Sixty-Six—Ivy
S
avannah is the oldest city in Georgia, built by the sweat of indentured servants brought here from Europe by Captain James Oglethorpe. He had a distinctive vision for the land, which today still comprises the original twenty-four public squares. He dreamed of a pedestrian city in 1733, and his dream came true and stays true on this two-square-mile bluff overlooking the river. So said our guide.
I’d dragged Bo onto the trolley tour for a three-hour overview of Savannah’s landmarks and her history. And though he was reluctant about sitting on a bench that had been sat on by four gazillion other tourists before him, he was a pretty good sport. He didn’t touch anything but my hand, and he didn’t lean his elbow on the rail, but he seemed attentive to our guide, and he smiled a lot. And even more so afterwards when we strolled the entire city, square by square—just the two of us. It took most of the day, and we didn’t hurry, and I have to say I saw a side of Bo Sutton that surprised me. He was like a kid in a candy shop—or in Bo’s case—an organic farmers market—genuinely fascinated by it all and not wanting to miss one iota.
When he told me he’d read Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil , I dragged him through the Mercer House. When he told me how unsettling were the short stories of Flannery O’Conner, I showed him where she’d lived on Monterey Square. Bo was particularly interested in SCAD—Savannah College of Art and Design—which had taken over a good chunk of the city with its museums and galleries and student housing complexes. “Bree taught a design class for them,” I’d told him as we walked through Forsythe Park. “And my silly dad even offered to pay for me to go there for four years.”
“But you didn’t go?”
“Bo, it’s an Art school—I admire art, I don’t do art.” I shook my head, thinking of yet another example of how little my dad knew me. “No, Bree was the artist,” I said, reminded suddenly of why we were here in my hometown.
“You doing okay?”
We sat down on a bench near the fountains, and I looked over at him. “I’m fine. My world feels weird, for sure, knowing Mama is not in it anymore. But you are a lovely distraction, Bo Sutton.”
He nodded. “I wish I could stay longer.”
“That makes two of us.”
We had dinner at the Olde Pink House Restaurant, a Savannah icon, which had a Zagat’s rating of exemplary and no current citations by the health department. Bo called them. Whatever they said reassured him enough that we were able to enjoy a lovely—and very expensive—dinner on reportedly sterile china. And there was candlelight. It was very romantic, and I didn’t want it to end.
As we strolled back to Chippewa Square, I said, “So, how do you like my city?”
Bo looked around and smiled. “I could get used to your city,” he said. “It’s not like anywhere I’ve ever been. Course, I’m not much of a traveler, so I haven’t been many places.”
“Well, you could be,” I said. “I’d love to travel.”
Bo squeezed my hand but didn’t say anything.
When we reached the corner of Perry and Bull, I stopped. The crime scene tape was gone, of course, and the ‘Closed’ sign in the window was just as I’d left it. I looked around still amazed that the wide sidewalk gave no hint of who had bled there; in fact, there was no evidence, anywhere, of the terribleness that had happened. It made me sad. Life and business and happy people on vacation went on like nothing had changed…
“Ivy?”
“This is my mama’s shop. This is where I live--lived.”
He turned and took in the gold calligraphy on the glass—Bree T. Creations.
“Ivy…”
I unlocked the front door and turned on the Victorian lamps. A stack of mail lay puddled on the floor under the slot, and I skimmed through it while Bo looked around.
“I had no idea,” he said. “She did all this?”
“Yes. She was very talented.”
“All handmade?”
“Even the paper,” I said. “That was my job.”
“Really? I know a paper-maker?”
“You do.”
He moved close to the wall to decipher a small watercolor set in a hammered copper frame, and another one set in gold and silver twigs. “These are amazing, Ivy.”
