists. “I’ve always admired Eudora and her mother. They were very progressive, independent.”

  I confess I know little about Eudora’s mother, so the kind employee tells me about Chestina’s challenging childhood. Turns out, the elder Welty was just fifteen when hired as a West Virginia schoolteacher. To reach the classroom, she had to travel long distances on horseback each day to the crossing point of the Ohio River. Then back and forth she’d boat, commuting to the mountain schoolhouse.

  While this may have been too much for another girl of her age, Chestina had already proven her grit. When her father had taken ill, she had accompanied him on an icy winter trek all the way to Baltimore, only to have him die of a ruptured appendix. She then had to manage alone, transporting his deceased body back home on the train. After such hardship, Chestina became a determined spirit, and despite the responsibilities of being the eldest child and the only female in the family, she made the bold decision to leave her family’s rural home and build a life of her own.

  I take another look at the daring sketch of the young Eudora. “No wonder she faced life with such a courageous heart.”

  “Yep. Her mother’s daughter.”

  As another visitor enters the gift shop, I take my leave. Passing a display of Eudora’s many honors, I think deeply about the woman whose claim to fame is not the wealth or accomplishment of some husband or child. In fact, the younger Welty left this world having never become a wife or a mother at all. And yet, here we are, surrounded by people who admire her for the mark she left on our hearts. It’s her words we remember, and the truth she delivered in them.

  Mother, Chief, and Bitsy have already followed a docent to the back, and I find them in a small, quiet room filled with gardening books. Mother shares some of her favorite Welty quotes, all from heart: “‘Welcome!’ I said—the most dangerous word in the world.” And “Beware of a man with manners.”

  “Better a man with manners than a man without.” Bitsy smiles. Leave it to my sister to try to put Eudora in her place.

  “I don’t know. I think she may have been on to something.” I fumble my fingers along the spines.

  The docent straightens a tilted hardcover, apologizing because the house is “all kinds of slanted.” A retired public school librarian, she’s a well-spoken guide with a teacher’s heart. She and Mother dive deep in conversation about an exhibit panel on the wall. It’s an image of Welty’s many titles, arranged chronologically to show her extensive contribution to American literature.

  “Eudora offered such an authentic voice,” the docent continues. “Way ahead of her time. She graduated high school at sixteen and was the only girl to have an outdoor graduation tea, right there in the yard.” She points to the Welty family residence next door.

  “Like the birthday tea we have planned for Mary Evelyn.” Mother smiles at Bitsy. Then she looks my way. “I can’t wait to show you the charms we ordered.”

  My heart leaps, but I don’t dare say a word. Can’t risk giving Bitsy any reason to resist.

  “Eudora’s party was different from the formal events her classmates hosted, but like her mother, she loved the garden. They worked together, creating their own designs.”

  Mother drapes her arm across my shoulder, drawing me close.

  “Eudora enjoyed planting the bulbs: spider lilies, jonquils, daylilies. And she was particularly fond of the Camellia Room.”

  “Again, just like Lovey.” Mother beams my way.

  I blush, clenching the book to my chest, happy she remembers. “I do like camellias. Bloom just when winter sets in.”

  The docent seems pleased. “If you have time, the film starts in five.”

  Chief follows her into the hallway where I’m certain he’s working on his garden plans. Mother plays along, pretending not to notice his antics. With arms now crossed, Bitsy steps back toward the window.

  “You know, Eudora didn’t always live in Mississippi,” Mother says to me. “She was a lot like you, Lovey. Graduated high school and couldn’t wait to run off and see the world.”

  “Really? I always pictured her as a homebody.”

  “Nope. She only moved back to care for her parents. By that time, she’d already made plenty of connections, and she was able to keep writing from here.” Mother points to the image of her extensive collection. “Thing is, though, she may never have achieved any of this if she hadn’t had the guts to go find herself first.”

  TWELVE

  After the documentary, we thank the docent and depart the welcome center, heading toward the official Welty home next door. It’s nearing time for the conference call with Jansana, so I leave Bitsy, Mother, and Chief to enjoy the rest of the tour without me. Then I switch gears to the Phoenix tower where Apogee seems a whole world away.

  In the shadow of Welty’s towering pines, I search for a quiet spot to work. Across the street I find a bench on the Belhaven campus and call in early for the meeting. “Any updates?” I ask Brynn, reassuring her that I’ll lead the conversation.

  “All I know is they have a few questions, whatever that means.”

