CLEMMIE

Bili Morrow Shelburne

Clemmie

Copyright © Bili Morrow Shelburne 2012

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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4582-0191-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4582-0192-8 (e)

ISBN: 978-1-4582-0193-5 (hc)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012902064

Printed in the United States of America

Abbott Press rev. date:3/12/2012

CONTENTS

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-one

Chapter Thirty-two

Chapter Thirty-three

Chapter Thirty-four

Chapter Thirty-five

Chapter Thirty-six

Chapter Thirty-seven

Acknowledgement

Also by Bili Morrow Shelburne:

Blackbirds and Butterflies

For Ralph: Unforgettable

Chapter One

I felt claustrophobic every time I walked into this room—this place to ruminate while waiting for the omniscient psychiatrist who had no doubt planned my next move.

The tat-a-tat-tat of Miss Yantz’s fingers laboring on her keyboard continued as she delivered a straight-lipped smile over the plastic flowers on her desk. Miss Yantz and I never spoke. She always smiled, and I tried to return the gesture with only spotty success. When Miss Yantz tiptoed to the door by the filing cabinet, that was my cue to walk into the room where Dr. Fitzpatrick would probe my mind and work his magic.

Good afternoon, Clemmie.

Hello.

I must say that shade of blue becomes you.

Thank you.

How is your new medication working?

I’m tired all the time; no energy, but I don’t have insomnia anymore.

The doctor nodded. What was that supposed to mean? Was he glad I didn’t have insomnia? Didn’t he care that I was tired?

I’m frustrated, Dr. Fitzpatrick. I wanted to scream it at him.

I understand. But you’ve been progressing since last week. You must be encouraged by that.

I was, but I’m stuck. I can’t think of anything to write in my journal.

He nodded again.

You must keep in mind that yours is not an easy case. The medication I’ve prescribed may have some slightly unpleasant side effects, but it will help you reach far back into your memory.

The doctor thumbed through notes, gnawing a lower lip, one of his many habits that annoyed me.

In our last session, you were telling me how Roy Hubbard rescued you and your mother.

Roy was our savior. Nothing good had happened in the ten years we had lived in Chicago. Papa died when I was three, leaving Mama and me without much insurance. The weather was savage, and money was in short supply. Roy changed all that.

So he was your financial savior.

He was much more than that. Roy was a big, burly, ursine bundle of laughter and kindness. He brought joy into our lives.

Did you continue to live in Chicago after Roy and your mother married?

Not for long. Roy was offered a position in Georgia, close to Savannah.

No more cold winters. Dr. Fitzpatrick smiled.

That’s right. But our new home was a far cry from what we had expected.

I felt a rush. Maybe the new medicine was helping. I was remembering insignificant details of our trip south. Roy’s green Pontiac was vivid in my mind. So was Mama’s reluctance to take a turn behind the wheel because it had been so long since she had driven. The U-Haul trailer hitched to the back bumper was parked outside the plate glass window of a diner where we stopped for lunch. I could see it clearly.

Clemmie?

Yes.

Are you daydreaming?

No. I’m remembering. I think I could talk for hours.

Ah, but that isn’t what I want you to do. I want you to go to your room and write in your journal. Quick! Quick! Don’t let those thoughts elude you.

The sun was trying to break through a thick cloud cover, but couldn’t quite make it. I knew that feeling, and it beat me down. But as I walked down the bricked path to my dormitory, I could feel tension leaving my shoulders. I couldn’t wait to get to my room and shut out the world. I would sit at my desk by the window and let the words flow the way they had when I wrote in my very first diary, the one Roy gave me for my ten-year-old secret thoughts. The first entry was vivid in my mind:

December 25, 1965

Dear Diary,

This was a very special Christmas. I’ll never forget it if I live to be an old, old woman. We had a delicious turkey dinner, and Roy was a super Santa Claus. I think he must be rich. I had hoped the blue velvet box he gave Mama would have an engagement ring in it, but it didn’t. It held diamond earrings, and Mama got tears in the corners of her eyes when she opened it.

I’ll always keep the memory of my dear papa, but since I can’t have him, I think Roy is a good substitute.

Very truly yours and AMEN,

Clementine Foster

I stared out at the manicured grounds of Still Waters, for once not obsessing about how I came to be here, but dredging up memories of times past.

Mama and Roy were in love and married before spring. I felt like a tag-along.

