Flight Patterns (7 page)

Maisy and Georgia had gamely gone along with the illusion of Birdie as a delicate butterfly until they'd reached the age, as all girls do, when reason and reality crept up like a flood tide, leaving behind drowned dreams and possibilities in its wake. Maisy had forged ahead with acceptance, but Georgia couldn't, finding instead an odd bitterness. If Maisy had to name a precise moment when the two of them had begun to drift apart, she would have easily said it was when they both opened their eyes wide enough to see their mother as she really was.

A crash from the dining room sent Maisy scurrying out of the kitchen to find Georgia squatting over a pile of shattered white china.

“Sorry,” she said, straightening. “This was on the bottom of a stack and I thought I could pull it out without breaking anything. Don't worry—it's not valuable. It's an inexpensive Japanese brand, which doesn't have a high collector's value. But I'll replace it anyway.”

“Why would you be pulling china from the back of the cabinet?” Maisy stepped closer, her eyes widening in recognition at the broken pieces. “That's from my wedding china.”

Georgia looked chagrined, an expression Maisy had rarely—if ever—seen on her sister's face. “Sorry. I was looking for something. I could only see the edge of the platter and I needed to see the rest of it.”

Maisy retreated quickly to the kitchen to retrieve a broom and began sweeping up the remnants of the large serving platter, stabbing at the small pieces. “I told you—we've already looked for that stupid cup. It's not in there.”

Georgia grabbed the handle of the broom, and after a brief tug-of-war, Maisy let it go. “I know. But I thought I recognized the pattern but on a different piece. I was mistaken.” She pushed the broken china into a small pile, every movement precise and measured. You had to really know Georgia to see this side of her, this side she'd always kept buried underneath the wild and carefree girl and young woman she'd shown to the outside world. Maisy was just never sure which one was the real Georgia. At least not until Lilyanna.

“You weren't supposed to come back.” Maisy's voice cracked on the last word.

Georgia leaned the broom handle against the corner of the room, angling it precisely so that it wouldn't fall. “It's been a long time, Maisy.”

“Not long enough.” Georgia flinched, but it wasn't enough to make Maisy stop. “And you promised.”

“I already told you—I'm not the same person who made that promise. And it's not like I came here on a whim. I can see now this was a big mistake, and I will leave just as soon as I can.” She took a deep breath, like a nurse preparing to plunge a needle into a child's arm. “I just realized that even if you didn't find the cup, Grandma might have bought other pieces in the same pattern. It's an unusual
one, and if I find more of it I can assume it wasn't a custom pattern—which would affect its value. But I won't know for sure unless I can hold another piece in my hand, and see the marks on the bottom.”

“I'll take off a few days from work to go through every nook and cranny in this house to find whatever it is you might need. Anything to make you leave first thing tomorrow morning.” Maisy's jaw hurt from the effort it took to hold back all the words she wanted to hurl at her sister.

Georgia stared back at her, her eyes sad. “Don't be ridiculous. I'll be as quick as I can and then I'll leave. Don't think I want to be back here any more than you want me here.”

Keeping her voice calm, Maisy said, “Stop being so selfish. There are people who could be hurt. Do you ever think about anybody but yourself?”

Georgia's shoulders slumped, for once making her appear as petite as she really was and not strong at all. “I'm not here to hurt anybody.”

Maisy turned back toward the kitchen, stopping to slam her fist against the heavy mahogany door frame. The handle of the broom made a slow dragging sound down the wall before bouncing off the chair rail, then slamming against the wood floor. Neither one of them moved. “Why did you have to come back and mess everything up?”

She felt Georgia shrug behind her. “Because it's always been the one thing I do best.”

Maisy left the room, already planning to search again for the china on her own. Hopefully they'd find it soon so Georgia would be on her way back to New Orleans before anything else broke, shattering into so many pieces that could never be put back together.

The telling of the bees was a traditional English custom in which bees would be told of important events in their keepers' lives, especially deaths. The hives would be draped in black as they were told the name of the deceased. If the custom was omitted, then it was believed a penalty would be paid, that the bees might leave their hive, stop producing honey, or die.

—NED BLOODWORTH'S BEEKEEPER'S JOURNAL

Georgia

D
inner was as stiff and awkward as I imagined showing up at a wedding in a bathing suit and flip-flops might be. Grandpa chatted about the heavy rains that might impact the harvest of his precious tupelo honey, while James asked appropriate questions about Maisy's students and Becky's basketball techniques. Even Becky was silent except for occasional “yes, ma'ams” and “no, sirs,” making me wonder whether she'd been prewarned by her mother about bringing up any subject that might cause an argument. Which basically left nothing of any substance to talk about. This allowed us all to ignore the pink elephant in the middle of the room, holding in its trunk ten years of absence and questions that nobody seemed to want to ask.

