“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.
My World of Interiors 