February 4, 1966

Dear Diary,

We’re a family as of today, and I know Roy is a good catch. He’s crazy about Mama, and I can tell he likes me a lot, too. I’m positive that he would never steal or commit murder, and I don’t think he swears or drinks liquor. Since he has never been married, I wonder if he knows what to do on his wedding night. If he doesn’t, Mama can teach him.

Yours truly,

Clementine Foster

P.S. I think he just figured it out. Good night.

Roy brought home groceries that were delicacies compared to the pots of spaghetti and beans with a hambone that Mama and I were used to stretching for several meals. Just looking at a big bowl of fresh fruit on the table or discovering a candy bar in my lunchbox was a treat, but the real bonus was getting out of Chicago. Roy’s transfer came through in May, and we headed for the sunny South.

The farther south we went, the more alive with color the landscape became. I had never been anywhere in my ten years except Chicago, and the southeast looked like a fairyland to me. We came to a strip of public beach, and Roy pulled off the road. We jumped out of the car, shoes and stockings flying. I dug my toes into the sand and breathed the salty air. The ocean breeze felt like velvet on my skin.

We raced to the water and splashed our Chicago white feet in the surf.

Oh, Roy, this is heaven, Mama said. We’re going to love living in the South. Aren’t we, Clementine?

You bet. I giggled. I’m going to be a beach bunny!

I don’t know what I had expected Savannah to look like. If I closed my eyes, I could imagine the scene from Gone with the Wind when Aunt Pittypat, furiously fanning herself, fled to escape General Sherman and his soldiers. I didn’t remember seeing shiny-leaved live oaks with beards of Spanish moss clinging to their limbs. The city squares were new to me, too. All the houses looked like mansions in the movie, but I had never seen one in real life.

Clementine, Mama said, look at that rose garden! Isn’t it the prettiest thing you’ve ever seen?

Oh, Mama, it is. It looks just like a postcard.

We didn’t have any trouble finding the Mills Insurance Agency. It was on a pretty street lined with big trees. Roy would be selling insurance for the agency in hopes of becoming a manager. The house we would be living in belonged to Mills, and sales people who worked in this particular office had a choice of a company car or one year’s free rent.

Our new home was a shock and a letdown. It wasn’t in beautiful, sleepy Savannah, but on nearby Tybee Island. The house was the last of eight small, weather-beaten clapboard structures, all alike but painted different colors. Ours was dingy yellow.

Roy pulled up in front of the house and looked at Mama with an apologetic expression.

I didn’t know, Emily, he said, raking a hand through his hair the way he did when something didn’t go according to plan. "I didn’t ask for details; all I heard were the words ‘free rent’."

We didn’t have the ocean view I had dreamed about, but a little strip of sand that ran along the bank of Horse Pen Creek.

Mama and Roy had just lugged a bookcase inside, and I was carrying in an armload of clothes. I was halfway up the steps when something caught my eye. It was almost like a shadow. I ducked down to get a better look, but the small dark figure dashed behind a pier and disappeared.

Hey, what are you doing under my house? I said in a proprietary tone.

I ran up the stairs with the clothes, yelling for Roy and Mama, but by the time they got outside, there was no sign of the tiny intruder.

Maybe you imagined you saw someone, these being new surroundings, Roy said.

I didn’t imagine anything. He was here.

People were walking across the grounds to the cafeteria. It was nearly dinner time. How long had I been sitting at my desk? I felt tired, but I must have been sleeping. I had been dreaming, hadn’t I? I rubbed a hand across my cheek, and realized I had been crying, but didn’t know why. Absently fingering the locket, warm against my chest, I wished for Daniel, the quick-witted, tough little black boy I had met under a house on Tybee Island.

Dr. Fitzpatrick wants me to write. How many volumes must I put on paper to get to my last four misplaced years? If I could only talk to Daniel, maybe he could help me sort things out. Or Mama Rae. She’d fuss at me for being so thin, then give me a cup of her special herb tea to sip while I told her my plight. Mama Rae would never interrupt like the doctor, and she would find a way to make me remember. Mama Rae could fix anything.

I went to the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face. The stranger in the mirror looked back at me with sad, defeated eyes. Why couldn’t I get control of myself? My shrink seemed like an enemy, but I knew I needed his help.

