Chapter One

Ida Trueluck

 

Losing a lifetime’s collection of belongings is like taking away all your mirrors and no longer knowing what you look like. Three weeks ago, I moved in with my son and his family on Queen Street in downtown Charleston, South Carolina. I now inhabit a lovely room on the second floor overlooking the backyard, with only enough space for a handful of my favorite things. The rest I had to sell or give away. Something that was much harder to do than I imagined.

From my bedroom door, my granddaughter Trudy studies me as though she is an archaeologist, and I am an artifact unearthed from another time. Ancient. Yet not quite mummified. I reach for the shoes I took off the evening before. At least nothing ever gets lost in this small space. Not even my glasses, which I managed to displace at least once a day in my spacious old house.

In the corner of my bedroom, I sit in my favorite armchair, the one with the magnolia print that used to be in our living room—Ted’s and mine—next to a fig tree whose growth exceeded my expectations. After forty years together, Ted and I had refined a sense of comfort, like me and this old chair, at times feeling like one person instead of two.

“Are you thinking about Grandpa again?” Trudy asks.

My granddaughter is curious and observant, and I am convinced that someday she will do great things. Of course all grandmothers think their grandchildren are special. That’s part of the job, isn’t it?

The last time she caught me sniffling, I confessed to thinking about her grandfather. Will I ever stop grieving? It has been over a year since he passed, and I still expect him to walk in the door any minute and ask me what’s for dinner.

“Actually, I was thinking about how your Grandpa Trueluck and I met. Have I ever told you that story?”

With the effortlessness only possessed by someone twelve years of age, Trudy dives onto my four-poster bed and props her head up on one arm, ready to listen. We have already had several heartfelt talks over the last three weeks with her in this same position. If not for Trudy, my moving here would present a much harder transition.

“Tell me,” she says. Trudy wears a summertime outfit: shorts and sleeveless blouse, her sneakered feet not touching the bed.

“It was at the Mayberry Club,” I begin. “It doesn’t exist now, but back then it was a place downtown where you could go and listen to music and dance. It was where I first learned to dance the Charleston.”

I look over, expecting her to be impressed, but my reference appears lost on her.

“Our city had a famous dance named after it,” I say to educate her. “It was a craze back in the twenties.”

To Trudy, forty-years ago must seem like the Middle Ages, but to my relief, her interest doesn’t appear to wane.

“When I saw your grandpa that first time, goosebumps danced up my arms,” I continue.

She sits up and rubs her arms as though inheriting the goosebumps.

“Oh, Trudy, I’d never seen such a handsome man in my entire life,” I continue. “Tall. A sparkling smile. A twinkle in his eye.” A sigh, filled with history, escapes me. “We were married a year later,” I add.

Trudy lays back, her arms folded underneath her head as though imagining our meeting. She was really quite close to her Grandpa Trueluck.

“We never stopped dancing,” I begin again. “Over the years we slowed down a great deal, but we never stopped. Every evening before we went to bed, we danced cheek-to-cheek in our living room. A slow rendition of ‘Tea for Two,’ with your grandpa singing the words softly in my ear.”

Cross-legged now, she says in a half-whisper, “I saw you two dance once. I was spending the night, and you thought I was sleeping.”

“You saw us?” I smile.

She nods.

I stand and close my eyes, swaying to imaginary music. I feel my husband’s breath tickling my ear. When I open my eyes and realize that I am not in my home of forty years, but in an upstairs bedroom in my son’s house, my eyes mist. Trudy crosses the room and puts her arms around me.

“Everything will be okay, Nana Trueluck,” she whispers, sounding older than her years. She always adds the Trueluck to my name as though I am one of a dozen grandmothers she possesses and needs to keep them all straight. But perhaps she simply likes the way it sounds.

“I’m supposed to comfort you, not the other way around.” My voice wobbles over the words.

“We’ll take turns,” she says.

A voice yells upstairs, causing us to part.

Abigail—Trudy’s mother, my daughter-in-law—isn’t exactly pleased with the new living situation, even though she pretends everything is fine. A behavior practiced by southern women from birth until the grave. This morning at breakfast, Trudy and I were asked to deliver one of Abigail’s pies to Callie’s Diner where she sells them. A plot, I believe, to get us both out from underfoot so she can watch As the World Turns in peace. Yet Trudy and I are not ones to have to be coaxed out of the house.