“I know. She was good.” I put the mail on the counter. “Her studio is in back. C’mon, I’ll show you.” I led Bo down the back hall and through a set of swinging doors to a big space that boasted two large tables, an assortment of small saws, and shelves and shelves of the materials Bree had used in her projects. On the far wall, there were two deep sinks, stacks of molds, a portable drying machine, sieves, and presses. “That’s everything you need to make paper,” I said. “Oh, and paper—you need paper,” I added, pointing to two barrels. One brimmed with mostly white scraps, store receipts, bills, packaging, and the other was filled with scraps of every color known to man.
The space was a little messy, but Bo seemed to appreciate it, and he didn’t touch anything. Of course.
“Impressive,” he said, looking around. “What will happen to it? ”
“I don’t know. Geneva owns the building. So, I guess she’ll rent it, which is fine. But I think it will be weird having someone else live upstairs. That’s our home.”
“You lived here ?”
“Upstairs. I lived here with Mama, and with Geneva. Two homes.” I smiled.
“Can I see it?” Bo said.
“Of course.”
Upstairs, we took the grand tour. The living room with the me parade on the wall, the kitchen, my room with the lumpy bed, the tiny bathroom one person could barely turn around in, the bigger one in Bree’s bedroom. I made a point of showing him the tallboy in the corner of that bedroom, which was filled with Mama’s jewelry. “We should probably take a look at this,” I said, pulling out a drawer and bringing it to the bed. It was full of chunky necklaces—all unique, many gaudy. Another was filled with nothing but bracelets and rings. A carved box that could hold a ream of paper was filled with more delicate pieces made with precious stones. I found an ancient, bejeweled locket Bree had worn sometimes. In one frame was an eight-year-old me, toothless, laughing. In the other was a picture of my mother at the same age, albeit much prettier, also toothless, also laughing.
Without warning, the faces blurred with my tears, and it took me a minute to reconstitute. Bo must have seen this, because he stood up and wrapped his arms around me. He didn’t try to fix anything; he just let me weep.
“I don’t want to leave you,” he said.
“I don’t want to be left,” I said back.
For a moment, Bo Sutton looked at me the same way he’d looked at me at the cemetery. Finally, he shook his head. “Ivy, I want to explain something to you. For three thousand miles, I imagined I was falling in love with you, worried that I wasn’t capable of that—worried to the edge of hating myself for not being capable of that, and then worried about that to the point that I stowed my medication in the trunk so I wouldn’t eat it like candy.” He held my gaze for a beat, punctuating his meaning.
I swallowed.
“I had stowed it long before I ever reached Tennessee,” he continued. “And the bacterial crisis that was waiting there—it had to do with a plastic chair, and trust me, without my meds, it was a crisis that turned into the worst night of my life. But my pills were in the trunk of my car, and my car was out of reach until the next morning. When they brought it to me at ten to nine—almost an hour late—I hit the road and drove straight to the cemetery where I found you.” He blew out another breath and looked pained. “And when I finally saw you, Ivy, every question was answered, every doubt… gone , just gone, and I knew. I knew I loved you. I knew it, and I knew it with Xanax-free clarity. Do you get what I’m telling you? Everything I said was pure yours truly; I had not taken a pill for more than a day.”
“Bo…”
“And this may sound strange to you, Ivy, but I didn’t know it would mean just as much to me as it does to you to know the absolute—the unfiltered—truth of how I feel. Not until you asked me. And now I know. I meant it when I said I loved you.”
“What about now?”
Bo didn’t answer me. He just slowly leaned in and ever so softly kissed my lips. It was so soft that I hardly felt it, but I felt it completely. Everywhere. And then his eyes closed, and my eyes closed, and we were lost in something that was part hunger and part promise and part pain and like nothing I’d ever felt before.
When it was over, Bo shuddered in my ear. “It’s almost 10:00, Ivy and I have not had a pill since 1:30 this morning, more than twenty hours. And I still love you. I still love you,” he breathed. Then softly, “And you still don’t have to love me back.”
I lifted my head from his shoulder and looked at him. Hard. Then I gently put my hands on his face and pulled him the inch that separated us. “But what if I do?” I whispered. “What if I do love you? What then?”