I resolve to whip this thing, I said aloud. Gripping the lavatory, I stared at my reflection. Somehow, I had to stop feeling paranoid; it drained me, and made my head hurt. I was not crazy, and I wasn’t considered dangerous. Otherwise, I would be in a room without a mirror or a window.

If I didn’t write something in my journal immediately, everything I had gained would be in the toilet.

March 14, 1978

I have searched my memory back to my father’s death, and have found nothing of import. My life didn’t bloom until Roy Hubbard took over as my father. I want to talk about Tybee Island at my next session. I remember details.

Good afternoon, Clemmie. Dr. Fitzpatrick donned his most pleasant expression.

I nodded and took my seat.

May I see your journal?

I slid the cheap steno pad across his metal desk. It made a scratching noise like someone raking a fingernail down a chalkboard. I clenched my teeth, and felt my shoulders tighten.

The doctor read my entry, raising a bristly eyebrow.

Why didn’t you record details?

I wanted to see if I could retain them. If I am progressing, I want to be aware of it.

I could tell by his body language that he didn’t like my answer.

I caught him up on my recollections, or dreams, or whatever they were.

Can you continue? he asked.

The cottage had two bedrooms, a bath, a kitchen, and a combination living/dining room. The kitchen and bathroom floors were covered with linoleum, and the others were ugly shag that felt damp. The windows wore permanent scum, and green moss clung to the clapboards.

You certainly are adept at recalling details today. He looked pleased, but I couldn’t tell whether or not he was smiling because he fiddled with his mustache as he spoke.

Should I go on?

By all means.

I tried to relax and let my mind wander back in time, hoping the doctor wouldn’t interrupt my thoughts.

We had stocked the cottage and gotten rid of the U-Haul. It was Monday morning, and Roy was off to his new job. Mama and I were scrubbing the place down when we heard a light knock at the back screen door.

How do, a pretty, slight woman said. She was smiling, and the sun illuminated her cocoa skin and pearly teeth. She wore a blue print dress and a red scarf on her head.

Good morning, Mama said.

I’m Delia Grover. The woman smiled. I clean most of these cottages.

I’m glad to meet you, Mrs. Grover. I’m Emily Hubbard. If it’s cleaning work you’re looking for, I’m afraid I can’t help you. I do my own cleaning, as you can see.

Call me Delia. I’m not looking for work. I just wondered if you and your little girl would care for a glass of homemade lemonade. She held up a large thermos.

That’s very neighborly of you, Delia. Come in, won’t you?

It’s nice and cool out here on the back porch by the creek, Mrs. Grover said.

I brought three glasses to the back porch and introduced myself. We sat down on the steps, and Mrs. Grover poured her lemonade without spilling a drop. It had slices of lemon floating in it, and it was delicious.

I have a son ’bout your age, she said to me. He’s nine, but he’s small for his age.

I’m ten-and-a-half. Where’s your son now?

I would have bet anything it was her little rascal I saw under the cottage yesterday.

Oh, he’s aroun’ here somewhere. I hope he’s not into any mischief. He comes to work with me and plays in the sand. She took a sip of lemonade. He prob’ly climbs trees, too.

What’s his name?

Daniel. He’s named for his grandfather.

A strange expression took over Mrs. Grover’s face. She stood up, and a hand flew to her mouth. She glanced first at Mama, then at me. The woman looked horrified!

Oh, she said, swallowing hard.

What is it, Delia? Mama said. What’s the matter?

Please ’scuse me. Mrs. Grover jumped up and started running toward the creek, screeching like a wild woman.

Daniel, I’ve tol’ you and tol’ you!

It was then that we discovered what had upset our visitor. A small boy came wading from the creek, wearing nothing but his birthday suit. He was scrambling to get into his clothes before his mother reached him. He ducked behind some bushes, so the show was over for Mama and me, but we could hear Daniel’s mama giving him what for.

What did I tell you ’bout swimmin’ down here naked as a jaybird?

She grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him.

You made me lose my fish, he spat. Then, he whirled and, escaping his mother’s grasp, took off down the beach.

You’re gonna be losin’ more than a fish when I catch you, boy! I’m gonna take the hide off your scrawny little backside.

I had to hide a grin when Mrs. Grover returned to the porch. She was panting as she climbed the steps.

I ’pologize, she said, gulping air. That chile gonna be the death of me.

No apology is necessary, Delia. Mama laughed. Children are full of surprises.

