Just Another Georgia Romance

By J J Garrett

The Book

Beulah, Georgia, 1951, the leather back seat of a tulip-yellow Studebakertherefrom springs the story of four romances from four generations so impassioned as to change lives and to endure lifetimes; indeed, to endure still; to repeat, blossom, succeed, as everyone, everywhere, awaits Just Another Georgia Romance. This short novel allows no single of its four love stories to stand alone, though each is so singular, so intensely personal. The central onebegotten by the other threetells of Natalie Merrywell and Blake Davis who meet upon the floor of the Merrywell Tobacco Auction Warehouse one sweltering August afternoon. They do not remotely know the secrets they carry as they fall more deeply in love from the moment of their first encounter to novels very end. Nonetheless, neither the Montagues nor the Capulets of Shakespeares pen hold an edge up on the aversion the Merrywell and Davis families experience when they discover the love between their handsome and talented offspring. They fail to realize that their mandate to end this modern-day relationship comes much too late; that it cannot be ended, only stilled.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Sep 27, 2004
• ISBN: 9781418493493

J J Garrett

About J J Garrett J J Garrett is a product of Georgia. He is a novelist, a poet, a researcher, and an educator. He holds a Ph.D., M.Ed., and B.A. from various Georgia colleges. He has lived in and traveled most of the U.S. and Central America. He has consolidated his search for lore into six novels and seven chapbooks of poem (now in anthology) with a resolve to return literary fiction back to Planet Earth. He is married; has too many animals around the house.

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2004 J J Garrett. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 12/01/2015

ISBN: 978-1-4184-9348-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4184-9349-3 (e)

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Contents

Chapter 1 1972 · March · Beulah, Georgia

Chapter 2 Deep Summer · Beulah, Georgia

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5 11:00 a.m.—The Morning After

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9 1951 · April · Relee, Georgia

Chapter 10

Chapter 11 Three Days Later · Atlanta, Georgia

To You

Whom None Of Us Dare Name

Chapter 1

1972 · March · Beulah, Georgia

I’ll never understand why Austin insisted that we hold the showing here at the house, Henry. Nora Merrywell shook her head with annoyance. He never consulted me about it, and if he consulted you and you failed to mention it to me, then I am inclined to doubt your wherewithal to provide support to our family in the years to come.

Henry Terwilliger cleared his throat, blinked his eyes, and dabbed his handkerchief at a raindrop that trickled from his balding head toward the rim of his glasses.

"He did not consult me, Mrs. Merrywell. He simply informed me."

The middle-aged woman, her hair, thick, once a deep and dark brunette now moved somewhat toward gray and surrounding a delicate face not accustomed to worry, practiced the formation of new lines around mouth, eyes, and brow as she responded to the stress of the past few days. She shrugged tensely.

Well, here we are, mid-March, day after day of cold rain, half of our guests’ cars stuck on the front lawn, Mybo who babbles like a baby, and my daughter who plays a Chatty-Kathy as if this were some kind of social event, when—

You have taught her much of propriety, Mrs. Merrywell. She merely tries to make things appear as normal as possible.

How? When you stand before me and worry me with financial details sufficient to spin me into a nervous breakdown in my dining room?

I only mentioned a concern about Mybo’s readiness to—

Mybo is not emotionally unstable. Surely, he finds reason to be upset. And Katelynn’s refusal to participate with him in tonight’s observance—and I, personally, do not blame the poor thing—has, nevertheless, upset him doubly.

The accountant gathered the lapels of his suit coat in his hands and propped the balled fists that held them upon the top of his belly.

Forgive me that I say so, Mrs. Merrywell, but Mybo should not need to rely upon the social tastes of a young lady still in her teens to perfect his familial and commercial obligations.

Do you now imply that my son lacks sufficient self esteem to manage—

I did not say that, Mrs. Merrywell.

