Read Online In Her Day by Rita Mae Brown - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Rita Mae Brown
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before Adele could answer she ran up the steps and into the train.
Richmond, like an ageing empress, surviving her emperor, glowed on the Virginia landscape. Other Southern cities surpassed her. They were bigger, livelier, lovelier, but children of the South still paid homage to the Capital of the Confederacy. A grandmother who had seen siege, death, and defeat, she dispensed her wisdom to anyone with eyes. Generations later the scars intertwined with new roads, new buildings, but Richmond’s wounds were never completelyvealed. The South was and remains a battered nation. Richmond will always rest next to the deepest of those wounds. As Carole walked the platform toward her waiting brother, Luke, Richmond filled her, opened her own very personal wound. It was as though she had never left this place and yet it was different. Luke walked down to her, kissed her, picked up her bags, and drove her home in his pride and joy, a 1955 Chevy, only three years old.
The usual funeral extravaganza made Carole all the more determined to die on a remote island where no human could embarrass her into the afterlife. Smothered as the casket was with gladiolas, Carole swore she could smell burned flesh. Such nearness to death in its tactile form terrified her. Margaret, sparkling, so pretty, so full of the devil, reduced to unrecognizable, stinking meat.
Mother bore the whole social consequences of death with dignity. Carole stood by her, wondering at the woman’s patience. You can only hear tidings of consolation repeated so many times before you’re ready to snatch the damned black veils off their shining hats and stuff them in their mouths. Luke stayed mute for the proceedings. Overwhelmed by emotion he took a typical male retreat and drank alarming quantities of whiskey. He was of no use whatsoever to Mother. She bore him as well as her sadness. Carole stayed on a week, looking after her mother and finally smashing all of Luke’s damned bottles of booze on the side of his 1955 Chevy. Half in the bag Luke heard the tinkling of glass and roared out of the house.
“What in the goddamned hell do you think you’re doing, Carole Lee?”
“Are you so snookered you can’t see?”
“I’ll go buy more,” her older brother flared.
And I’ll smash every damn one I find.”
“I ought to wipe that smile off your face.”
“Go ahead, asswipe. You can beat me up but brother I am going to hurt you bad while you do it.”
Luke shifted, his arms dropped to his sides. He was eight years older than his sister. Margaret had been three years older than Carole. A World War II veteran, Luke was an American contradiction: he worshipped violence but he feared death. Margaret’s death upset him more than the organized brutality of his infantry days in the European theater. That was war and bad as it was Luke had a place for it. But Margaret, a sister he loved, a sister he helped raise—the death of that adored person was beyond him. He had no place for such pain and no one warned him such a pain existed.
“Did you scratch my car, you little shit?”
“Come and see for yourself, turd.”
At the sound of the word
turd
Luke had to laugh. Both his sisters stood up to him but Carole dipped more frequently into the English language for insults. At least this feigned hostility was better than the pain—for a while, anyway.
“You watch your mouth, Dr. Smartass. Women aren’t supposed to talk like that. Shows what comes of going up there with those damn Yankees.”
“I swore long before I became an immigrant.”
“H-m-m, you’re lucky this car ain’t scratched.”
“How about letting me drive it? I’ll take you for a little ride, hero.”
With a shift of the gears they rambled down the streets and Carole turned toward the rich side of town where she loved to ride along and look at how the other half lived.
“Luke, you must stop drinking. I’ve got to go back tomorrow and return to work. Mother needs you sober. You hear
Richmond, like an ageing empress, surviving her emperor, glowed on the Virginia landscape. Other Southern cities surpassed her. They were bigger, livelier, lovelier, but children of the South still paid homage to the Capital of the Confederacy. A grandmother who had seen siege, death, and defeat, she dispensed her wisdom to anyone with eyes. Generations later the scars intertwined with new roads, new buildings, but Richmond’s wounds were never completelyvealed. The South was and remains a battered nation. Richmond will always rest next to the deepest of those wounds. As Carole walked the platform toward her waiting brother, Luke, Richmond filled her, opened her own very personal wound. It was as though she had never left this place and yet it was different. Luke walked down to her, kissed her, picked up her bags, and drove her home in his pride and joy, a 1955 Chevy, only three years old.
The usual funeral extravaganza made Carole all the more determined to die on a remote island where no human could embarrass her into the afterlife. Smothered as the casket was with gladiolas, Carole swore she could smell burned flesh. Such nearness to death in its tactile form terrified her. Margaret, sparkling, so pretty, so full of the devil, reduced to unrecognizable, stinking meat.
Mother bore the whole social consequences of death with dignity. Carole stood by her, wondering at the woman’s patience. You can only hear tidings of consolation repeated so many times before you’re ready to snatch the damned black veils off their shining hats and stuff them in their mouths. Luke stayed mute for the proceedings. Overwhelmed by emotion he took a typical male retreat and drank alarming quantities of whiskey. He was of no use whatsoever to Mother. She bore him as well as her sadness. Carole stayed on a week, looking after her mother and finally smashing all of Luke’s damned bottles of booze on the side of his 1955 Chevy. Half in the bag Luke heard the tinkling of glass and roared out of the house.
“What in the goddamned hell do you think you’re doing, Carole Lee?”
“Are you so snookered you can’t see?”
“I’ll go buy more,” her older brother flared.
And I’ll smash every damn one I find.”
“I ought to wipe that smile off your face.”
“Go ahead, asswipe. You can beat me up but brother I am going to hurt you bad while you do it.”
Luke shifted, his arms dropped to his sides. He was eight years older than his sister. Margaret had been three years older than Carole. A World War II veteran, Luke was an American contradiction: he worshipped violence but he feared death. Margaret’s death upset him more than the organized brutality of his infantry days in the European theater. That was war and bad as it was Luke had a place for it. But Margaret, a sister he loved, a sister he helped raise—the death of that adored person was beyond him. He had no place for such pain and no one warned him such a pain existed.
“Did you scratch my car, you little shit?”
“Come and see for yourself, turd.”
At the sound of the word
turd
Luke had to laugh. Both his sisters stood up to him but Carole dipped more frequently into the English language for insults. At least this feigned hostility was better than the pain—for a while, anyway.
“You watch your mouth, Dr. Smartass. Women aren’t supposed to talk like that. Shows what comes of going up there with those damn Yankees.”
“I swore long before I became an immigrant.”
“H-m-m, you’re lucky this car ain’t scratched.”
“How about letting me drive it? I’ll take you for a little ride, hero.”
With a shift of the gears they rambled down the streets and Carole turned toward the rich side of town where she loved to ride along and look at how the other half lived.
“Luke, you must stop drinking. I’ve got to go back tomorrow and return to work. Mother needs you sober. You hear
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