Late that afternoon I was sitting on the porch while mama cooked dinner. Mrs. Grover and her son were leaving for the day. They walked past our cottage, looking straight ahead.

Hi, Daniel, I called.

Daniel slowed his step, and shot me a quick glance. He grinned and waved, then ran ahead of his mother and out of sight.

I was scouting around the next day when the strangest thing happened. If Daniel hadn’t been wearing shorts and a tee shirt, I would have thought his mother had caught him swimming naked again. He was a blur, rounding the bend of the tree-lined beach. He looked terrified, and darted under our cottage.

I ran to the porch and squatted by the steps.

Daniel?

It was dark under the cottage, but I could see light all the way to the other side.

Daniel, I called again.

Shut up, girl!

At that moment, three teen-aged boys came tearing around the bend. They were looking all around, and one of them pointed in my direction. I scampered up on the back porch as they trotted toward me.

Hey, little girl.

Hey.

I had my foot inside the screen door, and was ready to run inside.

Have you seen a little nigger kid about this tall? He measured to just above his waist with his hand.

I shook my head no, wondering why they were chasing Daniel.

Are you sure?

I’m sure. I went inside so he couldn’t ask any more questions.

As soon as the boys were out of sight, I scooted down the steps.

Daniel, you can come out now.

I didn’t see him as my eyes traveled over the little dunes. Then, without making a sound, his small body dropped from its hidey hole somewhere in the underpinnings of the cottage.

Thanks, he said, brushing cobwebs from his hair and shirt. That was a c-c-close c-call.

Why were they after you?

They’s p-prob’ly mad ’cause I untied they b-b-b-boat.

Why did you do a thing like that?

How’d you l-like it if s-somebody badmouthed your m-mama; called her names?

I don’t think I had ever seen a kid look as mad and mean as Daniel.

Well, I guess I wouldn’t like it a bit.

I sat under the cottage with Daniel, trying to imagine how he felt. He told me that he and his mother lived down the road a piece. We built a sandcastle and destroyed it. Then he said he had to go.

You know how to catch crawfish? he asked.

No. I’ve never seen one up close.

I’ll teach you tomorrow, he promised, and went to find his mother.

I’m afraid our time is up. Dr. Fitzpatrick peered over his glasses at the wall clock.

Chapter Two

I was excited about my progress, and wished that I had someone I could trust to tell about it. It would feel so good to let my recollections flow like water; not worry about leaving out some bit of information Dr. Fitzpatrick might deem important. He wanted me to keep my thoughts nice and neat. Well, I didn’t think in an orderly fashion, and since I had been at Still Waters, most of my thoughts seemed disjointed. Moments ago I was back in Chicago:

I was little, four or five. Mama and I were snuggled together on the sofa. We were looking at her shoebox of photographs. That was a favorite pastime on winter nights. Mama entertained me with a purpose: keeping papa alive in my memory. Each picture was a page out of his life.

I didn’t remember coming to Still Waters, or how I got here, but the shoebox was in my luggage. The only time Papa entered my mind was when I took the box from my closet to pull out one of his photos.

I felt groggy. I’d fallen asleep. That was happening frequently since the doctor changed my medication. If I didn’t hurry, I would miss dinner. I pulled on a pair of jeans and a sweater and headed for the cafeteria.

My eyes roamed the room as I filled my tray, and I recognized the back of Maria’s head by her sleek black hair. She was seated alone. We had a nodding acquaintance, and had shared several meals.

May I join you? I asked.

I’d love the company.

I unloaded my tray and sat facing her. She was one of the few people I had met who appeared somewhat normal. We made small talk while forcing down the institutional food. What else could virtual strangers do? Neither of us was going to bare her soul to the other, especially in a place like this. Maria had once made a vague reference to her past, but nothing that invited admittance into her world.

Have you met John? she asked.

I don’t think so.

Here he comes now; the one in the wheelchair. John is such a sweet man. Everyone loves him.

I wanted to ask why he was here, but didn’t.

He has Down’s syndrome, but that has nothing to do with his being here. I understand he suffers from depression and has some sort of fits.

The only person I had seen having a fit was the old woman called Emma. She nearly put me in a state of shock the first time I encountered her. I’d been napping. When I awoke, she was standing over me, staring.

At first, I didn’t know where I was. Then I was overtaken by fear. The beginnings of a panic attack were manifesting themselves: racing heart, heavy limbs, and a feeling of helplessness. I snapped the rubber