"But you wanted to say that! And … and … well … I could concede the point. You, an accountant, would see a self-esteem issue while I, a mother, see only a temporary timidity, a residue of adolescent fears. Activity in the foyer claimed Nora’s attention. That sounds like Miss Stephanie. She listened a moment. And Reverend Pierce. I need to go. She implored of him. Please, Henry, find Mybo. Pull him from his doldrums. He should be here to greet our family and friends."

Nora heeled upon the white carpet around which spanned the densely paned French windows of the dining room and walked toward the foyer. She smoothed the black silk dress she chose for the occasion and searched among the clusters of guests in the living room. There she caught the eye of her daughter who stood with guests before a hand-carved and flower-bordered coffin. She motioned to her.

The young woman—tall, slim, wide shoulders, over which fell a stock of dark brown hair, thickly curled, and dangled along her cheeks to frame an oval face of fair skin and welcome smile—she, a nearly perfect reproduction of her who once graced the leather seats of a tulip-yellow Studebaker, acknowledged. The incomparable Southern beauty, Natalie Merrywell, approached that other woman, her mother Nora, the widow of Austin Merrywell, the richest man in Beulah, Georgia.

- - -

1950 · The Outskirts of Relee, Georgia

"Too much! Oh! Too much."

She whispered the words upon her admirer’s chest, there, throbbing still, staccato. Then, conscious of the draw of her nakedness along the bareness of his ribs, she lifted her eyes into his.

This is how I knew it would be, she murmured.

The flush of passion faded from her belly. She felt the emotion become dew-like, settled, silken perspiration upon her breast. She pushed herself further into the mold of his arms and kissed him.

Her lover embraced her—impulsively, anxiously.

I love you, Nora. Oh, God! You must know that I love you.

He dropped his lips upon hers and kissed her longingly. She kissed him with matched ardor. His passion accrued again at his thighs. He kissed her, this time, ferociously.

She feigned shyness and tore her lips away. Her lapis lazuli irises peered playfully into his rainy gray ones, and she laughed.

On the other hand, maybe this little yellow Studebaker is to blame—its best year yet, they say—nineteen fifty-one—and just perfect for a Georgia romance, the way the convertible top screams out for indecent exposure; and with that long and circular chrome nose that reminds me so much of your beautiful … . She giggled. I’m so naughty! I’ve never behaved in such a way. Her eyes twinkled. Oh, yes! How wonderful—my love for you!

She made him laugh—embarrassed, almost shamefully.

Do you really think one day that you might leave Macon and take me to Atlanta? Or Cincinnati? St. Louis?

"It might as well be Manhattan, my lovely. I do not intend work as a manufacturer’s rep for the rest of my life—running here and there to Podunk, Georgia furniture stores."

Of one thing I am certain: you’ll be rich someday. You look the part: your shirts starched; your trousers crisp; your shoes shined; that gorgeous gold watch; even these white leather seats … so rich.

He shook his head and smoothed the wave of golden brown at his temples. He smiled and swallowed.

When I hear my vanity admired by someone else, Nora, I feel so ill at ease. I say to myself, ‘Maybe I don’t know what I’m doing’.

You don’t?

He peered at her. A wince crowded his eyes.

No, I … I don’t. Not always. That’s part of why I brought you here. We came to talk, remember?

Yes. To talk to me, you said. But since you first made love to me—

Valentine’s Day. Only two months ago. When it felt so cold . …

He lifted his view upward into the April arbor of tree and vine that shaded them in that seldom traveled corner of the county. She raised her eyes with his, then dropped them again upon him.

I don’t remember it to be cold at all, she said. And, surely, you’ve talked very little to me since then—not out here, anyway—only a lot of yells and cries and the repetition of certain dirty words.

She giggled. She kissed him and pulled herself away to dress.

Oh, Nora, I—

You are such a lover, she said. I love you so.

He pulled her to him and kissed her; his kiss fervent, and sincere.

