Read Online Summer in the South by Cathy Holton - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Cathy Holton
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showing her the elementary school he had attended or the creek where he first learned to fish for crawdads, he remarked quietly, “It’s a great place to raise a family.”
He was proud of his hometown, Ava could see, and she regretted now the times she and Michael had teased him at Bard about being from Hambone, Tennessee, the Chitlin’ Capital of the South. He had taken their teasing with a great deal of good-natured resignation but she realized now, having witnessed the courteous way Southerners treated one another, that he must have been appalled by their lack of manners and knowledge of geography.
They turned onto the highway and crossed the bridge over the river, following the route Ava had taken earlier.
“This is the old road to Longford,” he said. “It used to take almost a day of hard traveling by wagon to get to town. Now it only takes ten minutes.”
She stared at the green fields and the distant rim of blue mountains. “What’s a vivisectionist?”
He glanced at her and then back at the road, his expression a mix of annoyance and mild amusement. “I see you’ve been talking to the aunts about Great-Uncle Jerome.”
“They’ve been filling me in on some of the sordid family history. So what’s a vivisectionist?”
“Someone who dissects living organisms to see how they work. In the 1840s dissection of a human body was illegal, so doctors had to make do with what they could scrounge up—dogs, cats, birds.”
Ava said, “Isn’t that what serial killers do?”
He laughed, and she was glad to see laugh lines crinkling the corners of his eyes. She was anxious to recapture some of the free and easy camaraderie she had felt with him at Bard. He had seemed like such a good sport to her then: shy, self-conscious, but intelligent and quietly humorous, too. The kind of guy she never would have fallen for in college.
In college she and Michael had teased each other cruelly. He insisted that he could always spot a girl with “daddy issues” because she invariably kept cats. (Ava didn’t particularly like cats but she had rescued a big black-and-white feline named Figaro her freshman year). She claimed she could always spot a “good” man by how he treated his mother. (Michael sulked and refused to speak to his mother when she denied him anything. He could go months without talking to her.)
Their relationship had been less like a love affair and more like a fight to the death.
Will had laugh lines around his eyes, but Ava had no way of knowing how he had treated his mother. She had died when he was six. Josephine had been a surrogate mother, he once told Ava. After his parents died and he came to live with the aunts, it was Josephine who helped him with homework, played ball with him in the yard, and volunteered as a den mother for his Cub Scout troop. Fanny and Maitland were always away, traveling the world.
And his conduct toward Josephine, Ava had noted, was one of courteous and respectful affection.
“And why in the world didn’t you tell me you were related to Zelda Fitzgerald?”
He gave her a mocking, martyred look. “Oh, God,” he said.
“Despite the fact that it is universally accepted that Zelda was crazy as a loon, they seem to prefer to call her breakdowns ‘nervous spells.’ ”
He laughed again. “It’s all a matter of perspective,” he said.
They had stopped at a railroad crossing at the edge of a soybean field for a slow-moving train. He put the windows down and they sat for a minute listening to the pleasant rumbling, feeling the warmth of the sun on their arms.
He put his head back and closed his eyes. “How do you picture it?” he asked.
“Picture what?”
“Longford.”
“Oh, I don’t know.” She slipped her feet out of her sandals and put them up on the dash, hugging her knees. “Kind of like Tara, I guess. A big white house with columns across the front and girls in hoop skirts on the lawn.”
He smiled indulgently, keeping his eyes closed.
He was proud of his hometown, Ava could see, and she regretted now the times she and Michael had teased him at Bard about being from Hambone, Tennessee, the Chitlin’ Capital of the South. He had taken their teasing with a great deal of good-natured resignation but she realized now, having witnessed the courteous way Southerners treated one another, that he must have been appalled by their lack of manners and knowledge of geography.
They turned onto the highway and crossed the bridge over the river, following the route Ava had taken earlier.
“This is the old road to Longford,” he said. “It used to take almost a day of hard traveling by wagon to get to town. Now it only takes ten minutes.”
She stared at the green fields and the distant rim of blue mountains. “What’s a vivisectionist?”
He glanced at her and then back at the road, his expression a mix of annoyance and mild amusement. “I see you’ve been talking to the aunts about Great-Uncle Jerome.”
“They’ve been filling me in on some of the sordid family history. So what’s a vivisectionist?”
“Someone who dissects living organisms to see how they work. In the 1840s dissection of a human body was illegal, so doctors had to make do with what they could scrounge up—dogs, cats, birds.”
Ava said, “Isn’t that what serial killers do?”
He laughed, and she was glad to see laugh lines crinkling the corners of his eyes. She was anxious to recapture some of the free and easy camaraderie she had felt with him at Bard. He had seemed like such a good sport to her then: shy, self-conscious, but intelligent and quietly humorous, too. The kind of guy she never would have fallen for in college.
In college she and Michael had teased each other cruelly. He insisted that he could always spot a girl with “daddy issues” because she invariably kept cats. (Ava didn’t particularly like cats but she had rescued a big black-and-white feline named Figaro her freshman year). She claimed she could always spot a “good” man by how he treated his mother. (Michael sulked and refused to speak to his mother when she denied him anything. He could go months without talking to her.)
Their relationship had been less like a love affair and more like a fight to the death.
Will had laugh lines around his eyes, but Ava had no way of knowing how he had treated his mother. She had died when he was six. Josephine had been a surrogate mother, he once told Ava. After his parents died and he came to live with the aunts, it was Josephine who helped him with homework, played ball with him in the yard, and volunteered as a den mother for his Cub Scout troop. Fanny and Maitland were always away, traveling the world.
And his conduct toward Josephine, Ava had noted, was one of courteous and respectful affection.
“And why in the world didn’t you tell me you were related to Zelda Fitzgerald?”
He gave her a mocking, martyred look. “Oh, God,” he said.
“Despite the fact that it is universally accepted that Zelda was crazy as a loon, they seem to prefer to call her breakdowns ‘nervous spells.’ ”
He laughed again. “It’s all a matter of perspective,” he said.
They had stopped at a railroad crossing at the edge of a soybean field for a slow-moving train. He put the windows down and they sat for a minute listening to the pleasant rumbling, feeling the warmth of the sun on their arms.
He put his head back and closed his eyes. “How do you picture it?” he asked.
“Picture what?”
“Longford.”
“Oh, I don’t know.” She slipped her feet out of her sandals and put them up on the dash, hugging her knees. “Kind of like Tara, I guess. A big white house with columns across the front and girls in hoop skirts on the lawn.”
He smiled indulgently, keeping his eyes closed.
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