Alicia Pace - Simple Gone South

It took a second key to make the elevator let him out. Like the ballroom on the top floor, the third floor was no longer used. When Papa was elected judge, he’d had his office furniture moved to his chambers at the courthouse. Later, they had moved it back here. At least that’s what Brantley had been told. For all he knew there was a tattoo parlor set up in there. Unlikely, considering Big Mama’s view of the world, but one never knew.

But no. It wasn’t like it had been, of course. The bookshelves were empty, though boxes marked books sat in neat stacks against the wall. There was no artwork. There were no lamps or family pictures on his desk, but the antique walnut burl wood desk and chair, matching filing cabinets, and credenza had been placed where they had always sat.

There probably wasn’t any candy in the top left hand desk drawer either. Still, Brantley couldn’t stop himself from checking. No, but what was there broke his heart when he thought there wasn’t a piece big enough left to break.

In an ornate walnut frame that matched the furniture was a double matted piece of green construction paper with a purple crayon drawing of a man and little boy. The man was holding what Brantley knew to be a golf club, but could have been a stick or an axe. At the bottom printed in a shaky hand was TO MY PAPA FROM BRANTLEY. Some of the letters were backwards. It had hung in his office and later in his chambers until—well, until then .

Brantley put the picture back in the drawer and then sat down heavily in the chair behind the desk. “Hello, Papa,” he said. “I hope you don’t mind if I sit in your chair. I won’t spin it around. We haven’t talked in a while. I know we usually have these little conversations at the Merritt Cemetery, but I figure you are more here than there. I’m okay, doing pretty good.

“Do you remember when I was little, and you would take me to eat lunch at the diner and then back here to your office? I’d hide under the desk at your feet while you saw clients. You would slip me chocolate stars from Heavenly Confections to keep me quiet. By the time Mama or Big Mama came to get me, I’d be one nasty sticky mess. You always got in trouble.

“I still eat chocolate stars from Heavenly Confections. Miss Clarice is gone now, but Lanie runs the shop. She is a better grandchild than I am.

“I know I say it every time, but I am sorry. I as good as killed you and Mama and I am sorry. I know I tell you this every time too, but I mean it this time. Pretty soon, I am going to find a way to tell Big Mama and Dad what a brat I was that day and how I threw a fit and sassed Mama because I didn’t want to get dressed and come pick you up. If I had done what Mama had asked to do, if I hadn’t made her mad, that car wreck would have never happened. If I could undo it, I would. I can’t. But I can face them like the man you would want me to be. I’ll figure it out.

“It’s no excuse, but it just seems like there is never a right time. Never e nough time. Back when it happened, the day right after the funeral, they packed us up and we went to Ireland for two weeks. When we got back, we flew right into Nashville and they took me straight to Vandy. We didn’t even come back to get all the stuff Mama had been collecting up for my dorm room. They just went to the mall and bought more. And for all intents and purposes I have not been back. Oh, a day or two here and there. Summers, when I was in college and grad school, I took more classes and did internships. Sometimes the three of us travel somewhere for Christmas. It’s hard to make a confession in Jamaica on December 25. I can hear you now. ‘Boy! Do what’s right. And only you can figure out what that is.’ I know what’s right, but if I tell Dad and Big Mama—. Well, there is no if —I will tell them. They have a right to know that wreck was my fault. I will just have to take what comes with it. When the time is right, I will do it.

“And it looks like we are going to have some time. Maybe.”

Suddenly, he had to get out. Out. He couldn’t think about this anymore. He didn’t bother with the elevator. Instead, he took the stairs, two at a time. It was easy. People had gotten progressively taller over time and, consequently, modern steps were deeper. But these steps were old and shallow. Taking two at a time was easy, three maybe a possibility.

But wait. He was out of steps and out the door. The history of steps had done him a good turn, given him something to occupy this mind. Now he needed something else. He leaned against the building to catch his breath. What was that psychobabble phrase?

Go to your happy place.

And suddenly, without thinking, without trying to decide where his happy place might be, he was there . Happy. He was at the country club lifting a forkful of chocolate cake to Lucy Mead’s lips and she was refusing to open her mouth until the last second. She was looking at him fighting a smile, her brown eyes wide, but eventually laughing and pushing her hair off her face. And, finally, he was dancing to “Tupelo Honey” with her in his arms, smelling her scent of chocolate and bourbon.

Who would have thought it? Lucy— after all these years, after that debacle in Savannah so long ago. Relief washed over him. It was like looking at a snarled, complicated maze but realizing the correct path was direct and simple.

It might not be for forever, but what was forever, anyway? Was there even any such thing?

But there was Lucy Mead and she was on his mind.

Text message to Lucy Mead, the Sunday after the Follies, 4:01P.M.:

Brantley here. It was fun seeing you. Headed back to Nashville.

Voicemail, Sunday night, 9:15 P.M.:

“Lucy Mead! This is Brantley. You may be wondering how I got your number. Turns out, it was right in the Christ Episcopal Church Directory, which was right by the phone in the kitchen at Chez Kincaid. Anyway, I’m back in Nashville. Give me a call.”

Text message. Monday, 10 A.M.:

At the airport. Headed to NOLA. Phone will be off. I really enjoyed seeing you this weekend. I’d like to talk to you. I’ll call you later.

After reading that last text, Lucy’s stomach went into a tailspin. She threw a paint chip sampler wheel against her office wall. Why was he doing this to her? Confusing her? He wasn’t supposed to text, wasn’t supposed to call, wasn’t supposed to say he’d enjoyed seeing her. He was supposed to take his ass back to Nashville, reconcile with Rita May, and forget her like he had always forgotten her.

She hadn’t answered the first text because it hadn’t called for an answer. In fact, it could be interrupted as a kiss-off message. After all, in a fit of flirtation, he’d said she’d hear from him. That text was hearing from him, fulfilling a promise. Done; move on. She had been sure she wouldn’t hear from him again—then he’d called. She hadn’t answered because, exhausted from the weekend, she’d gone to sleep early.

Now this. He was going to call tonight. Or so he said.

And why now? Maybe he was bored. Or, since he was in New Orleans, lonely.

Damn it, she could not go though this again. It wasn’t fair. How dare he? Did he think her heart was up for grabs anytime he turned that golden boy smile her way and led her to a dance floor? Maybe he wouldn’t call; probably he wouldn’t. He’d probably forget.

And if he did call, she wouldn’t answer. That would be for the best. Yes.

Voicemail, Monday night:

“Here I am in New Orleans. I’m here to look at a plantation house. Know what’s wrong with this house? Well, apart from the fact that someone married into the family in the ’70s who thought it would be a good idea to turn the bottom side gallery into a ceramics studio. Anyway. It’s the name. Riverview. How predictable. If I had a house worth naming—and I might one day, never can tell—I’d name it Lucy Mead’s Laugh. I can’t think of much better. I’d like to hear that laugh tonight. Call me. Oh, and in case you can’t tell, I’ve been drinking. Just a little. If you’ll call me and tell me your shoe size, I will bring you some tall boots.”