Page 28 of Where the Rivers Merge

South Carolina peaches have vibrant color and luscious, succulent flesh. They are valued for their exceptional flavor and balance of sweetness and acidity. The season for South Carolina peaches is May through August with its peak hitting in July.

1918

The news of Heyward’s death was catastrophic, lethal as one of those bombs Heyward described in his letters, blowing us all to smithereens. We were scattered. Mama kept to her bedroom, refusing to allow Daddy in. In turn, Daddy retreated to his barn office with a bottle of bourbon. I rarely saw him except at nightfall when Wilton helped Daddy back to his room, stumbling, and mumbling unintelligible sentences about Heyward. Lesesne, as usual, disappeared. He was like a raccoon that snuck into the kitchen at night to forage for food and hid away in his room during the day.

On a hot July afternoon three days after we learned the news, I was desperately lonely, feeling excluded, ignored, sad. I sat on my bed, hugging a pillow, and realized that the only people I had ever shared my innermost self with were Covey and Tripp.

Tripp had recently graduated from Andover and was off on a vacation in Cape Cod with his father and new stepmother. He’d be heading to Harvard in the fall. We were still dear friends, but Tripp had kept a respectful distance since Hugh and I became a couple. Tripp never said anything outright. He was too good-natured and avoided confrontation. He just . . . wasn’t around. Was I ignoring him as well? Being away at Andover and his family’s new house in the Highlands made our separation seem natural. And yet, I thought with a pang of guilt, I’d rarely answer his letters. He was my blood brother. A best friend. And I missed him. I needed him.

I went directly to the Queen Anne desk in my room and from a narrow drawer pulled out a pen and a piece of my stationery—a cream velum paper with my name embossed in blue.

I wrote to Tripp about Hugh’s and Heyward’s deaths. Putting the words down on paper made it all seem so final. My tears dotted the vellum. I ended by writing how much I missed him and all but begged him to return to Mayfield. I sealed the envelope with wax. It was done. I felt better for sharing my feelings with him, as though a weight was lifted.

I stood and looked out the window, now thinking of Covey. She had been staying at her cottage, and I felt her absence keenly. It should not have been a surprise to me that she didn’t tell me of her love affair with my brother. When I thought back to all the times, the years, we had spent talking shoulder to shoulder—at the pond, in the gazebo, at her cottage, in this room—it was always me who talked endlessly about my worries, my feelings, my problems, my love for Hugh. And it was Covey who listened, commenting, but rarely sharing any of her heart with me.

I returned to my bed and flopped down on my back, my arms splayed at my sides. Covey and Heyward . . . Tears of shame filled my eyes. Looking back, it was all so obvious. How could I not have realized that all those days and evenings when Heyward said that he was going off to see his friends, and Covey simply offered how she liked to wander off alone, that they were secretly meeting? How could I have been so blind? Was I so self-concerned? The possibility shamed me.

Yet, I didn’t feel it was all because I was selfish. Covey was by nature private about everything. I’d always assumed it was due to the difference in our wealth, our race, or social standing. There were some topics we simply stayed clear of. I didn’t want to be a terrier ferreting out stories or answers to my questions when she clearly didn’t volunteer. I respected my friend enough to listen to what she chose to tell me. But now Covey accused me of not paying attention, and I was left to ponder the truth of it.

And now here she was pregnant! I couldn’t imagine a greater shock. My best friend was having a baby. My brother’s baby. I rose from my chair and began pacing the room. I wouldn’t be selfish again. Covey needed my help, now more than ever.

A knock sounded on my door. “Yes?”

I called out.

Lesesne appeared at the door, a tray in his hands. “Mama’s refusing her food. Clementine’s tried. I’ve tried. Will you bring a tray in?”

“Why do you think she’d take it from me?”

“I don’t know. She probably won’t. But you can try.”

I hadn’t seen her in days, but I dragged myself from my bed and collected the tray from Lesesne. Wordlessly, I walked to my mother’s room.

I knocked on the door and waited. When there was no answer, I boldly entered. The bedroom was dimly lit from streams of light sneaking through the slats in the closed wooden shutters. It smelled of toast and apples and alcohol. Looking at the bed, I saw her form under the cover, unmoving.

“Mama? It’s me. Eliza.”

“What do you want?”

Her voice was low and slurred. Her body lifeless.

“I want to see you.”

