I rush over to the boy’s new apartment on Alabama, they’ve moved again, as soon as I’m back for the summer of ’53.
The boy isn’t home yet, but would I like to wait? He won’t be long.
His mother brings me a cup of coffee, and sits with me at the kitchen table.
“Did you do well on your exams?” she asks.
“I did, thank you. I’m quite pleased with the results.”
“And how have you been?” I meet her eyes, genuinely interested.
She sighs. “The boy hasn’t done too well.”
“He’s a bright kid,” his father, who has now entered from outside, says, shaking his head, “but he’s put in very little effort in high school.”
“It’s like he’s been livin’ in his head these past four years,” his mother adds.
His father looks out the window just as a car pulls up. A moment later, the boy crashes clumsily through the door.
I get up and wave.
“Hey, you.” I say.
“You’re home!” He rushes over, wraps his arms around me, and kisses me, right there in front of his parents. Then, before I can protest, he lifts me up and carries me out over his shoulder.
“My girl is home!” he exclaims “Hot damn.”
“Aren’t you going to wash up first?” his mother calls. “You’re all sweaty.”
“Nope!” he shouts back. “We’re goin’ out.”
“What on earth has gotten into you?” I protest, slung over his shoulder, blood rushing to my face.
“You,” he says. “I ain’t hardly seen you in two years. I’m makin’ the most of the time I got.”
“Yours or mine?” he asks, noticing the lavender Cadillac.
“Take mine, if you like.” I manage.
“Sure.” He laughs.
“The keys are in the ignition,” I tell him.
He sets me down and grins.
“Lord, am I glad to see you,” he says.
“Me too,” I reply.
“Where we goin’?”
“Down to Riverside Park,” he says. “I need to catch the breeze.”
When we get there, we make out in the back seat like it’s both the first and the last time.
***
Chapter 22: You May Go to College – You May Go to School
“We’ll come off too pedestrian if we stay in college housing,” Tilly informs me.
“We’re adults. We need our freedom now.” I agree, if only to keep the peace. It’s the first term at Bryn Mawr, autumn after our debut into New York society, a debut none of us took seriously, which upset Tilly’s mother. She called us ungrateful and spoiled.
“This is going to be hardcore,” I sigh as we study our term plans over breakfast.
“For you, maybe,” she replies.
“Not for me.” She gets up, checks her lipstick, slips into a chic Parisian cape, and waits at the door. Then she softens.
“Your major’s Art History. It’s not going to be that difficult, is it?” She puts an arm around my shoulder as we walk towards campus. “A couple of college girls about to start life for real,” she adds, smiling.
***
Tilly’s domineering ways are starting to irk me. Cornelia, at Radcliffe to escape “the ice-queen’s steely rule”, asks me to come up before Christmas break.
“Topper and Buddy are here,” she says. “There’s a party. Please come. Don’t bring the She-Devil.”
Tilly is leaving early for a ball in New York. “Tell her I said hello,” she says, giving me a hug as her driver loads her luggage.
“Send my love to the family,” I wave her off. “Happy holidays.”
***
At Radcliffe, Cornelia’s having a whale of a time, mixing with Harvard boys and going to dances.
“I don’t give a hoot about my results,” she says, blasting jazz and applying makeup before the party.
“I’m here to meet boys. I’ve already told Pa.”
I laugh. She shrugs. “Are you all right with Buddy and Topper picking us up?” she asks.
“Of course.” I smile. “How are they?”
“You’ll see,” she grins.
As she finishes getting ready, I sit on her bed, rereading a letter from the boy. He’s toiling at the Precision Tool Company, running errands, a world away from this. His letters are playful gibberish mixed with sadness that lingers beneath the surface. There’s a longing in them that goes beyond me. When I catch him on the phone, he tells me he’s become more spiritual. Aside from his love of gospel music, I didn’t know his faith ran that deep, because mine certainly doesn’t. He sounds so sad. It breaks my heart. I can’t help feeling it won’t be right for me to have as much fun as Cornelia promises.
***
Back home for Christmas, I’m so exhausted I sleep for fourteen hours, from the moment I arrive until the next morning. College is killing me.
It’s hard to find my rhythm. I sailed through Miss Porter’s in comparison. I’m not very good with demands and deadlines, especially when I can’t make my own choices, when I have to follow a curriculum that sometimes bores me.
The boy knows exactly how I feel.
