Part 22 (1/2)

She tossed her head, causing her hair to fall over one eye, and gave me a smile that was clearly meant to be seductive. I thought she had on lipstick.

She was the sort of child who always made me wince inwardly with distaste, but something about her tickled me.

”Pleased to meet you, too, Britney,” I said. ”What's your talent?”

”I play the juice harp,” she piped.

”Britney, I keep telling you, it's a harmonica. I don't want to hear Jew's harp again,” Gaynelle said. Britney rolled her eyes at me, and I laughed.

”Will you play for me sometime?”

”I could play now. My juice...my harmonica is in Mama's purse.”

”Not today,” Gaynelle said, smoothing the red curls. ”T. C.'s gon' take us to Gilligan's tonight for fried shrimp, and you've got to get a bath and change your clothes. T. C., Mrs. Aiken is-was-married to the doctor that fixed Britney's foot.”

”It's an honor to meet you, ma'am,” T. C. Bentley said. ”That was one fine thing he did for that little girl.”

He was soft-spoken, and looked down as he spoke. A shy biker?

They were turning to leave when Henry drove up in his truck. He did not come in, and I looked past them on the porch to see what kept him. He was squatting on his haunches, running his thin surgeon's fingers over the black bike with the reverence a pilgrim would accord the grail. T. C. Bentley walked out and squatted beside him. I could see that they shook hands, and were talking, but I could not hear what they said.

”That's T. C.'s Rubbertail,” Gaynelle said. ”He just got it last month. It's completely restored. He loves it better than he ever will me. Looks like Dr. McKenzie kind of likes it, too.”

Presently she and the child and T. C. Bentley roared away into the falling dark, and Henry came slowly into the house, looking back at their retreating dust. His cheeks were pink with cold or pleasure or both, and his silver hair fell over one eye.

”He's going to bring a bike for me and let me ride with them one day soon,” he said. ”G.o.d, I wonder if I remember how? He seems like a nice guy. The kid's a little minx, though, isn't she?”

”Did she put the moves on you?”

”Yep. Or what pa.s.ses for moves to a seven-year-old. She's going to be a handful, if she isn't already.”

”I kind of liked her,” I said. ”She's a tough little cookie. Takes after her mama.”

Henry brought Camilla over for dinner. We were having one of Gaynelle's elegant chicken potpies, and the smell of it warming in the oven curled out into the living room as we sat before the fire. Henry told Camilla about T. C. Bentley and his wondrous motorcycle, and about riding with the club.

Camilla's serene face blanched.

”Oh, Henry, no,” she said. ”I can't bear to think of you tearing all over John's Island on one of those things. I'd die of heart failure if you were late coming home. You hear so much about wrecks-”

”Camilla, I rode that Indian of mine like a banshee all over three states. I was pretty good. I think it's like a bicycle; you don't really forget how.”

”Henry, promise me-”

”No promises, Camilla,” he said gently. ”I promise to be careful, but I won't promise not to ride it.”

She looked at him silently and inclined her head in a.s.sent, and then it was time to take the potpie out of the oven.

Around the end of the first week in December we found that we could no longer ignore the blitzkrieg that was Christmas. Trees were for sale at every rural crossroads. Used-car lots on James Island were forested with them. Jaycees begged for toys for tots. When I drove to work on Gillon Street, the palm trees on Broad Street blazed with Christmas lights, and in the old downtown, magnolia wreaths were blooming on every door. At the Rural Center, the Bi-Lo aisles were perilous with stacked displays of lights and b.a.l.l.s and hideous plush toys and banners proclaiming b.u.t.terball turkeys and canned yams. Henry did not mention it, but I knew that he saw the same things. We did not talk about Christmas in Charleston proper. Camilla did not ask about it.

But I knew that it loomed in their minds, as it did in mine. The ghosts of holidays past were powerful. Our last Christmas dinner at the beach lingered on my tongue. The toasts still rang in my ears. The edgy pageant of Lila and Simms repeating their vows before the fire bloomed behind my eyes. The glorious fireworks on New Year's Eve, and then the shock of Fairlie and Henry announcing their retirement to Kentucky...

They started something rolling, I thought. They opened us up and let something in. The voodoo started then.

No. I wanted nothing of the holidays this year.

Apparently no one else did, for Christmas drew closer and closer, and still no one mentioned it. Say its name aloud, folklore has it, and the demon will be summoned to you.

