I grew up on the west end of Atlantic Street, which is not on the water, but the tide slaps the seawall just a couple blocks away. My parents’ yellow Charleston single is typical of the houses on this street: spacious but not gigantic, with porches on both stories supported by simple Ionic columns.
The closer to the harbor, the grander the houses become. Many of these single-family mansions have sweeping piazzas, expansive wrought iron balconies, or rooftop widow’s walks, where sea captains’ wives once scanned the horizon for sight of their husband’s ship. Flickering lanterns flank the giant front doors. Sprawling live oaks shade the prosperous streets, their sinuous roots erupting through the slate sidewalks.
I peel a hard left onto South Battery, roll down my grandparents’ oyster-shell path, and lean my bike against the crepe myrtle. Before visiting Laudie, I make my way to the zinnias.
Throughout my summers, while Weezy practiced her front crawl for swim team meets and Caroline sunned by the pool, I worked in the garden with Laudie. She would stoop over her flowers, always zinnias, but she toyed with other varietals, too. One summer we planted delicate cosmos. Another year we grew scaevola nipped from a neighbor’s bush.
When I was very young, it was my job to pick up stray oak leaves that had fluttered on top of the bark-lined beds. When I reached elementary school, she taught me how to weed and showed me how uprooting even healthy flowers can make the others grow hardier. By the time I reached middle school, she gave me my own pair of gardening shears and designated a spot for them in her potting shed. They’re still there.
Over the last few growing seasons, as Laudie’s vigor has waned, her semisecret garden has suffered. Still off-limits to the professional garden service she and Tito employ, her small, wild sanctuary shows signs of neglect. She can’t keep up. In the few weeks since I last checked, weeds crowd the hydrangeas. The twisting tendrils of a jasmine vine meander through our seashell collection. She did plant some impatiens, but she didn’t bury the roots deep enough and they’re not thriving. She knows better. The zinnias still command the center of the garden, but they grow in thick batches. Some have gotten to be so top-heavy they fall over, smothering the new growth. I retrieve my shears from the potting shed and prune the zinnias, cutting some for a flower arrangement, and head inside.
The house is quiet, save for the ticking of the kitchen clock. I put the flowers in water and wander into the living room. Empty. The muted TV broadcasts a golf tournament. Large captions for the hearing-impaired scroll across the bottom of the screen. The screen switches to a commercial for a bladder medication. I turn the TV off and head toward the grand foyer.
Light leaps through the long, vertical windows that flank the main door. Two giant mirrors hang on opposite walls, multiplying the natural sunlight. The mirrors’ gilded frames graze the old heart-pine floors and nearly touch the fifteen-foot-tall ceilings. As I make my way up the stairs, running my hand along the worn banister, I catch sight of my grandmother.
Dusty sunlight slips through the slatted second-story shutters, striping the floor. Laudie stands at the barre, her back toward me. A fuzzy haze frames her silhouette: her long legs, the curve of her hips. She stands in first position—heels together, toes pointed out. Her right hand rests on the barre. Her left, firmly wrapped into its removable wrist cast, extends out into the room. She dips into a plié; a diamond of light flashes between her legs. The armless chair Mom gave her for practicing senior yoga stays unused in the corner.
Since her fall, doctors have said “no ballet,” at least until her wrist gets better. Mom and Tito have told her more than once she should quit for good. I walk around Laudie, careful to give a wide berth to her sweeping, injured hand. “Did Tito come around?”
“We’re not going to tell him.” She raises into a relevé. Her legs tremble, but she manages to stay lifted. “I’m looking forward to our ballet date.”
“I’m guessing we’re not going to tell Tito about that, either.”
She nods.
We didn’t tell Tito when I snuck her out to hear bluegrass at a local brewery. We didn’t tell him when I took her out to try sushi. (She liked the miso soup, but said her nigiri roll tasted raw.) And we definitely kept quiet about the day we sat in the front row at a drag queen brunch. But she’s frailer now, and Tito rarely leaves this house; she’s more closely monitored. Things have changed. Lately, a lot of things have changed. “Laudie, can I talk to you?”
“You can always talk to me.”
“You promise you won’t tell Mom?”
“Simons, we all have our secrets.”
“I’ll take that as a yes.” I trace my foot over a floral medallion on the old Oushak rug. “I’m thinking of calling off the wedding.”
She stops, her feet still in second position. Her attention is completely on me. “I was worried about this.” She reaches for her towel on the barre, gently dabs her forehead.
“What, you thought this might happen?”
She laughs lightly. “You hadn’t picked a venue or bought a dress or done anything the brides do these days. And, Simons, you and Trip live more than one hundred miles apart. It hardly takes a gumshoe.”
“Maybe I just need a separation. Some time apart to think about things.”
“But you’re separated now; you don’t live in the same city.”
I don’t want to be like you and Tito, I want to say. I don’t want to be squeezed into some mold for a model wife. I also want to date and kiss and sleep around, to sow my wild oats, as they say, if that can be applied to women. With a clean break, I could do it all guilt-free. And if it’s a separation, I can always go back to Trip. It gives me options. “What would you do?”
“Well, honey, I can’t make that decision for you,” Laudie pauses, puts the towel back on the barre, “though I do have my thoughts.”
“Just tell me!”
A door slams shut. Laudie checks her watch, still on her right wrist. “Your grandfather just got back from Battery Hall.” She unties her ballet skirt as she hurries to her room to change. She stuffs it deep into a chest of drawers and then slides on a long, Tito-approved skirt. She switches out her canvas ballet flats for her Capezio heels, folds them into her sock drawer, and shuts it tight. She grabs her towel from the barre and hands it to me to hang on a rack in her bathroom. We’ve covered our tracks before Tito makes it to the bottom of the stairs. Laudie hollers down to him, “I’ll be there in a minute.”
When she faces me again, her face is solemn. “Come over next Saturday, but earlier so we have time to talk while Tito is at Battery Hall. It’s time I tell you about Atlanta.”