Secrets on Cedar Key (15 page)

O
liver greeted me as I walked into the foyer, tail wagging, a ball in his mouth.

I ruffled the top of his head. “Not now, boy,” I said and headed to the family room.

My mother was sitting in her chair, legs on an ottoman, her head back, eyes closed. For a brief second fear shot through me.

“Mom?” I questioned, and when she didn't move, my fear turned to panic. “Mom?” I yelled.

Her eyes popped open as her head turned in my direction.

“Oh . . . Marin. I must have dozed off,” she said, sitting up straighter.

“Are you okay?” I walked toward her and noticed that the memorial card of Maybelle was in her lap.

“Yes, I'm fine. You don't need to worry. I didn't sleep very well last night.”

I nodded. “Thinking about the memorial today?”

“Yes, that was part of it.” She let out a deep sigh. “But I think the time has come to share something with you. I have a story that I'd like you to hear. Maybe you could make us a cup of tea first.”

“Of course,” I said, curiosity tugging at me. “I'll let Oliver out while I get the tea ready.”

I headed to the kitchen, opened the French doors for Oliver, and filled the kettle with water. What on earth was this about? I wondered. Was my mother ill and she hadn't told me? No, she'd said it was a
story
. I smiled as I reached for the mugs from the cabinet and placed an herbal teabag in each one. When I was little, she used to tell me stories all the time. My mother was a great storyteller. I still recalled her washing the kitchen floor on her hands and knees and, when she was finished, saying, “Now, no walking on the floor, Marin, until it's dry.” And that's when I'd beg for a story. We'd sit side by side on the chairs that had been moved from the kitchen into the family room while she'd go back in time and tell me about various events from her own childhood, growing up on Cedar Key. The one that had always made the greatest impression was about my grandmother, when she was pregnant with my aunt, Sybile. It was a hot and humid day and she was at the beach at City Park. She must have ventured in too far, had never been a good swimmer, and being top-heavy with pregnancy, she fell and began thrashing about. Mr. Russell, a huge, burly man, built like a wrestler, ran in, scooped my grandmother under one arm, and brought her to safety. That was how my aunt came to be named Sybile—that was Mr. Russell's wife's name, spelled with an
e,
and as a thank-you, the name was passed on.

The whistling kettle brought me out of my thoughts. I poured water in the mugs, let Oliver back in the house, and joined my mother in the family room.

“Thank you,” she said, as I placed the mug on the table beside her.

I settled on the sofa across from her and waited.

After a few moments, she said, “First, I want you to know that I'm very happy for you about purchasing Maybelle's house. I know I seemed hesitant and not very encouraging, but it was never about you buying a house or moving out of here. I'm afraid it all has to do with something concerning
me
.”

Her? Now she really had my attention.

“Nobody knows the story that I'm about to tell you. There didn't seem to be any purpose for me to pass it on, but now . . . I feel the time is right to share it with you, because . . . well, for a number of reasons, I just do.” She took a sip of her tea before continuing. “In order for you to understand the entire story, I need to go back to the beginning. Years ago I had a friend who also grew up on this island, Annalou Carter.”

“Annalou?” I questioned. I knew about Flora and Polly and Raylene and all the other women my mother had grown up with, but never somebody named Annalou. “Who is she? You've never mentioned her name before. Where is she now?”

My mother shook her head as she lifted a hand in the air. “No, I never have mentioned her to you, until now. Let me tell her story.”

Just as I'd done when I was a child, when I asked too many questions during the telling of the story, I clamped my lips shut and sat back on the sofa, letting my mother go on.

“I knew Annalou from the time I can remember. We started first grade together, and although we both had other friends as well, we were
best
friends. We liked the same games, the same books, the same things to do after school. Annalou's father passed away when we were in third grade. He was a fisherman, like my daddy. Mr. Carter was on his way to Jacksonville to sell his fish and was killed in a fatal car accident. It was tough for them when he was alive, financially, but when he died it became almost downright impossible for Mrs. Carter and Annalou to survive.”

I took a sip of tea and had no idea where this story was going, but I already knew it was not going to have a happy ending.

“Mrs. Carter tried to pick up work here and there, but things were tough everywhere. It was the war years and money was scarce. People on the island tried to help as much as they could, donating food and clothes to them, but times were tough for them too. About a year later, a man came to the island from Alabama—John Paulson. Mrs. Carter began dating him, and within a few months, they were married. He was a fisherman, so when he worked, there was some extra money, but he was also a drinker. He moved into the house with Annalou and her mother . . . the house that Maybelle Brewster bought in the sixties . . . Safe Harbor.”

“Oh, my God,” I said, leaning forward on the sofa. “The house that
I'm
buying?”

My mother nodded. “It was never a happy home. He was abusive to Annalou's mother. She was seen around town with black-and-blue marks on her face and arms, the results of his drunken anger. By the time we were thirteen or fourteen, Annalou tried to stay away from the house as much as possible, coming to my house to spend the night and have dinners.”

“Didn't anybody do anything? Like report him to the cops?”

“Oh, yes, many times. But the cops would get out there to the house and Annalou's mother would deny he had abused her. She wouldn't press charges. Think about it, Marin—where on earth could she have gone? She was barely making it on her own before she married him, so she knew it was a dead-end road. No education, no job skills. You have no idea how many women endured exactly those kinds of lives back then. They had very few choices.”

