The Storm (34 page)

“May I help you prune your roses? Can you teach me how you make them so beautiful every year?”

“
Oui.
With all my heart.” She smiled so genuinely Jaq hardly recognized her. “At this time of the year, I always cut away all the dead canes and twiggy stems. For that I must use the sharp shears.” She pulled hers out of her pocket again and snipped them in the air.

“So you trim them every year?”

She took off her other leather glove and stood beside one of her favorite bushes. “Yes. But you must be careful with the very young plants. Roses need time to grow before you cut them back. Not until their third year. You should be patient and observe a young bush, especially a variety unfamiliar to you. Decipher her pattern of growth. Does she want to bush, to stand straight and tall, or does she want to arch and lean gracefully? You must not destroy a rose's natural grace. If you chop an elegantly arching shrub to a stubby plant, you will have butchered it.”

“Mother, you certainly chopped me to a stubby plant when I was too young. Remember what you said to me at Grandfather's funeral?”

She paled. “Do you still remember that horrible day, Jacqueline?”

“I'll never forget it.”

“Ah, you can't imagine how often I've regretted my hasty words. I would cut out my tongue and lop off my fingers before I would say such things to you again. I can't excuse myself. I thought perhaps you would forget, that you would heal.”

“I was a serious child, Mother. I took what you said to heart and still blame myself for Grandfather's death.”

Her mother dropped her shears and put her hands over her eyes with a sob. “My poor Jacqueline. The Storm killed him. You did not. Never. You were rambunctious but never cruel. I blamed everyone and everything for his death for a long time. But no one was at fault. Only I, for making you believe such a horrible thing about yourself. You are so brave. Always going into the unknown, where your heart leads you. I wish I had your courage.”

Jaq put her arm around her mother's shoulder and comforted her as her mother had failed to comfort her as a child. “Don't cry. You'll smear your makeup.” She chuckled. “Besides, your words can wound, but they can heal too. I'll keep them in mind and let them erase the scar your earlier ones left. Now, why don't you show me how to trim a plant properly?”

Her mother wiped away her tears and smiled hesitantly. “If you insist. Let us work on this Archduke Charles together.” She picked up her shears then rummaged in another apron pocket. “Here. Take my extra pair. You do not need the gloves, for the bush has almost no thorns.”

“Isn't this one of your favorites, a China rose that smells like bananas when it blooms?”

She nodded in approval.
“Oui.”

“A friend of mine told me almost all our roses in the West came from China. She said before we discovered that type of rose, ours bloomed only once a year, in the spring. Is that right?”

“That is indeed correct.” Her mother's eyes had grown large, and now they narrowed. “And who is your friend?”

She stiffened. “A woman I met in Texas. One of Eric's neighbors. A farmer's wife who loves to play the piano. She and her mother-in-law have a beautiful rose garden. She gave me a tour one day.”

Her mother scrutinized her briefly then shrugged a bit too nonchalantly. “She must be a remarkable woman. Someone who loves music and grows roses in such an uncivilized part of the world.”

“She is, Mother. Oh, she is!” She couldn't stop her enthusiasm and was afraid she'd given herself away.

“Is she your friend Molly, the one you said you gave our telephone number to?”

“Yes, Mother. She's a good person, and I've worried about her.”

“Why haven't you telephoned her?”

She shook her head. Why hadn't she? “I want to give her time to get well. Her husband died, so I'm sure she's upset about that. I don't want to intrude on her grief.” She didn't tell her mother how she'd planned to go to see Molly to discuss the possibility of a future together.

Her mother measured her with her exacting gaze. “If she is your friend, you should call. It's long past time to do so.”

“I will. But what about my lesson?”

She tried to calm herself as her mother showed her where and how to prune the rosebush. As she talked about how this variety was called the chameleon of the roses, Jaq thought about contacting Molly. Did she dare? Would Molly want to hear from her, or had her life already taken a new direction? Her mother was explaining how the sun's heat changed the chameleon rose from light pink to deep red, and how it could grow in almost any environment and be trained into almost any shape.