Although Maisy had indicated for Becky to sit at the opposite end of the table from me, Becky had moved her glass of milk to the
setting beside mine. I loved having her there, loved her scent of soap and shampoo, loved looking at her chipped nail polish and the way her fine hair escaped her ponytail. I felt Maisy watching us, as if anticipating my leaning over to whisper a secret in Becky's ear. I didn't, of course. All I would have wanted to say was,
I've missed you.

Maisy cut Birdie's food into bite-size pieces, as she'd probably once done for Becky, and the way our grandmother had also once done for Birdie. Our mother was physically capable of cutting her food, but sometimes the best way to handle Birdie was the path of least resistance, which usually meant doing everything for her. She picked at her food, eating only a small portion of what was on her plate, and took delicate sips from her water glass, her gaze focusing only when it rested on James.

As soon as dinner was over, Maisy and I stood simultaneously and began clearing the table, each of us eager to be done. She brushed away my offer to help clean up, and I just as quickly declined Grandpa's invitation for dessert and coffee on the front porch, using our long drive as an excuse and promising we'd be back the following day to begin our search. Becky had to be pried from my side by her mother citing math homework. She hugged me tightly and made me promise to see her the next day.

“I'm t-taking tennis l-lessons. You c-can come see me p-play. Daddy says I'm really g-good.”

I hadn't heard the stutter before and looked up at Maisy. Calmly, she said, “Sometimes Becky has trouble getting her words out when she's excited or upset.”

Maisy looked at me with accusation, as if I were responsible for the tension that was thick enough to be felt by a young girl. “I would love to, Becky. However, I'm on a deadline with the project and I need to get back to New Orleans as soon as possible. But I promise to see you before I leave.”

Becky had looked so disappointed that I kissed her forehead and then wished that I hadn't, because it reminded me of the last time I'd seen her and had pressed my lips against her delicate skin. I turned away abruptly, and headed toward the door.

Grandpa walked us out onto the porch to say good-bye, the flickering gas lamps outside moving shadows over his face. “I'm sorry we couldn't find what you were looking for. But I'm glad you came anyway.” He spoke quietly, and for a moment I thought I heard something in his voice, something that reminded me of a man on a ledge in a movie I'd seen recently. Something that sounded a lot like despair.

I touched his hand. “Me, too. But I'll be here for another day, at least. I'm going to look through everything again just to make sure you and Maisy didn't miss anything in your search, and also see if I can find any other pieces in the same pattern. It's hard to imagine there would only be that one soup cup.”

“A soup cup with bees on it. Like I said, I'm pretty sure I've never seen it before,” Grandpa said, stroking his chin, the bristling sound louder than the buzz of the night insects. He turned toward James. “Where did your grandmother get her china?”

“We really don't know. She said it was given to her by her mother, but that's all we know about it. It was kept in my grandmother's china cabinet ever since I was old enough to remember.”

“I found the cup in Birdie's closet, but Maisy said it's not there anymore. I just can't imagine what it was doing there in the first place. She wanted me to keep it a secret for some reason. I guess it would be pointless to ask her about it now.”

I thought I saw something move in his eyes, but it must have been the porch light. Then he smiled. “Our Birdie—always so dramatic. I bet it was a prop from one of her shows that she took as a souvenir.” He stepped out of the shadows, and his face appeared normal again.

“Maybe,” I said. “I'll wait until Maisy is at work before stopping by tomorrow, so maybe about ten?”

He surprised me with an embrace, his worn flannel shirt soft against my cheek, and for the first time since my return I thought about the last time I'd had close human contact: a warm embrace. A kiss. It reminded me again of the good things that I'd left behind along with the bad.

“I always knew you'd come back, Georgie.”

“Like a honeybee,” I muttered into his shirt. “No matter how far they go, they always manage to find their way back to the hive.”

He held me tighter. “They say the same thing about the truth, don't they? How it always finds its way home.”

I pulled back, aware of James listening. “I'm not here to dig up the past.”

He looked confused for a moment, as if he wasn't sure who I was. “But you are,” he said softly. His eyes searched mine in the darkness, and they were clear again, reminding me that he was ninety-four years old and that momentary confusion wouldn't be that unusual.

“I'll see you in the morning,” I said, stretching up to kiss him on the cheek.

James shook his hand and we said our good-byes before heading down the walkway to the car. We sat in silence for a long moment, my headlights illuminating the newly sprouted redbud trees that had always lined our front walk.

“Are you sorry you came yet?” I asked.

He didn't hesitate before answering. “No. I enjoyed meeting everyone, especially your grandfather and his bees. Everybody was very kind to me, although I did sense a bit of . . . tension.”

“Tension? That's one way to put it. I sometimes wonder if Birdie is the only one who's got it right, opting out of the unpleasant realities. Maybe I should try it sometime, except I'd need to find someone who wouldn't mind cutting my food, and I don't think Maisy would volunteer.”

