CHAPTER 12 #2
Malily continued. “We each had the book for four months during the year, then passed it on to the next person. That meant we had to chronicle the most important part of our lives for the past year. We kept it for ten years—and we were supposed to have one entry for each of those years. But I hated to write—so I didn’t always do it, which made Annabelle mad.
But I always added a charm—sometimes more than one, which also made Annabelle mad.
She was always about following the rules.
” She was silent for a moment. “When we had our . . . falling-out, we destroyed the scrapbook, each taking our own pages. Josie took hers up to NewYork with her,Annabelle kept hers, and then mine are here. I’ve somehow misplaced my earliest pages, so mine don’t start until nineteen thirty-two when I was thirteen.
But that’s really where my story starts, anyway. ”
Lillian paused and Helen waited, afraid to move or say anything in case her grandmother changed her mind.
Finally, Malily said, “Would you please get me a glass of water? The pitcher and a glass are on the table by my bed. While you do that, I’ll gather up the pages and decide on the best place to start. ”
Helen moved with methodic slowness, not wanting to spill the water or trip and make her task take longer than she wanted.
She crossed the room, counting her footsteps as she’d done since childhood and stopped in front of the chaise.
After her grandmother took the glass from her, Helen sat back on the sofa and made herself comfortable, prepared to listen for as long as her grandmother was willing to talk. And then Malily began to read.
May 10, 1932
I’ve been sick for two weeks. My head aches and my stomach aches and even my teeth ache.
I pretty much hurt all over and I’ve got a bad fever.
I heard the doctor say the word influenza and my papa took him out of the room so fast I could almost think that he hadn’t even been here!
But I am feeling a little better today, so I thought I’d write in this scrapbook if only because I know Annabelle will check to see if I did it when it’s her turn.
It’s boring lying up here in my room by myself.
Nobody’s allowed to visit me and I can’t even think about riding.
Papa said if he caught me near the stables he’d sell my mare, Cimarron.
I know he’s not serious, of course, but I won’t go near Cimarron.
I feel too weak to even think about climbing up on her back again.
May 15, 1932
I feel much better now but Papa refuses to let me leave my bed. All of this lying about has made me so weak I can barely stand. I miss my horse so much—I’m wondering if she’ll even recognize me when we’re finally together again.
I’m still not allowed to have visitors, but Annabelle came today with her father.
Dr. O’Hare convinced Papa that I needed a companion to help me convalesce and that I was no longer contagious.
Of course I knew it was Annabelle’s idea—she always has big ideas—and when her father left her for a long stay, I thought we’d spend the time together in my room with her fetching water for me and fluffing my pillows as I got better.
My excitement didn’t last long because as soon as her father left, she yanked me out of my bed and forced me down to the English boxwood garden that my mother had installed.
Annabelle said it was uninspired and that she was going to teach me how to garden.
She actually gave me a little shovel and made me dig holes in the dirt.
I told her I was too weak from being sick, so she said I could sit while I dug.
I think the garden now looks the same—but now the ground cover is gone and there’re just holes with seeds all over the place.
Annabelle says that’s part of the garden’s secret: that with love and patience we’ll be rewarded with a little piece of heaven here on earth.
To give me some encouragement, she’s going to bring cuttings (whatever that is!) with her the next time she comes.
We worked the entire time and maybe it was spending time outdoors or the actual physical work, but I did feel better by the time Annabelle left.
She said that there are no troubles in life that can’t be sorted out or solved by spending time in a garden.
I didn’t admit this to her, but I think I’m looking forward to finding out if this is true.
Lillian stopped reading and Helen smiled.
“That was nineteen thirty-two so you were thirteen years old. That’s the same age I was when you first dragged me kicking and screaming into the garden shed and gave me a trowel.
” She leaned forward. “I guess that means you found out that what Annabelle told you was true.”