  “Let’s assume the best,” I say, trying to calm her nerves. A squirrel scrambles at my feet, clearly accustomed to student snacks. I have nothing to offer, but he keeps me entertained as he scurries between my bench and another, where a college girl shares che
ese puffs with him. She’s one of only a few summer stragglers in sight.

  Within minutes The Trio joins in from Arizona. I don’t pretend I’m in the Phoenix conference room. Instead, I get real, confessing my family road trip and giving them all an image to laugh about—a squirrel holding a cheese puff in his tiny pink hands, nibbling away as his cheeks inflate by the second. I hope it shows them I’m well-rounded, able to juggle a million balls while maintaining a calm-cool-collected sense of humor. Instead, they fail to laugh, and the silence is louder than the raucous crows cawing in the oak limbs above me.

  “Well, I hope you’re enjoying your vacation.” The president speaks with a sharp tone, giving me no pardon. It’s not like her to be so crude, and I fear Brynn may be right to worry. “While you’re off playing with squirrels, we’re working hard on this campaign. And there’s been a bit of a ruffle in the timeline, Eva. We’ve got an unexpected chance to make headway in Prague, and we cannot miss this opportunity. We need to push the project up four months. At least.”

  “New deadline?” I ask, worried a four-month jump will put us in a real crunch.

  “Mid-July.”

  I work through the production schedule in my head, trying not to panic. “All four videos by July 15?” No wonder she’s stressed.

  “At the very latest. Tell me it can be done.”

  I imagine Brynn pacing the conference room. There are so many people involved in shooting commercials, and coordinating the various teams gets tricky. We’re bound to lose some actors, at the very least, and that doesn’t include securing locations. But I don’t dare say this. Instead, I talk through a smile. “I’m certain we can find a solution.”

  “Excellent. I knew you’d come through. We can’t lose Prague, Eva. This is key, you understand?”

  My throat tightens, but I somehow manage to channel a bit of confidence, forcing a smile as I say, “Absolutely.”

  When the conference ends, Brynn rattles off a list of concerns. I listen patiently and then waste not a second more. “Well, we’ve got some calls to make. Want to divide and conquer?”

  She agrees, and I break down a task list for each of us, taking notes on my phone with Brynn on speaker.

  “No need to panic quite yet,” I tell her. “We have almost two months to get everything in place. We can do this.”

  “From start to finish, Eva? Those locations required permits. Travel. It’s not doable.” Her voice is tense, and she sounds quite like the squirrel who is now chirping at my feet, the ponytailed cheese-puff supplier long gone.

  “We can do it, and we will.” I try to convince the both of us, but my little fur-friend objects, shaking his fluffy tail now to match his nervous chitter. It’s a warning, reminding me of all the reasons this new deadline won’t possibly work.

  After a few anxious calls to production, casting, and graphics, I dash back to meet my family. When I find them in the backyard garden of Eudora’s home, Mother puts one arm around my waist, the other around Bitsy. “I’m so happy to have both my girls with me.” Surrounded by phlox and lilies, snapdragons and cornflowers, Mother is absolutely glowing.

  “I’m happy too.” I try hard to push all thoughts of work to a far-back corner, at least for now. Mother’s passion is contagious, boosting my energy as I bend to brush the bearded irises, their upright standards drooping to meet the falls and beard.

  “You do realize . . . some of these stem from roots Eudora tended with her own hands.” Mother leads us through the garden, tapping plants with a tenderness reserved for babies and the elderly, as if she’s escorting them into or out of this world.

  Bitsy seems almost as moved as I am, even admitting she’d like to come back with the kids. When I touch the camellia leaves, shiny and smooth, Mother smiles. “That’s the Lady Clare. Named a character after this plant in Delta Wedding. See? She really did speak my language.”

  “Which is why I brought you here,” Chief says. “Remember when you would read aloud to me? Imitate each character?”

  Mother laughs, naming her favorite Welty story, “Why I Live at the P.O.” With a dramatic Southern drawl and a double dose of sass, she emulates the narrator: “But here I am, and here I’ll stay. I want the world to know I’m happy.”

  “Yes!” Chief’s surprise is falling into place, and I give him a wink of approval. “You remember what she took with her when she moved to the post office?”

  “Let me think.” Mother enjoys this challenge. “A fan. Maybe a pillow? Gosh, I can’t remember. The radio. She definitely took the radio.”

  “Something else.” Chief bobs his head toward the garden, dropping a hint.

  “Ferns!” Mother cheers. “She took the fern. And she tried to take the four-o’clocks too, but her mother wouldn’t let her.”

  “Yep. She was plucky, like you, Laurel.” The three of us laugh, knowing full well Mother is indeed what one might call plucky.