He strokes my hair while I lie complaining in bed and says, “Just come back here.”
“Mamma thinks we should get married and open a furniture store,” he giggles.
“That’s very sweet,” I say, “but also preposterous.”
“Well, maybe. Maybe not. You’re always drawin’ rooms in that little book of yours. Maybe you oughta do somethin’ about that.” He hasn’t noticed that I have moved away from just drawing rooms.
“Like what?” I look up at him from my pillow.
“Like become an interior decorator or somethin’,” he shrugs.
“Maybe,” I say. “I feel like I could be doing something more worthwhile, you know.”
“Like what?” he asks.
And that’s the thing: I don’t know. The seed has yet to grow into an idea.
“You could go be an apprentice somewhere,” he suggests. “Near me. Here in Memphis.”
I laugh.
“I don’t get why you’re always pandering to those Yankees anyway.”
“Over the line,” I tell him. “I pander to no one.”
***
We spend Christmas hurtling toward a different level of young adulthood. It’s like there’s a gun to our heads and we suddenly have to make real-life decisions, which is hard when you’re happy-go-lucky and very lazy.
“I think we’re the silliest pair in Memphis,” he says one slow morning after we’ve been talking nonsense for hours.
“I know,” I agree. “What will become of us?”
He asks about the party at Radcliffe, sounding especially keen on why Topper and Buddy were there.
“They’re at Harvard,” I say. “They’re friends of ours.”
“Yeah, but… did you have to go with them?”
“You seem jealous,” I say, lowering my brow.
“Don’t be. Nothing happened.” I touch his cheek.
“I have something for you,” I change the subject. “I bought it in Boston. Excellent bookstores up there.”
“Yeah?” He perks up.
I bring him a book from my bag and sit beside him.
“You said you were becoming more spiritual,” I say. “Cornelia thought you’d like this.”
I hand it to him.
“Thank you,” he says, flipping through the pages. “The Prophet. I like the title.”
“Kahlil Gibran,” he reads aloud. “You know him?”
I shake my head. “No.”
He skims a few lines, “I love it. It’s interesting.”
“Can we read it right away?” he asks.
“We have to do something with our time, why not?” I say.
He starts reading aloud, and we both tuck ourselves under the covers, leaning against the headboard. Outside, the day waits. But we’re in here, learning from books.
***
“Do you remember when you threatened those boys back in junior high who took my bag?” he laughs.
I chuckle. “I was so scared. I don’t know where I got the confidence to do that.”
“You had guts,” he says. “You came in like a wrecking ball and crashed into my heart on day one.”
I laugh. “I did, didn’t I?”
“There was a time when your mother thought I was big trouble.”
“I remember,” he says. “She still does. Says you’ll be my ruin. That you ain’t like a girl’s supposed to be.”
“And how’s that?” I narrow my eyes.
He shrugs, feeling bad for saying it. “You know… subservient. Dutiful. Wife material.”
I go quiet, a second too long.
“I can list at least five boys who’d marry me in a heartbeat,” I say, snapping my fingers. “So put that in your pipe and smoke it.”
He grins. “Must be that animal charisma. You’re like a silly little panda, Buzzy.”
“I’m a bit of everything,” I say, chin raised. “I allow myself to be everything that I am.”
“That’s probably why all the big boys shake when you roll into town.” He guffaws at the image.
I nod, satisfied. “Hmm.”
“It’s lucky you’re so pretty on the outside,” he adds.
“I mean, if you were built like a tank, I don’t think those five boys would want to marry you at all.”
“I am done with this conversation,” I say, standing up. “Want to drive down to Lansky’s?”
He blinks. “What for?”
“I want to buy you some nice clothes,” I say.
He shakes his head. “You don’t need to do that.”
“Well, if the shoe were on the other foot, you’d do the same for me. And I haven’t given you your Christmas present yet, anyway.”
He grins. “Okay. But only if you let me buy you dinner after.”
“Deal.”
***
He’s trying on his new clothes at my house.
“Do I look like one of your rich guys from college?” he asks, turning in the mirror.
I don’t answer right away.
He insists. “Well? Do I?”
“What do you mean?” I stall.
“You know what I mean,” he says, turning to face me. “Do I look like I’m one of them?”
“No,” I answer. “You don’t.”
He pouts, “Do I still look country, even in these clothes?