Was she that adaptable? And was Molly? Could they take Patrick from his familiar life on the farm and raise him in a new environment? Didn't he need someone to teach him how to be a man?

Finally, her mother said, “I want to confide something in you. I love the Archduke Charles rose best because my grandmother used to grow large hedges of it in France. The man I mentioned and I liked to stroll through Grandmother's garden and smell them. He was the heart of my heart, but I married your father instead, because my parents wanted me to.”

So her mother had a secret love but married to please her parents. Maybe that's why she'd just said she wished she'd had more courage. Should Jaq try to forget her love for Molly, or should she take a chance? Did she really want to? Wouldn't a child slow them down? Could she still picket in Washington or live in postwar Paris with a woman and a child?

Her mother's words strengthened her. She
would
call Molly. At least that would be a start. Then perhaps she could take the trip up there that she'd planned. Maybe Molly could become more than a sweet memory, a lost love Jaq would regret forever, like her mother did.

*

Jaq was disappointed but not surprised when Mrs. Russell, and not Molly, answered the telephone. After exchanging pleasantries about her father's health and the state of the farm, Mrs. Russell told her that Molly was getting married, that Patrick needed a man in his life. The wedding would take place as soon as Molly's fiancé came back from overseas. Mrs. Russell certainly sounded happy about that. As for why Molly hadn't called her, she could almost see Mrs. Russell shrug and scowl as she'd said, “I don't know why she hasn't phoned you. Just not in the mood, I suppose. You never can tell about her. I'll be sure to tell her you called.”

Jaq dropped the receiver, then slowly picked it up from where it swung back and forth by its black cord. She felt like she was hanging by the neck from the gallows, suffocating. As she stared at the receiver, out of breath, she rolled it between her palms. So cold and hard.

During all the hours she and Molly had spent talking to each other last year, the telephone had bridged the distance between them and Molly's voice had breathed warmth into her. But Mrs. Russell's words had cut the phone lines between her and Molly, left her with nothing but a silent black object.
Number, please
, said the disembodied voice of the operator.

She replaced the receiver in its cradle and crumpled into the straight-backed chair next to the telephone. How had she misjudged Molly's feelings so completely? She had seemed so certain that she wasn't happy being married to Mr. James. But if she hadn't had to live with Mrs. Russell would things have been different? And if the man were younger, more willing to live in the city, would Molly have been satisfied?

But Eric had been younger, with no desire to live with his mother, and he had been willing to live anywhere in the world. Yet she hadn't been happy married to him. No, Molly didn't seem to fit with a man any more than Jaq did, just like she didn't fit on the farm. Something wasn't right.

Patrick needs a man in his life
. Those words had frozen Jaq's tongue and her brain. Did Molly think Jaq couldn't give Patrick the kind of life that a man could? But when the three of them went to town together, she could have sworn Molly would have loved to be with her, wherever they went, and that Patrick would too.

Who was this man who had been overseas and was due home soon? Molly had never mentioned anyone except Mr. James's younger brother. What was his name? Clyde? Could this be Mrs. Russell's idea? She certainly wouldn't want Molly to stay, but Patrick was another story. He could help on the farm, keep Mrs. Russell's way of life alive. But would Molly sacrifice herself for Patrick by consenting to marry another Mr. Russell?

Jaq felt like jumping into her Model T and driving to New Hope right this minute. But what if Molly was marrying of her own free will, without any interference from Mrs. Russell? She'd try one more way to contact her, and if she got no satisfaction she would make the long trip up there and find out exactly what was going on.

Jaq contemplated the two cartridges of exposed film—the one of pictures she'd made in New Hope and one she'd brought back from Europe. In England, she'd had her pictures developed in a shop, but at her parents' house she could do it in her father's darkroom.