“Yes, I guess I did. And I tried to teach your mother, too, but she wasn’t as good a pupil as you were. You were both unwilling in the beginning, but you seemed to understand very early on the magic of it all. I don’t believe your mother ever did.”
Helen closed her eyes for a moment, remembering the flowers of her first garden, the thrill she’d felt at creating such beautiful life from seed, dirt, and water. She opened them again. “Can you read more?”
She listened as Lillian rustled pages. “I’m embarrassed to say that I didn’t write anything for a while—my next entry doesn’t happen until four years later when I was seventeen.
I don’t suppose I thought those other years were worthy of recording, and I still think I was right.
The awkward adolescent years were difficult to live with while I was going through them.
I can’t imagine that I’d want to relive them in the pages of a scrapbook. ”
“I wish you had. I’d like to hear them.”
“Yes, well, maybe you’ll find this next entry makes up for the lack of earlier pages. My seventeenth year was full of excitement.” With a brief pause, Lillian began to read.
June 4, 1936
Tonight is my come-out party. Because of the “financial troubles” Papa is always talking about these days, I won’t be having the ball at the Oglethorpe Club like he always talked about.
Instead, we are having a formal dinner dance right here at Asphodel Meadows with a guest list of only one hundred.
I told him not to bother, that the heat will be atrocious even with all the windows thrown open in the ballroom and dining room.
And besides, I don’t need a come-out ball.
I’ve already met the man I want to marry, so exposing me to the marriage market is rather moot.
Nevertheless, the announcement of my debut was made in the paper on Mother’s Day and I will be expected at various entertainments up until New Year’s Eve, when I will be officially declared “out” in Savannah society and officially marriageable.
I only wish that I could be as excited as Papa is.
When Annabelle learned that I was going to make my debut (she’s three years older than me but her papa is getting paid in chickens and eggs these days and couldn’t afford a debut season—which was fine with her because, in her words, with the state of the world she had bigger fish to fry right now than finding a husband), she snuck me a copy of The HardboiledVirgin by Frances Newman.
It’s a book that pokes fun at debutantes and Papa would horsewhip me if he knew I’d read it, and would make sure I never saw Annabelle again, but I laughed and laughed while I read it as I recognized me and my fellow debs.
Annabelle helped me select my signature flowers, which I will be wearing on my wrist and which will decorate all the tables.
She chose calla lilies because of my name and because they symbolize regalness—which made me laugh, but they are such beautiful flowers.
Then she chose gladiolus, which represents strength of character.
Papa thought pink and white would be appropriate choices, but Annabelle and I also included bright purple to the order to make a statement.
She’s brilliant with flowers, and I’ve been eagerly learning everything she knows so that one day, when I’m an old matron with twenty grandchildren at my feet, I can work my own garden and be admired all over Georgia for the beauty of my flowers.
Gladiolus is the flower I would have chosen for Annabelle if our roles had been reversed.
She has become her father’s helper as he services the poor, regardless of the color of their skin.
He has made many enemies of his own kind for this, and I know it will forever hurt Annabelle’s chances of making a good marriage, but she wouldn’t have it any other way.
She talks about the inequalities in our society—much of which she’s learned from Freddie, I’m afraid—but she makes actions out of her words.
I’ve only had to lie for her once—when she was late coming back from a meeting with Freddie—and I did it so well that I think that’s what she meant by strength of character.
I didn’t have the courage to tell her that I lied for Freddie, whose punishment would have been much more severe than a father’s disapproval.
I’ve seen Papa going to his “political meetings,” which always seem to coincide with a lynching, and my blood runs cold thinking about the trouble Freddie could cause for not only himself but for Josie and Justine.
My dress is rather lovely, although it was sewn by a local seamstress instead of coming from Paris like Papa had always promised.
It’s all satin and lace with a huge bow that ties in the back, and it makes me look like a child.
But I am no longer a child, no matter how Papa regards me.
Being in love has made me a woman and I know there is no turning back now.