“How long has your sister taken care of Birdie?”

I looked away, watching how hundreds of little insects danced in the two round beams of light from the headlights. “Since I left.”

“So your father doesn't take care of her at all?” He held up his hand. “I'm sorry. Never mind. I'm intruding.”

I rolled my shoulders, trying to release the tension. “Yes, you are. But after forcing you through that dinner, I probably owe you an explanation. My father died when I was small.”

“That must have been hard on your mother, losing her husband while they were young.”

I gave a hard laugh. “Not exactly. He survived Vietnam but couldn't survive losing Birdie when she divorced him. He shot himself the day she married Maisy's dad.”

There was a short pause before he spoke. “I'm sorry.”

“No, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have told you. It's just . . .” I shrugged. “You're safe, I guess. Like a stranger on a plane. You don't know any of the players, so you can't take sides.”

“I know you.”

“No, you don't. And hopefully we'll be gone from here and you'll be on your way back to New York before you're any the wiser.”

He pulled out his seat belt and buckled it, the sound like an accusation.

“Look, I forced myself on this trip, so if you need to vent, I'm a good listener. You can tell me anything. Remember, I'm like a stranger on a plane.”

“Be careful what you wish for,” I said, pulling away from the curb. “Because there's a lot more where that came from.”

I headed toward Water Street and the Consulate Suites where James was staying to drop him off. After he pulled his bag from the trunk, he stood by my car door. “Since you don't have a cell phone, how can I reach you?”

“I'll be staying at my aunt Marlene's—my father's sister. Everybody knows her number. She's in a house on Ninth Street near Avenue E, but has a business in Two Mile—the area of town exactly two miles from the center of Apalachicola. Not very creative, but it works. Anyway, we passed it on the way in. Everybody knows where Marlene lives because she has lots of her product samples in her front yard.”

He raised his brows in question. “What kind of business?”

“Lawn and garden statuary. Yes, exactly what you're thinking. Except her goddesses, gods, and sea creatures have been dressed for modesty while they're waiting to be sold. Marlene's Marvelous Marbles is the name of her business.”

“I'm thinking I'm missing out by staying here instead of with your aunt.”

“Staying with Aunt Marlene may be even more of a distraction than you're looking for.”

His smile faded. “Can I ask you a question?”

“You can ask, but that doesn't mean I'm going to answer.”

“Fair enough.” He paused for a moment, weighing his words. “Did your father really kill himself because he'd lost your mother?”

I didn't want to answer, and even thought that I wouldn't. But there was something in his eyes, something in the way he asked me, that made me think he was trying to make sense of an event in his own life.

I breathed in deeply, the air thick with the scent of salt and spring blooms, remembering the night my grandfather came to my room and took my hand and told me that my daddy had gone to heaven—even though according to overheard gossip that wasn't necessarily where we'd find him. “He didn't leave a note. But Aunt Marlene said it was because my daddy loved my mama like fire loves dry wood. They couldn't live with each other, but they couldn't live without the other, either. They'd been divorced for a year, but I guess as long as she wasn't married, he thought she was still his.”

I leaned back in my seat and looked up into the clear night sky, the stars so bright I thought that if I reached far enough I could touch them. “What's so sad is that my mother never stopped loving him, no matter how much she didn't want to. I guess it's true what they say.”

“What's that?”

“That the heart wants what the heart wants.”

His steady gaze considered me for a moment. “My wife was shot in a random mugging. On a random night on a random street corner.”

I winced, hearing the raw note in his voice and wishing that I hadn't. “Why are you telling me?”

He shrugged. “I'm not really sure. Maybe because I felt I owed you. But maybe because it made me think of your father, and how unexpected her death was. Sort of like a suicide without a note. It's a hard thing to work through.”

I watched his face and knew there was more, but I didn't press. I told myself it was because I didn't want to know any more about him or his life except the provenance of his grandmother's china. I already knew what a complicated, messy life was like, and I'd gone to great lengths to simplify mine.

I turned away for a moment. “Yes, it is.” He shifted on his feet and I faced him again. “I'll pick you up at nine fifty tomorrow. We'll head to my grandfather's house and ask Birdie if she remembers anything about the soup cup. I'm expecting we won't get anywhere there, so be prepared to go through some closets and even the attic. And if that turns up nothing, then we can spend the rest of the day looking through Limoges catalogs. Bring your laptop. I find sometimes looking on the Internet at old Limoges ads can help with identification, too.”

“Sounds good.” He kept a hand on the door over the lowered window, preventing me from pulling away. “I like what you said before. About the heart wanting what the heart wants. That explains a lot.”

He stood back without saying more and lifted his hand in a wave, a sad smile on his face. I watched him for a moment in my rearview mirror, wondering what he'd meant and angry with myself because I cared enough to want to know.