- - -

Current Time 1972 · Again, Beulah, Georgia

Natalie joined her mother beneath the rotunda of the foyer before the opened front door. There, against the rush of the rain through the gutters and its patter upon the shrubs beyond, Nora embraced Mrs. Stephanie Vernier, then took the hand of the minister of the First Baptist Church.

Miss Stephanie! Natalie called.

My goodness, child. You grow more attractive with every college break, the older woman replied. She recoiled from Natalie’s hug to study the younger woman. Those lagoon-blue eyes of yours ever deeper, and, I do believe, steadfast; the rose in your cheeks, ah! a perfect match with that Tyrian wool sweater … you, a beauty dressed beautifully. Oh, I once would have been so envious!

Thank you, Miss Stephanie, Natalie replied.

And I’m so sorry today to see that beauty of yours tarnished with the sadness of your father’s passing.

I think the sudden nature of his death is the hardest thing for us. Would you like to see him?

Of course. Miss Stephanie motioned to Nora and the minister. You two don’t worry of me. Finalize your plans for tomorrow’s service. I’ve found the perfect companion and will burden her with myself until you are done. She feigned a warning to the minister. Just do not leave me, Reverend Pierce. I no longer sing in the rain like some fools do; and I certainly can’t walk in it.

She took Natalie’s arm and went with her to the casket while Nora and the cleric left for the study. The tiny woman, shrunken by the years to the size of a prepubescent child; her face, the backs of her hands, mottled by age; struggled to stand erect and proud, as for so many years she had stood. So doing, she studied the body of the man—almost twelve years her junior—stilled the day before.

He looks quite nice to be in his seventies. Not old enough to leave us.

Natalie nodded agreement. Her hair bounced along her shoulders.

The heart surgery went perfectly. But his lungs failed him. They couldn’t get enough oxygen into him; he died from suffocation.

The old woman shook her head.

Cigarettes. I can see him now with a cigarette: in his mouth, in his hand, in his office ashtray. I watched him every Sunday—on the sidewalk after church, chatting, smoking. He came to love his cigarettes—after, your mother tells, she convinced him to cease his habit of dipping.

Yes. From snuff to cigarettes: Pall Mall filterless. And, to think, most of Father’s wealth came by way of tobacco.

In Beulah, tobacco is king; and Austin ran the largest auction in all of these parts.

Natalie swept her hand along the edge of the coffin, studied her father’s lifeless figure with eyes by then done of tears, glanced away, troubled.

Now Mybo needs to run the businesses, she said. That’s a lot of responsibility for him, Miss Stephanie, what with tobacco planting upon us, and the warehouse sure to burst at the seams by this time in July. She made herself convert her worry to radiance. "Anyway, that’s four months from now. I’ll be home from school by June to help. Mama and Mr. Terwilliger will keep him on track until then."

Miss Stephanie chuckled assuredly, then looked around as if surprised.

Where is Mybo, anyway?

- - -

For Christ’s sake, Mybo, what is your problem? Henry stood in the bathroom doorway, his hand clutching the doorknob and his mouth agape.

My daddy is dead, Mr. Terwilliger. He’s the corpse in the casket in the living room, if you need a reminder.

Henry huffed, let go of the knob, and stepped onto the tiled floor of India ceramic. He went to the room’s mirror centerpiece before which Austin’s nineteen-year-old son wept.

Sure, Mybo, your father is dead now. All of our hearts go out to you and your family. But dead is dead—you would understand that if you were Jewish—and the family businesses must go on. So must the family’s social obligations. Which means you should be downstairs to attend the people who might help your family in the days and years to come.

Mybo spun upon the family accountant.

How dammed inconsiderate can you be, Mr. Terwilliger? All those businesses out there to be run, my daddy dead without warning! Who will I hunt with? Who will I fish with? And the ski boat at the lake … . Hey! Who will ski with me? When will I ever find time to do anything anymore except meet with you and worry about your money?

Henry took a breath of restraint.

"It’s your money, Mybo."