He does. But I’m not going to say so, because what does it matter? And I think this is the exact prison those who want our money keep us in – the consumerism of aspiration.
I see his self-conscious edge. That old wound. He’s never sure he measures up around moneyed people, and no matter what I say, it’s hard to get through to him.
“If a person has any sense,” I say, “they’ll judge by character.” I smile. “And you’re the funniest, kindest boy I’ve ever met.”
I put my arms around him and look up.
“And I love you,” I say. “I don’t want you to be like those boys. I want you to be you.”
He stiffens. “Don’t patronise me,” he mutters. “You’re not my mother.”
I step back, a little hurt.
“Sorry,” he says. “I don’t know what’s gotten into me.”
“Don’t worry,” I say, brushing it off.
“You look great. Like a superstar. Now let’s go show the world how gorgeous you are.”
I want to lift him up, throw him over my shoulder, march us to the car, dump him in the back with a flourish. But instead, I lose my balance and topple over, landing in a heap beside him.
He bursts out laughing. Just like that, the spell is broken.
He’s forgotten the boys from up East, for now.
***
“You have the best house,” Mabel says, settling in with her tea. “It’s ridiculous.”
“Yes. I’m pleased as punch about it myself, thanks.”
“I still can’t believe your parents let you live here alone.”
“I’m not alone,” I reply. “I have Miss Mary.”
“Yeah, but you know what I mean. You’re eighteen now, sure, but when we were kids… was it even legal?”
“I think so.” I say, but the words feel unsure, even to me.
It is strange. Why did they leave me here on my own?
There’s something in my mind that won’t let me look at it straight, like it’s fogged over.
“Maybe,” Mabel says, watching me think. “Still though…”
***
The house really is great. For once, I’m home alone. It gives me time to look around and take it all in. This big white mansion, nestled in an enormous garden, it has always felt safe here, even if it’s always just been Miss Mary and me.
Sometimes, when I come home, I find new rooms, I’ll open a door thinking it leads to one thing, only to find something else, a place I swear I’ve never seen before.
Yesterday I opened what I thought was my mother’s old dressing room, only to find a guest bedroom instead.
Pale-green carpet. A single cast-iron bed. A mahogany dresser, a chest of drawers to match it with a lone swan figurine on top.
A washbasin beneath the mirror.
A window looking out onto the pool.
I’m certain I’ve never been in that room before.
When the boy arrives, I show him.
“Do you want this to be your room when you’re here?” I ask. “A place for all your things?”
He says he’s happier sharing mine, but if I insist, sure. As long as he can still spend all his time in my room.
“Of course you can,” I tell him.
And we close the door again to the mysterious new bedroom.
***
We drive to Beale Street with the windows down, letting the warm Memphis air roll through. Music blares: Big Mama Thornton growls Hound Dog, and we howl along. Then comes Hank Williams with Your Cheatin’ Heart, and the world feels slower, more tender.
We keep going, the city humming around us. Hank Snow’s I’m Moving On makes it feel as if we’ve always been heading somewhere.
Then, as if the heavens themselves drop in, Sister Rosetta Tharpe sends down Up Above My Head I Hear Music in the Air. The boy taps the wheel, moved.
Just as we turn onto Beale, the mood shifts, Dean Martin crooning That’s Amore. We sing along, like two kids in love with the world, or at least with each other.
We go to the Rainbow Roller Skating Rink with his friends. They have real skate battles, to everyone else’s dismay. I find it a bit rude; everyone has a right to be there, no one should take up more than their share of space. I don’t think they see it that way.
Late at night, the best music plays on the radio, so we stay up and talk until morning. And sleep only happens once the sun is up.
***
“It’s like we’re the same person sometimes,” he whispers.
“You spend too much time in that head of yours.” I toss him a comic.
We talk about his twin, Jesse, who died at birth. The sadness lingers in his family. I try to imagine how his parents must have felt. I listen as he explores the grief, how he’s carried it, wordless, for as long as he can remember. I wrap an arm around him, holding him close.
“We’re growing up, but not really,” he says. “We’re maturing, but not really. I think people like us will always be half-children.” I don’t know why I say that. I just feel it.
“Maybe,” He says, “I think you’re right.”
“I think it has to do with us being broken in some way.” I look out into the darkness of the still night.
“I want to cut another record,” he says suddenly.
“Good. I was wondering when you’d get around to doing it.”
“I think I’m ready,” he says. “I think you’ve inspired me.”