Trudy leads the way downstairs, and we enter the kitchen, steamy from baking. Charleston in summertime can reach oven temperatures. At least it feels that way. To not have my own kitchen anymore is strange. And as far as I can tell, Abigail’s domain is not to be shared. At least not yet.

A small vase of summer roses sits on the kitchen table. It reminds me of my plan to pick up flowers while on our errand. Flowers on the table in front of my bedroom window might make me feel more at home. I miss my garden’s display: my beloved tea roses, hyacinths, moonflowers, and star jasmine. A flowering that extends six months of the year.

“Trudy, please don’t slouch,” Abigail says.

My granddaughter straightens her spine long enough for her mother to approve and then resumes her usual position. Abigail’s posture is as straight as a Charleston lamppost. She wears a dress, though it is a weekday, just in case someone drops by. The only time I have ever seen her wear pedal pushers or the occasional pair of shorts is at the beach, and even then she looked dressed up.

Abigail gives me a sideways glance as though she has heard my thoughts. “Are you going out like that?” A smile is attached to the question as though to camouflage the criticism. A comment I doubt she would have shared if my son, Ted Junior, weren’t already at work.

To Abigail, appearances are everything. They used to be important to me, too. But after Ted Senior passed, I got tired of wearing black. I wanted more color. The latest addition to my wardrobe is what I call my gypsy skirts. Skirts of my own creation, made with special order fabrics that are airy and have a flower pattern to remind me I still have some life left in me.

For Abigail’s benefit, I give a geriatric twirl to show off the complete outfit: gypsy skirt with large purple and green flowers, a short-sleeved white blouse, and white high-top sneakers to accentuate my skinny legs.

She doesn’t look amused and hands Trudy a lemon meringue pie, one of Abigail’s specialties, boxed and tied with twine. She makes spectacular pies—apple, peach, and lemon meringue—but if baking and child-rearing hadn’t called her, Abigail would have made a good nun. The kind that carries rulers and occasionally raps knuckles.

“Please, get it there in one piece,” Abigail says to Trudy, tossing a glance at both of us.

“We will,” I say in a sing-song voice, sounding more jovial than I feel, though I doubt I have fooled anyone.

Once Trudy and I leave the house, the smell of salt water overtakes us. A reminder that not only Charleston Harbor, but the Atlantic Ocean is nearby. Trudy and I walk down Queen Street and take a right onto East Bay. Callie’s Diner is a few blocks away on Broad Street. Mid-morning, the June day is already sticky. If I hadn’t lived in the Lowcountry my entire life, I might find it oppressive, but this June heat is nothing compared to what will come in July and August.

It is the first day of Trudy’s summer vacation, and she has a lightness to her step, full of possibility.

“Any big plans this summer?” I ask.

She grins in my direction. “Not yet,” she says as though confident something will present itself.

I think of my summers as a girl and wonder what happened to my adventurous spirit. My family lived near a coastal waterway. With Maisie—my best friend throughout grammar school—I made forts, treehouses, and driftwood rafts that sunk as quickly as we released them onto the marsh. Entire days were spent on Sullivan’s Island or Folly Beach building sandcastles while my family’s maid, Sweeney, watched us from under an umbrella—barefoot, yet still wearing her uniform.

My mother’s properness makes Abigail’s seem tame in comparison. I remind myself to give Abigail a chance. After all, she did let me move into her home—although I imagine Ted Junior had to do a great deal of convincing before she agreed.

As Trudy and I walk east toward Broad Street, the sun rises above the buildings. Trudy holds her head high as though open to anything the world has to offer. I wonder if I ever possessed the confidence she has. At my age, it feels like I am closing instead of opening, a flower near the end of its bloom, its sweet aroma threatening to turn bitter in the sun.

At least I haven’t lost all of my color, I think to myself, glancing at my skirt.

Imitating my granddaughter I lift my chin with renewed hope. Perhaps it isn’t too late for this old broad to have an adventure, too.