No! It’s Daddy’s money. And he never worried about it. All he wanted to do was be with me. The boy burst into tears again. He returned to the mirror and stared at himself. I might as well kill myself as to live without Daddy!

The accountant stepped forward to wrap his arm around Mybo’s shoulder. He squeezed him confidently.

Someone will come along to fish with you … or water ski, or hunt, whatever. And I, your mother, and your sister will be here to help you step into your father’s shoes.

Henry laid a firm pat upon the youth’s back, drew a pack of Newport from his jacket, and tapped one out. He extended the pack. Mybo wiped his cheeks on the sleeve of his shirt, took a cigarette, and placed it between his lips. Henry took one, too, and, lighter raised, ignited them both. The men inhaled deeply.

So, what do I do, Mr. Terwilliger?

For now, you go downstairs for the showing of your father’s body. Afterwards, if it’s alright with your mother, you may get drunk. In fact, you may stay drunk all day tomorrow and until this funeral process ends. Do anything you want except talk to anyone about a wish to hunt or fish or ski—or about business and finance, or, especially, suicide.

Can I at least talk to you about it? I mean, if I need to?

Sure, sure, Henry said. But not now. Later. He glanced at his watch and commenced a refreshed study of Mybo.

The boy’s stylishly long hair, straight to every single tip of auburn ending, framed a face of angular cheek and soft brown eyes, mounted upon a slim frame that he carried with slightly slumped shoulders. His carriage spoke volumes as to his natural amiability and sincerity, and to the unplowed acreage of insecurity he tried to hide.

I think it’s best that we talk day after tomorrow, Henry continued. We’ll start then to raise your math skills about twenty notches. Before long you’ll run your family’s businesses like a pro. He pretended a chuckle. How does that sound?

Mybo groaned.

Tobacco season is coming. That’s six months of work crammed into two. And you said the Dixie AM radio accounts needed attention. And, damnit! Trying to run down rent payments on Daddy’s slums . …

I said we would talk about that—

But who will put in the soybeans this year since old Pete moved to Vidalia? Let’s face it, I’ve always hung between the furniture store and the tractor dealership.

Alright. Go ahead. Talk it all out, Henry said flatly.

What else is there?

The Ivory Tower Motel.

Yeah. That stupid motel and restaurant takes all of Mother’s time.

While you—with either Katelynn or a friend or two—eat three meals there every day for free, Henry added with a brittle voice.

He grabbed Mybo’s arm.

And Natalie! Why can’t Natalie stay home from Emory to help me sort things out?

That’s another thing we don’t need to talk about right now, Henry answered.

He gave Mybo an impatient tug. He escorted the boy from the bathroom and down the hall toward the stairwell.

- - -

Late July · The Highway Into Beulah, Georgia

So, you tell me you ain’t never been down in this neck of the woods?

The farmer who drove the sodden-wheeled pickup truck addressed his passenger. Blake Davis, who held a duffel bag and a shoulder tote between his legs and, at that moment, extended his head out the window to enjoy a blast of ninety-eight degree July wind—an improvement over the oil and excrement-scented furnace inside the cab—drew himself into the truck.

Yeah. Like I said, the last town I recognized was Hawkinsville. From there I can’t tell you exactly where I’ve traveled. But I do know if I drove my car I’d be home by now.

What’s the problem with your car. Broke down?

No. It’s a jewel. A 1967 Camaro. A pussy-magnet. My old man took it from me.

Your daddy? Why?

Well, I flunked a few courses up at Mercer this year. And he blames me for bouncing three checks Spring Quarter. So he jerked away my car and made me go to summer school.

Sounds like old Dad don’t want you to waste his money.

He’s an asshole. He’s been so tight-fisted with me that I had to quit smoking. And as for an occasional six-pack of beer to help me loosen up a girl … Hey! Can you imagine? I don’t even know if they still make Carling Black Label.

They do. Same quality you probably remember, the driver said, lips twisted.