“Maybe I should look into becoming a film documentary maker.” I tell him. “I’ve been thinking about that too.” The boy thinks that’s fantastic. “That way,” he says, “you could shine a light on all the things that you’re interested in.”
“Exactly.” I reply. He gets it.
“You do!” I shout, “You’re the most charismatic person I’ve ever met. Even your shyness can’t dim your light. I saw it the first day I met you.”
Now I’m holding his face between my hands.
“Me, I’m at ten percent. And you, you’re at three hundred!”
“You mean that?” He goes shy and shaky.
“Yes,” I say. “Why do you think I’m with you? I’m pure quality, I wouldn’t be with just anyone. You’re all I can see. Your light has absorbed me, darling.”
He laughs nervously. “Come off it.”
He thinks for a bit, then says, “You know, while you were off at school, I watched Casablanca in this room, every chance Miss Mary let me.”
I laugh. “Did you, really?”
“Yup. It was real upsetting.”
“How come you don’t see me as a fallen woman after all we’ve done?” I flush.
He tilts his head. “I been wonderin’ the same thing. I think it’s ’cause you’re totally free as a person.”
I shake my head and think that it has taken a war and unhappy childhood memories to get here, that it’s a decision I made somewhere on the Atlantic crossing that brought me to America.
“Well, you know what I mean. You ain’t a slut. It’s just you and me, babe. That’s all.”
I have no idea what he means. I just grin. I don’t care.
***
I’m on the bed, drawing and writing in my notebook. I have started adding little poems and thoughts to the pages, less figurative and more abstract than I used to. He’s by the turntable, flipping through records.
“You know what?” he says, looking over.
I signal for him to go on.
“I been thinkin’ about goin’ down to the Memphis Recording Studio. They’ll cut a record for you if you pay a few bucks.”
He sighs. “All I gotta do is sing and play guitar, and they press it right there.”
“That’s the best idea I’ve heard all year. You have to do it.”
“I’m nervous,” he mutters.
“Don’t be. Practise first. You’re already amazing.”
He shrugs. “It’s just an idea. I’m not sure I want to go through with it.”
“Don’t let fear stop you. You’re made of magic. I can see it, so can you, if you look for it.”
He grins, embarrassed. “You’re the only one who thinks so. You and Mamma.”
“Just wait,” I say, wagging a finger. “In time, everyone will see it. It’s all coming to you.”
I get up and kiss him.
“I have something for you,” I say. “It’ll help and protect you.”
I hand him my signet ring from the jewellery box.
“Here you go. My family ring. If you wear it, you’ll be protected by all my ancestors.” I half-laugh. “It’s probably all nonsense.”
He studies it. “What is this?”
“It’s a rooster. Our family’s symbol.”
“That’s so cool.” He hugs me. “Sun Records has a rooster in their logo.” He looks up. “Well, holler me crazy, but that’s a sign.” I giggle.
“Why don’t you want to wear it yourself?” he asks. “Don’t you need protection?”
“Oh, I’ll always be protected,” I laugh. “Just promise me you’ll look after it.”
He swears he will.
I take his hand. “Let’s go somewhere.”
***
We drive past 706 Union Avenue a lot over the next few days. Sometimes we park and peer into Sam Phillips’ studio.
“Who’s that?” I ask, spotting a blonde woman with glasses.
“Oh.” he says, leaning in. “That’s Mr Phillips’ co-worker. Miss Marion Keisker.”
He knows this from reading about the studio in the Press-Scimitar.
“Go in!” I urge him.
“Not yet. I ain’t ready.”
“With that attitude, you never will be,” I say, walking back to the car. “You just have to do it.”
“I’ll think about it,” he says.
We meet his cousin Gene for burgers and shakes. Gene does not like me at all. He asks me why I’m called Birdie, and not my real name. I tell him it’s because I’m such a lark. The boy laughs, Gene does not.
The boy says Gene finds me intimidating, and thinks I talk too much.
It’s easier with his friend Red, a high school bruiser with just enough soul for me to connect with. He gets it, though most of the others don’t. Neither do my friends.
“You’re an unusual duo,” Mabel says. “But whatever floats your boat.”
“I don’t think we are,” I say, indignant. “I think we’re well matched.”
“Maybe,” she replies, clearly uninterested. “If you set aside the obvious.”
I shoot her daggers.
