“She has degenerative heart disease, Joel, and she is not going to get better.”
The thought of Florry dying had never crossed his mind. After losing so many, Joel had blinded himself to the possibility of losing her. “They can’t treat it?”
“They’re trying, lots of meds and such, but it cannot be reversed, nor can it be stopped.”
“But she’s only fifty-two years old.”
“That’s old for a Banning.”
Thanks for nothing. “I’m stunned by how much she aged.”
“She’s very weak, very frail, eats little, though she would like to eat more. I think her heart gets weaker every day. She can go home tomorrow and it would be nice if you stayed the weekend.”
“Sure, no problem. I was planning on it.”
“And you need to have an honest conversation with Stella.”
“Believe me, Miss Twyla, Stella and I are the only ones in our family who have honest conversations.”
An ambulance took Florry home Saturday morning, and she rallied considerably. A fine lunch was prepared in the courtyard. It was a perfect spring day with the temperature inching toward eighty, and Florry was delighted to be alive again. Against her doctors’ orders, she chugged wine and had a full plate of red beans and rice. The more she talked and ate and drank the stronger she became. Her mind sharpened, as did her tongue, and her voice returned to full volume. It was an amazing comeback, and Joel stopped thinking about another funeral.
After a long Saturday afternoon nap, he hit the streets and roamed the French Quarter, which he always enjoyed, though he felt lost without Mary Ann. Jackson Square was swarming with tourists, and the street musicians had every corner. He had a drink at his favorite sidewalk café, posed for a bad caricature that cost him a dollar, bought a cheap bracelet for Mary Ann, listened to a jazz band outside the market, and eventually drifted to the levee, where he found a seat on a cast-iron bench and watched the boats come and go.
In their weekly letters, Joel and Florry had been arguing about whether she would attend his law school graduation in late May. Three years earlier, when his father was about to be executed and the entire family was in disarray, Joel had skipped his commencement service at Vanderbilt. He planned to skip the one at Ole Miss as well, but Florry thought otherwise. The three of them had enjoyed a glorious time at Hollins when Stella graduated, and they would do the same at Ole Miss, at least in Florry’s plans.
The argument resumed Sunday morning over breakfast in the courtyard. Florry insisted that she would travel to Oxford for the ceremony, and Joel said it would be a waste of time because he wouldn’t be there. The bantering was good-natured. Twyla rolled her eyes a few times. Florry wasn’t going anywhere, except perhaps back to Mercy.
Florry had slept little during the night and was soon weakened. Twyla had hired a nurse who led her back to her room.
Twyla whispered, “She won’t be here long, Joel. Do you understand this?”
“No.”
“You need to brace yourself.”
“How long? A month? A year?”
“It’s a guessing game. When do you finish classes?”
“May 12. Graduation is the following week, but I’m skipping it.”
“What about Stella?”
“She finishes about the same time.”
“I suggest the two of you get here promptly and spend as much time as you can with Florry. You’re welcome to stay here.”
“Thanks.”
“In fact, you can stay here all summer, before and after the wedding. She talks of nothing but you and Stella. Having you here is important.”
“That’s very generous, Twyla. Thank you. She’ll never go home, will she?”
Twyla shrugged and looked away. “I doubt it. I doubt her doctors would agree to it. Frankly, Joel, she doesn’t want to go home, not anytime soon.”
“I understand that.”
Chapter 50
The Crescent Limited ran twice daily from New York to New Orleans, a journey of fourteen hundred miles and thirty hours. At 2:00 p.m. on May 4, a Thursday, Stella boarded the train at Union Station in D.C. and settled into a comfortable seat in coach for a ride that would be anything but comfortable. To help pass the time, she removed her wristwatch, tried to nap, read magazines and a novel, ate nothing but snacks she brought with her, and tried to justify the trip. The headmistress at St. Agnes had not been happy with her request to take off. Because of her complicated family issues, she had missed too many days already, and, well, classes would be over in a week. Couldn’t she wait?
No, according to Miss Twyla, there was no time to wait. Florry was at the end. For Stella, being there with her aunt was far more important than any job. The headmistress was slightly sympathetic, and decided they would discuss a new contract later. Stella had become a popular teacher and St. Agnes did not want to lose her.
According to Twyla, Florry had been rushed to Mercy Hospital for the second time, then the third, and her doctors were doing little more than medicating her and frowning a lot. Now she was back home, bedridden, fading, and wanting to see the kids. Joel was already there. He was missing exams but unconcerned.
Because of delays, the train arrived in New Orleans late Friday afternoon. Joel was waiting at the station and they took a cab to Miss Twyla’s town house on Chartres Street. She met them at the door and ushered them into the courtyard, where cheese, olives, bread, and wine were waiting. As they nibbled and sipped, she said that Florry was resting but should wake up soon.
Twyla shooed away a maid and lowered her voice. “She wants to talk to you before it’s too late. She has some important matters to discuss, some secrets that she wants to tell. I’ve convinced Florry that now is the time to talk. Tomorrow might be too late.”
Joel took a deep breath and shot Stella a look of fear.
“Has she told you?” Stella asked.
“Yes, she’s told me everything.”
“And these stories are about our parents, right?” Joel asked.
Twyla took a deep breath, then a sip of wine. “The night your father died, just hours before his execution, Florry spent an hour with him at the jail, and for the first time he talked about his motives. He made her swear on a Bible that she would never tell anyone, especially the two of you. Six months ago, the night your mother died, she and Florry were alone in the house, in the bedroom, and your mother was off her pills and out of her mind. But she told another story, one your father never knew. She made Florry promise to never tell. And she didn’t, until a few weeks ago when she was in the hospital. We thought she was gone. The doctors said it was over. She finally wanted to talk, said she could not take the truth to her grave.”
“Hearing the truth is like grabbing smoke in our family,” Joel said.
“Well, you’re about to hear it, and it will not be easy for you. I’ve convinced her that she must tell you. It will disappoint you. It will shock you. But only the truth can allow you to fully understand, and move on. Without it, you’ll carry burdens and doubts and suspicions forever. But with it, you can finally put away the past, pick up the pieces, and face the future. You must be strong.”
Stella said, “I’m so tired of being strong.”
Joel said, “Why am I suddenly nervous?” He gulped some wine.
“We cut back on the pills a little so she will be more coherent, but she tires so easily.”
“Is she in pain?” Stella asked.
“Not much. Her heart is just slowly giving up. It’s so sad.”
Across the courtyard, a nurse came out of Florry’s room and nodded at Twyla, who said, “She’s awake now. You can go in.”