I shook my head. How pathetically sad. I thought of Berkley's mother, who had also been a victim of domestic abuse, but at least she hadn't married Berkley's father. She'd had the strength to get away and raise Berkley on her own—but she'd also had a year of college and a mother who was able to help her.

“And that's why you hate that house so much? Because it brings back bad memories of Annalou's stepfather?”

“Yes, that's part of the reason, but there's more to the story. Could you make us another cup of tea?” she asked, getting up and walking toward her bedroom. “I need to get something.”

When I returned with our tea, I saw that my mother had a small, wooden chest in her lap.

After taking a sip from the mug, she resumed her story. “Annalou and I remained friends through high school. I knew she wasn't happy living at home. When we were younger, I think she hoped that her mother would leave her stepfather, make him move out—do something to protect them and change the way they were living. But she never did. So Annalou began counting the days till we graduated. She was determined to leave that house and make something of her life, even though her mother never did. She learned to type in high school, and her hope was to go to Jacksonville or Tampa to secure a job as a secretary. She used to say that we could go together, share a room, and be roommates.”

My mother paused and let out a sigh as her hand stroked the chest in her lap.

“But that didn't happen?” I asked.

She shook her head. “No, it didn't. The summer after we graduated, she came to my house one evening after supper. I could tell she was upset and figured another outburst had occurred with her mother and stepfather. She said she needed to talk to me—outside of my house. So we walked out back to the dock, and as we sat there, our legs dangling over the edge, Annalou told me that she needed my help. She said she hated to ask me, but she had nowhere else to turn.”

My mother paused again, and I knew this story was very difficult for her to share, but for some reason, she felt compelled to do so.

“And that was when she told me she was pregnant. About eight weeks along. Annalou dated a few fellows, but she didn't have a serious boyfriend, so her news was quite shocking to me. In addition to that, in 1953 most girls that did get pregnant out of wedlock were considered fast or cheap. They flirted with the boys, wore provocative clothes—and Annalou was just the opposite. Friendly, but quiet, and what we called back then a
good girl
.”

“And what happened?” I asked softly.

My mother cleared her throat. “The help that Annalou requested from me? She wanted me to go with her to get an abortion. We were all so innocent back then—I think I was probably more shocked about this than about the actual pregnancy. So I tried to reason with her. I told her she had to tell her mother; the father of the child would be held liable; she wouldn't be forced to marry him. I told her abortion was illegal, that she couldn't take a chance with some back-alley abortionist. But she told me that she knew of a doctor in Tampa, a well-regarded doctor who did this in privacy to help girls like her. She assured me the procedure would be done in his office, with a nurse present, under sterile conditions. But I still tried to change her mind, telling her that it wasn't a good choice, that she could end up bleeding to death, trying to come up with all kinds of reasons why she shouldn't do this, with the limited knowledge that I had. But she was adamant. When she left me that evening”—my mother paused to dab the moisture in her eyes— “she said to me, ‘Are you sure, Dora? Are you sure you won't go with me? I really need you.' And because I judged her, because I thought her decision was wrong, because I thought I understood when I couldn't begin to understand, and because I was too young . . . I said, ‘No, Annalou. We'll work this out. Together. But I can't let you do this and I can't go with you.' She leaned over to hug me, kissed my cheek, and left. That was the last time I saw Annalou.”

I assumed Annalou went alone, had the abortion, and died from complications, but that wasn't how the story ended.

My mother wiped her tears with a tissue and shook her head. “No, she didn't get the abortion. The next day the entire town was stunned to learn that Annalou Carter's body had been found near the water in back of their house, a gunshot wound to her head, the gun still gripped in her fist.”

My hand flew to my face and I heard myself gasp. “Oh, my God! She committed suicide?”

My mother nodded. “That's what the official report said.”

“Did the coroner or anybody ever relate that she was pregnant?”

“No. If they knew, that information was never released. It died with Annalou.”

I reached over to give my mother's hand a squeeze. “How terribly, terribly sad. To think that being an unwed mother was so humiliating for her that she would take her own life.”

I saw a look of profound sadness cross my mother's face. “That wasn't the reason,” she said as she opened the wooden chest and removed an envelope yellowed with age. “You need to read this. I received it in the mail the day after Annalou died.”

I reached for the envelope and carefully removed the letter. It had been written with a fountain pen, not a ballpoint, and the small, precise script covered the page. I glanced at my mother and then began to read,

I saw the signature
Annalou,
swiped at the tears now falling down my face, and shook my head. I couldn't begin to comprehend the guilt my mother must have felt. An eighteen-year-old girl hit full force with the reality of life.

I replaced the letter in the envelope and passed it to my mother as I got up to kneel beside her, taking both her hands in mine. “I'm so sorry. So sorry that you had to endure something like this.”

“It was a life lesson, Marin. Oh, I'm not saying it was easy. It took me years to try to let go of the guilt, but what I learned has steered my course through the rest of my life. I believe I held the most guilt because I thought
I
knew what was best for Annalou, but I truly didn't understand at all. It wasn't up to me to judge her, but I did. It wasn't like it is today, Marin. Women have choices today, and they're legal choices. Poor Annalou had no such choice in 1953. I'm not saying that I condone abortion—but I am saying I very strongly support each woman in making her own choices.”

I nodded and began to comprehend what she said. “This isn't just about that house, is it? You told me all of this so that I'd better understand forgiveness, didn't you? Forgiveness of Andrew—and his choice not to tell me about Fiona.”