“Don’t do that,” she objects. “You’re rich, he’s poor. There’s no two ways about it. Even you know that.”
“Whatever,” I say.
We’re sitting in the clubhouse. It’s too hot for tennis.
“Where’s your boy?” Bingham asks, as he comes sauntering in and flops down next to Mabel, kissing her on the cheek.
“Pickin’ cotton somewhere?” his friend Chuck says.
“You’re such idiots,” I snap. “Who do you think you are? Look at you, a couple of judgmental middle-class babies.”
I push back my chair. “I’m leaving.”
Mabel kicks Bingham. “Why’d you have to go and do that?” she yells.
Then she grabs her bag. “I’m coming with you. Wait up, Birdie.”
***
The weather cools for a few days around my birthday, just enough for Mabel and me to play tennis.
She gestures to the hill behind the court. “Your boy is here.”
I see him swaggering towards us, in a sheer, short-sleeved shirt and loose slacks.
Mabel bursts out laughing.
“Shush,” I say. “He’s not a clone like those preppy dorks you love so much.”
“You’ve lost your sense of humour about him,” she says.
“Hi, E!” she shouts.
“Hi, Mabel,” he greets her, barely looking her way. To me: “You done playin’?”
“Certainly,” I say. “Aren’t we, Mabes?”
“Sure are,” she says. “Gotta love you and leave you!” She jogs off to the clubhouse.
He picks me up and starts singing “Happy Birthday.”
“I have a surprise for you,” he says.
Before I can protest, he throws me over his shoulder and dumps me into the Cadillac.
“You have to stop doing this,” I huff. “I’ll break something one of these days.”
He grins. “Hush now, woman.”
He drives us out of town and parks in a field.
“You’re sure the farmer won’t send the dogs on us?” I ask.
“I’m pretty sure,” he smirks. “But you never know.”
He pulls a picnic basket from the boot and grabs my hand.
“Come here, you.”
We sip iced tea and eat sandwiches on a blanket. Then he hands me a small wrapped present.
“Happy birthday. Welcome to adulthood,” he says.
“Thank you. You shouldn’t have.” I kiss his cheek.
Inside is another ring, another horseshoe. I thank him, pretending it’s just the thing. He’s so happy, so pleased with himself.
“I thought…” He reddens, then clears his throat. “You’re my lucky charm, so let me be yours.” He sucks on a straw from the field, trying to look cool.
“What about the other one?” I ask, touching the promise ring on my necklace.
He laughs. “You’re still wearin’ that?”
“Well…”
“Put it in your jewellery box and wear this one instead.”
He takes my hand, holding it up to the sunlight.
“Perfect,” he says. “Look, I got one too. The men’s version. You have the girl’s. This means we’re connected.” His eyes well up.
“I have somethin’ else for you,” he says, secretive, pleased.
“Well, show me!”
“When we get home.” He winks.
“Now come here,” he says, pulling me on top of him.
And that’s how I spend my eighteenth birthday, rolling with the boy in a Tennessee field.
***
He’s recorded two songs. He tells Miss Mary and me as he shows us the disc.
“It’s for you,” he says, coyly.
“Let’s hear it!” I urge, leading him to the turntable.
As his gentle, youthful rendition of My Happiness fills the room, I turn to him.
“When did you record this?”
“I don’t know… a couple of weeks ago,” he shrugs, but he can’t stop smiling.
“It’s fantastic!” I throw my arms around his neck.
“You really must pursue this,” Miss Mary says.
“There’s more,” he says, quietly proud. He flips the disc, and That’s When Your Heartaches Begin drifts through the speakers.
“You are going to be a superstar,” I tell him, as Miss Mary and I applaud. “Is that really for me?”
“It sure is. Did ya’ll really like it?” He suddenly looks shy.
“Of course! You are so sophisticated.” I smile. “Look at you, with all your talents. I’m so happy you did this.”
“Thank you,” he says. “That means a whole lot. Thank you.”
“This is epic. I can feel it, it’s the beginning of something.” I say.
It isn’t easy for him, sharing this moment with us. And suddenly, I see just how young he is.
All summer, I’ve felt so adult, graduating, on my way to college, driving the Cadillac, feeling all grown-up. But now, I realise… we’re still just kids.
Thank God I still have four more years of school, I think, as the boy, Miss Mary, and I sit in the kitchen of my great white mansion, eating cake and sipping cola
My World of Interiors 