  “Why’d she move to the post office?” I try to remember the story.

  “Because she got tired of her sister lying all the time,” Mother says. “So she packs up her things and makes herself a home right there in the P.O. Some people kept on believing her sister, but she didn’t care anymore. She said, ‘As I tell everybody, I draw my own conclusions.’”

  “And that’s why I love your mother,” Chief says to Bitsy and me. “Because she draws her own conclusions.”

  “Boy, do I!”

  We share another round of laughs before Bitsy leans to read the placard beside the roses. I watch her now and see slivers of the girl I adored as a child, the big sister who peered into my jar of fireflies and said, “Good job, Lovey!”

  “You know what else Eudora used to say?” Mother looks at me, then Bitsy, stressing her point. “Life doesn’t stand still.”

  It has been hours since breakfast and the snow cones have done little to hold us over, so when Chief insists we stop for lunch at one of Jackson’s most posh eateries, no one objects. As we enter the restaurant, we are relieved to find the space cool from the air conditioner.

  “Order me a glass of pinot,” Bitsy says. Then she and Mother head for the powder room, each complaining about the humidity.

  As we take our seats, Chief sneaks me a list of flowers he’s secured from the Welty docent. “Text this to Fisher for me, will you? I wrote his number on there for you.” He’s clearly enjoying this game.

  I try not to let on to the fact that I am indeed eager to text Fisher. Instead, I tuck the list into my purse. “Sure. After lunch.”

  During the meal I consume every last bite of my shrimp and grits, relishing the uniquely Southern combinations: tart lemon juice, savory scallions, crisp bacon, and a dash of paprika all mixed in with freshly grated Parmesan and creamy white cheddar. It’s been tossed with sautéed wild mushrooms and minced garlic, cayenne pepper, and Gulf shrimp, all atop a bowl of steaming Mississippi Delta stone-cut grits. My belly sings a psalm of thanks with every flavor-punched drop, and that doesn’t even count the homemade biscuits baked big as fists and the silver-dollar pickles fried deep with salt. Drown it all together with a swig of syrup-sweet tea, and the name of this country song would be “Welcome Home.”

  Bitsy seems to savor her pinot much more than her serving of gumbo, accepting not one but two more pours despite the lunch hour. Chief, on the other hand, devours the smoked pork tenderloin bedded atop smashed potatoes and thick, dark puddles of gravy. Mother, once again, barely touches her meal, a summer bowl from in-season farmer’s market finds. “How’s your salad?” I ask, worried she may not be enjoying her dinner. “You want my biscuit?”

  “No, no, thank you. I’m still full from breakfast is all.” She smiles and pats her stomach even though she only sipped coffee this morning, avoiding her food while I consumed an herbed frittata made from farm-fresh eggs plus a crisp slice of bacon. With her petite frame Mother has never been a hearty eater, but now she’s withering away in front of us and no one else seems to notice.

  “Are you sure you’re
feeling okay?” My forehead gathers in a pinch, something Botox prevents for both Mother and Bitsy.

  “Of course, Lovey. Just too excited to eat, right?” She turns to Chief, who provides the confirmation she desires. Bitsy remains oblivious and returns the conversation to center around herself. The rest of us oblige, giving her the praise she craves.

  Regarding her son’s soccer coach: “Maybe he’ll let Trip captain the next game.”

  Her daughter’s recent dance lessons: “Of course Mary Evelyn deserves the lead!”

  Her husband’s latest investments: “He’s always had a head for money. You’ve both done so well for yourselves.”

  And the conversation goes on like this all the way through dessert, when Mother takes only one scant bite of the crème brûlée, insisting Chief finish it off for her even though it’s one of her favorite treats. No one mentions this odd behavior, so once again, I feel like the outsider, as if they all know something they aren’t telling me. I want so badly to come right out and ask what’s going on, but Mother would not appreciate being backed into a corner, that’s for sure.

  By the time we leave the high-class eatery, Chief nudges me again to send that text. I climb into the SUV and do as I’m told.

  Hi Fisher. Lovey here.

  About to send you the Welty flower list per Chief.

  Please stay tuned.

  I hit Send and add the lengthy list of flowers for Mother’s garden.

  Gardenia, mimosa, honeysuckle, philadelphus, vitex,

  spirea, yaupon, camellia, four-o’clocks, ferns.

  I’m giddy to see Fisher’s reply: Thanks. What time will you be home?

  Me: Heading back now.

  Then him: Perfect. Can’t wait to catch up.

  He can’t wait to catch up? I cover my smile with my hand, but Bitsy glares as if she’s on to me.