Who cares. In this heat, I could drink a case of it right now. And one day, by God, I’ll make enough money to chain-smoke cigarettes along with my beer. Damn right! Three packs a day—of Winston, too—three packs of Winston a day.

The driver rocked his head.

"Your daddy does sound like an asshole—a real asshole—making you suffer that way. It sounds like he don’t even want you back at home. What did he tell you, boy? To get home the best way you knew how? Or just not go home at all?"

Blake huffed and lifted his chin defiantly.

No. I’m on my way home to prove myself to the bastard. He told me I’d get my car back along with my ten-dollar allowance if I passed my summer courses. He doesn’t expect me to pick up my keys before Labor Day … if at all. But I took an overload and aced everything. So, today, this Thursday evening, five weeks before he expects me, I’ll show up on the front porch and, with my biggest grin, wave my grades in his wrinkled old face.

In Brunswick, eh? St. Simons Island, you said?

That’s it. A straight shot down twenty-three and three forty-one from party time in Macon to party time on the Golden Isles. It’s the same road, no matter which way you go. So easy. No pot-hole towns like today.

Well, you’re mighty open-minded, son. I wouldn’t expect that of a college hitchhiker. The farmer managed a chortle before he spat a wasted plug of tobacco out the window, then wiped a drool of brown saliva off his chin. I would have expected you to call Surrency, Graham, and Lumber City pot-hole towns since they set along that straight shot home you describe.

Blake eyed the driver. The man wore shirt, pants, and boots that would be rejected as donations to charity. Only crops and forest filled the periphery of his sight. He reminded himself that his driver did not even live in a town; a trip to a hardware store held as much excitement as a birthday party for a child. He winced and spoke quickly.

I’m sorry. I pissed you off. I didn’t mean to—

No. No, you didn’t, son. Any place that ain’t got no hardware store ain’t much of a town.

Blake nodded knowingly.

And not a one of them three got one—not as I remember. It’s been a while since I been that far north.

Blake groaned. The driver cast him a glance from the corner of his eye.

But don’t worry, boy. You’ll get home about dark. But not unless, when we get to Beulah, you hitch south until you meet eighty-two. That’ll take you on over east into Brunswick, unless you get lost again—which could put you down in Florida, God knows where. He grunted self-agreement. Yep. That’s a rough place, Florida, them beaches and all.

"I know highway eighty-two; and I know of Beulah—though I’ve never been there.

"Oh, well. You wouldn’t call it a high-life kind of place. And it is a little out of the way nowadays—like almost everywhere—now that the interstates are the new main streets. He cranked his head around to Blake and put on a thoughtful face. But don’t listen to me when it comes to opinions. That about the interstate highways, I picked up off National Public Radio. That’s about the only station we get out here real regular like—except for Dixie Country 1230 AM—and most all I find time to listen to is the Billy, Bubba, and Bobo Buford show. He pointed forward to where buildings thickened in the distance. To speak of Beulah, we’ll be there directly."

As an assortment of small, un-zoned structures fell behind, an attractive business district opened ahead, most stores two-story, a few one and three, and almost all lined two main streets that intersected east-west to north-south. Church spires and a county courthouse tower rose a block or so away. Aged oak trees graced a central island that ran between the incoming and outgoing lanes of the main streets and made space as well for modest monuments to the town’s past.

Blake peered ahead, curious.

This seems to be a lively place to be located in the middle of nowhere, he said.

It’s tobacco season. Started this week. The whole town fills up with farmers, their families, and their tobacco. From early August to late September there’ll be four warehouses run over. A blind man new to town might think he was stuffed into the middle of a fine cigar, if he didn’t know better.

Then … where is your tobacco?

Does anything about me smell like a fine cigar to you, son?

No, I don’t guess so.

Well if somebody made you guess what I smelled like—what my truck smells like—what would you say?

Blake chucked nervously.

I guess I’d say—like shit.

"Very good. Now I’m certain you’re a college student. That’s right. I farm hogs and chickens—the two stinkiest shit-producing creatures on