Simms and Lila told us, on a weekend in mid-December, looking rather shamefaced, that they had decided to have Christmas in Charleston this year. Clary and the grandchildren had begged. Please, wouldn't we come and share it with them? We'd all forgotten how grand Christmas in Charleston could be.

It was a fatal rupture, and we all knew it. We looked at each other, and then Camilla said, ”What I'd really love to do is stay here and have a very quiet Christmas. It's a time for remembering. Henry and Anny don't need any commotion on their first Christmas...alone. Why not just let us old widows and widower have one final orgy of remembering?”

I could not suppress a gasp, and I saw Henry's face redden. We stared at Camilla. It was so unlike her to be insensitive that I thought perhaps I had heard wrong. Lila and Simms nodded and looked away, embarra.s.sed.

”We'll be sure to make it for New Year's Eve,” Lila said. But I knew that they wouldn't. Their bodies might be present on the creek now and then, but their hearts had flown back to Charleston. Was it the end of the Scrubs? No. That had happened sometime long ago, while we were not looking, but there remained a powerful bond between Henry and Camilla and me. I could not put my finger on what it was.

When the Howards had gone, Camilla said, ”That was awful of me. I don't know what got into me. I think I was mad at them and just wanted to sting them a little. Forgive me?”

”Of course,” I murmured. Who had ever failed to forgive Camilla?

”Listen,” she said a day or two later. No one had mentioned Christmas again. ”I've been so absorbed in my own wants that it never occurred to me that either or both of you might want to be with your families at Christmas. If that's so, it's perfectly okay with me. I'll rent a dozen adult videos and pile into bed with a gallon of Haagen-Dazs.”

”No, I'll be here,” Henry said. ”Nancy and the children are going to her in-laws. I'd rather spend the day at the periodontist's.”

I don't have any family, not really, not close, I did not say.

And of course, neither Henry nor I would have dreamed of leaving Camilla alone. We still had made no Christmas plans when Gaynelle came for the last time before Christmas.

”Where's your tree?” she wailed. ”Where's the wreath and stuff? Where are Mr. and Mrs. Howard?”

I said, ”They went home for Christmas. I guess the rest of us are just not ready for home yet.”

”Isn't this home?” Gaynelle said.

I flushed with shame. Gaynelle lived from paycheck to paycheck, in a cinder-block apartment building. It must be inconceivable to her that anyone had the riches of another home to go to.

After she had left, I thought, We do have homes. We all do. And this is not them.

I said something of the sort at dinner. Camilla's eyes filled with tears. ”It is for me, now,” she said. ”I had hoped it would come to be for both of you, like we planned. All of us together.”

”Oh, Camilla,” I said, reaching over and squeezing her hand. Henry smiled.

On a late foggy-gray afternoon with Christmas only two days away, T. C.'s black Rubbertail belched into the drive, followed by Gaynelle and Britney in Gaynelle's old truck. The truck wore a lopsided wreath on its grill, and the Rubbertail was strung with tinsel. The truck's bed was covered with a bright red cloth of some sort.

”Uh-oh,” Henry said from the window. ”Elves at eleven o'clock.”

They burst into Camilla's house bearing strings of lights and ropes of glitter and fresh pine boughs smelling as if they had just been cut from the woods. Gaynelle led the procession lugging a great basket covered with a white cloth. T. C. followed, struggling with three hideous small white metallic trees, whose kindred I had seen all month at the BI-LO. Britney brought up the rear dressed in a short red velvet skirt trimmed with dingy fake fur, twirling a glittering baton and singing ”Here Comes Santa Claus” in a grating, whiny treble. I remember thinking that it was a good thing she had the juice harp to fall back on.

”There's no way I'm going to let y'all sit out here by yourselves with no Christmas,” Gaynelle said. ”It's a hard time, the first Christmas you're by yourself. I remember how it was when Randy took off and left us, just before Christmas. I'm not taking no for an answer. You all just sit still and let us put a few things around. You'll be surprised what a difference it makes.”

And so we sat, Henry and I smiling helplessly, Camilla rolling her eyes, while Gaynelle and T. C. and Britney set up the dreadful metallic trees and strung lights on them, piled fresh greens on the mantelpieces, put white electric drugstore candles in every front window, tacked a silver-and-blue metallic wreath on the front door, and hung huge, gaudy felt stockings over the hearth. Gaynelle's piece de resistance was a plastic Nativity scene that she set up on the old William and Mary gateleg table in front of Camilla's window. Jesus, Joseph, and Mary, and the lumpen camels, were bubble-gum pink.