He'd taught her how right after he gave her a camera for her sixteenth birthday. After that, every time she could save fifty cents, she bought a cartridge of film and wandered through New Orleans snapping pictures. Especially after her experience with Sister Mary, she'd spent hours alone in the darkroom, savoring the smell of the acid fixing powder and the long, lonely wait time for her creations to emerge.

She held her newly developed shot of Helen up to the red light. Helen stood in the mud, her outfit as white as possible, a smile brightening her face. What a waste. She could have had a long and useful life.

And there stood her Model-T ambulance. She'd taken the picture one day after she'd spent two hours cleaning the vomit and blood from the inside and the caked mud from the outside. The sun had beamed down, and she'd had more than her usual three hours' sleep.

The one picture she took in Montmartre made her homesick for Paris. If only she and Molly and Patrick could live there.

And here was one of Willie in her red velvet dress. Her steady green eyes and strong fingers had helped her get ready for Molly. Maybe they'd meet again someday.

Now for the second roll. She gazed at Molly in the rose garden and in the rocking chair on Eric's front porch. Then Patrick on the porch with Mr. James. That shot, and the one of him and Eric, Patrick grinning and holding up his nickel, unleashed her tears as she printed several copies of all of them.

Back in her room, she placed the new photographs on her childhood bed and knelt before them. She wanted to remember at will, like she did when she chose which pictures she wanted to develop and print, not have memories attack her. Spells like that drained her. If she could keep the past at a distance, separate herself like she could from the pictures on her bed, maybe she could free herself from its power.

And if she could accomplish that, maybe, just maybe, she could forgive herself for the damage she'd caused so many others. She'd been wondering why good people had to die while bad ones survived and prospered. So many deaths. Had she really caused them, was she that important and powerful? If she could figure that out, perhaps she could make her peace with the past and move on.

She slid the photos of Patrick with Mr. James and Eric into an envelope, addressed and stamped it, and mailed it to Mrs. Russell. She hoped she'd show the pictures to Molly and Patrick. And at least Mrs. Russell would have something to remember Mr. James by. And maybe Molly and Patrick would remember her.

*

“Did we get any mail today?” Molly called from the kitchen where she sat churning, when Mother Russell pushed through the creaky front door.

“Nothing you'd be interested in. Just my
Farm and Ranch
magazine. I'm going to read a spell, then take my afternoon nap.”

She thought she saw something brown, like an envelope, stuck inside the magazine that Mother Russell clutched as she rushed into her room and slammed the door, but she didn't pay much attention. But Mother Russell had certainly acted strange, all hunched over like she was hiding something. What on earth could it be?

*

“Mama, Grandma, somebody's coming to see us.”

Patrick jumped off the front porch and sprinted through the raindrops out to the gate, with Molly and Mrs. Russell right behind him. Molly stood to the side as Mother Russell passed her, calling, “Clyde. You've finally come home.”

Long and lanky, needing a shave and carrying a battered suitcase, he unwound himself from the bed of an old truck. “Thanks for the lift. See you around, fellows.” Then he dropped his suitcase and held out his arms.

He looked forlorn as he hugged Mother Russell and Patrick, then Molly. He was probably thinking he'd rather have his arms around his own wife and children. But they were gone, and this was the only family he had left except his sister Hannah. Molly almost felt sorry for him.

“Hello, Clyde. Welcome back,” she said as they walked to the porch, though she didn't feel very cordial.

“Here, you sit here in the swing next to Molly,” Mother Russell told him. “I'll run in and get us something to drink. Come help me, Patrick.”

Amazed that Mother Russell had offered to fetch refreshments instead of ordering her to, Molly sat stiffly beside Clyde. She tried to think of something to say to him as he settled in like a lump, nothing like the lively mischief-maker he used to be. But if he expected her to chatter inanely like his poor wife used to, she'd have to disappoint him.

After what seemed like forever, Mother Russell bustled back carrying a tray loaded with tall glasses of cold buttermilk and some biscuits and fig preserves. “Have a bite to eat, Clyde. Molly and I'll make you a big supper tonight after you tell us all about your adventures overseas. She's quite the cook.”