I thought about all of the summer nights long ago when Velvet and I had escaped through our bedroom window to run barefoot and pajama-clad in the wet grass in search of adventure. We found it in daring to be up and about when all the world was sound asleep. As children, we never gave a thought to the snakes that surely must have come out of their cold damp holes to warm themselves against the stone walk still warm from the sun. Nor did we think of the wild foxes that came down the lane to hunt for a juicy baby bunny meal in the hedges near the house. I suppose, had we not been so full of giggles, we might have heard the desperate squeal of a mouse in a nighthawk’s beak or the squeaking of bats circling the chimney. And occasionally there must have been the horrid child-like scream of a rabbit being disemboweled by a big barn owl.
But those were adult thoughts, and I remembered none of that now. I did recall vividly how the roof shingles held the warmth from the hot summer day, and I remembered how scratchy they were on bare knees as we crawled up the slope to the top where we held hands around the chimney.
I have no memory of either fear or bravado, just the pure joy and freedom of doing as we wished.
We continued our nighttime forays for several summers, never telling anyone lest they drop a word in the wrong place. Our daytime world was very small. Everyone knew all our secrets, but our nighttime world was big as the wide star-filled summer sky and extended as far as we could roam in bare, dew-wet feet.
Gradually the wooden floor’s wide hand hewn pine boards became more comfortable than any bed and I drifted off to sleep. I dreamed of flying high over the roof and chimney.
In my dream there were no clouds to cover the moon. Its white light crawled lazily over the big magnolia and brightened the leaves on the crepe myrtle and the wintersweet. I moaned and tried to wake up as I saw a dark figure enter my dreamscape. I feared the menacing sound of the heavy feet crunching in the gravel of the driveway. That dream sound startled me to wakefulness. I held my breath and listened intently for the footsteps. I heard only the soothing song of small night creatures. I relaxed and fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.
I awoke at six in the morning when Mother’s part-time housekeeper, Mabel, coaxed her noisy fourteen year-old clunker gingerly up the gravel driveway. The old engine coughed and choked, and backfired loudly as she turned it off. I forced my stiff and aching body up off the floor with enormous effort and shut the doors to keep out the noxious fumes emanating from her so-called automobile. The bed that had done nothing for me last night now beckoned with an undeniable allure. I tumbled in and soon found myself falling under the spell of soft pink.
I opened my eyes again four hours later. It did not take me any time at all to know where I was. The room was dear and familiar to me. I gazed fondly from one forever known item to another. The big bay window looked out over the front yard where my swing had been. The late morning sun filtered through the miniblinds and over a window seat that was home to a whole population of dolls and stuffed animals. The more beloved ones were missing button eyes and an arm or two. None had come through my childhood unscathed.
The bottom drawer of the tall walnut chest of drawers in the corner reportedly still held some of my baby clothes; however, since it had been stuck for decades this was impossible to prove. I harbored a secret dream that all my lost toys and comic books were in there, that they were safe and waiting for me like my favorite prom dresses which hung, sequined ghosts, in the back of the big walk-in closet.
Besides the walnut chest there were only a few other pieces of furniture in the room. The closet was fitted with shelves and drawers so not much else was needed. An old and very comfortable lady’s armchair and ottoman sat in front of the small fireplace. Bookcases on each side of the chimney reached to the ceiling and were filled with books of all my different ages.
The last piece of furniture was a small and intricately carved Victorian dressing table. It was a wedding gift to my grandmother and hers to me. My own wedding picture sat in front of the mirror in an ornate gold frame. I used to hide it whenever I came for a visit but it would magically reappear over and over to remind me of love lost. I tired of finding new hiding places, and then, finally, I no longer cared.
The room was a time capsule. It was full of both good and bad memories, all of them mellowed by the passage of years.
I stretched and heard my stomach grumble. It was reminding me that my normal breakfast time was several hours ago. Mabel made the best French toast in the western world. Maybe it wasn’t too late to beg her to indulge me.
Mabel made my French toast that first morning but that was the last we saw of her for a while since she had a new job at one of the hotels on the lake. She needed the security of a full-time paycheck to pay for something purchased on credit. She promised to call Mother when she had some free time. We all knew it would not be long. Mabel hated being tied down to a regular job.
Later that morning Billy’s wife telephoned. He had been helping one of the deacons of the Baptist church repair the steeple when he fell and broke his ankle. Billy would be laid up for at least a month. Mother didn’t have to worry about not being able to afford him for a while.
Cassie and I pitched in with a vengeance over the next week. She got out the tractor and mowed, then raked all ten acres around the house. I trimmed the walkways, borders, and flowerbeds and cleaned out all the dead weeds and grass. Fortunately, Cassie rescued a nest of baby bunnies before I annihilated them with the weed whacker.
The weather was wonderful. The days were getting shorter but they were filled with delicious mellow sunshine as yellow as the sweet Anjou pears that ripened on all six trees at once.
Mrs. Nick, our ninety year-old neighbor came up one day, and we all picked and wrapped as many pears as we could in newspaper to keep them from getting overripe. We made pear butter, preserves, and chutney out of the rest.
When the pears were taken care of, we went back to work on the house and yard. We cleaned out the gutters and fencerows and carried all the debris by the wagonload to the old dry pond bed where we lit bonfires every night. We showered off the dirt and grime and fell into bed too tired to eat only to rise early the next morning with the appetite of farmhands. Mother would cook us a big country breakfast and send us out to work again. At noon she made us fresh lemonade and pimento cheese sandwiches on wickedly unhealthy but wonderfully soft white bread. We ate on the patio, napped a short while in the sun, only to get up and stretch our weary city muscles and start all over again.
It was one of those sweet and well-deserved naps that Mother interrupted with the news that a registered letter had arrived from Ernest Dibber’s lawyer. We grumbled a bit and sat up while she opened it and began to read.
She suddenly turned white as a sheet and then just as quickly beet red. Alarmed I jumped up and caught her just as she started to tip over out of her chair. Cassie grabbed the letter when she saw her grandmother was all right. At least I would like to think she thought about that.
“Son of a bitch!” she exclaimed. “Son of a low down dirty bitch!”
Mother steadied herself and took a deep breath. The color faded to a more normal shade in her face. I held her ice cold hands in mine.
“Are you okay, Mother?” I inquired anxiously.
“No, dammit!” Mother never, ever, swore. It was not “lady like.”
“What the hell is in that letter?” I always swore.
“Crap! That’s what!” Cassie could swear really well. “He left it all to that bastard!” she continued heatedly, “all of it except some piddling amount