I walked closer. “How are you?”

Silence.

I walked to the bedside and set the tray on the bedside table. “Mama, please try to eat. Everyone is worried.”

Silence.

I felt a frisson of frustration. “I know you’re suffering. We all are. You’re not alone.”

After a few minutes Mama cried in a wail, “Yes, I am! He was my son. I lost my child. A mother should never outlive her child.”

“I’m so sorry.”

I sat on the mattress beside her.

“I don’t know if I can go on.”

“I know,”

I crooned, smoothing back her hair. “I feel that way too.”

Mama shifted on the bed to look at me. Her face was pale and puffy from crying, her long hair disheveled across the pillow. I saw a blue ribbon mingled in the strands, a sign that Clementine had been there and tried to brush it.

“You lost Hugh too,”

she said, sniffing.

I nodded, grateful for her acknowledgment of my pain. “Yes, I lost both my brother and my intended.”

She sighed heavily, and I turned my nose from the smell of brandy on her breath. “I’m sorry. Such a loss. A waste.”

“Mama, we should think about the funeral service.”

She looked at me as a child would, her gaze wide with question and confusion.

“Funeral? No, I don’t think I can.”

Her voice sounded afraid.

“Yes, you can. I’ll help you. Maybe praying together as a family will help us heal.”

Mama’s voice hardened. “We don’t even have his body.”

I shuddered. Colonel Dunlop had mentioned in his long monologue something about the casualties of this war being unprecedented. How soldiers were buried in communal graves, often near where they fell in action. Which would mean, I supposed, that Hugh and Heyward would be buried together. Dunlop assured us the Marines would register the burial location, which was some comfort. I thought of Heyward’s letter to Covey, telling her that perhaps one day they would move to France to live together. It was impossible to imagine Heyward not at Mayfield, yet I mourned that he wouldn’t live in France with Covey. It was heartbreaking to think that the best we could do now was to visit his mass grave there.

“He’s gone,”

Mama cried out, bringing her palm to her face. “My boy is gone.”

I was lost in grief, feeling helpless. Looking at my mother I saw a broken woman. I thought about what Covey revealed to me. Wouldn’t news of the baby please Mama? I felt trapped with my secret, torn between wanting to save my mother and be true to my friend. It was impossible to not offer my mother the hope that a part of Heyward was still alive. I felt I couldn’t be that cruel.

“Mama,”

I said hesitatingly. “I’ve news. Good news.”

She ignored me, weeping.

“Mama, Heyward is not completely gone.”

Mama waved her hand and cried, “Stop speaking nonsense. If you’re spouting spiritual jabber about how he’s in heaven, watching over me, you can just stop. That doesn’t help.”

“No, not that. Listen to me.”

I took a breath, suddenly cautious. Then the truth spilled out. “Mama, Covey is pregnant. With Heyward’s child.”

Mama’s breath stilled. Then, she bolted upright, her eyes wild. “What did you say?”

“Covey is carrying Heyward’s child. They loved one another.”

Mama pushed the hair from her face, her dark eyes alert. She held her hands at her temples for a minute, lost in thought. It was as though the news had turned her on, like the electric lights in the East Bay house. In a rush she pushed back the covers. I rose in the flurry, stunned by her swift movements. Mama’s white nightgown was wrinkled and spotted with spilled food. She was usually fastidious, so it was difficult to see her in this state. She reached for the water at her bedside and drank several sips. Putting down her glass, she turned to me, her eyes flashing.

“You’re sure about this?”

I nodded.

“Send your father in,”

she ordered.

“Yes, all right . . . Mama, are you okay?”

“Ask Clementine to prepare a bath. Then tell Covey I want to see her. Immediately. Wait.”

She dragged her fingers through her hair. “I need to bathe and dress. Tell her to come in an hour.”

I stood frozen, wondering at this quick turn of mood. And I was stabbed with worry that I’d done the right thing. Guilt swept over. It was out now. I couldn’t take the words back. My mind whirled with rationalizations. Surely, Covey wasn’t thinking clearly. The grief over Heyward’s death was so fresh. Of course, Covey wouldn’t keep this news of a baby to herself when it could help the family recover from anguish? Covey would need the support of our family to raise the child. My parents would send him or her to the best schools, give the child every opportunity. Why, Heyward’s child, if a boy, could even inherit Mayfield. Of course, Covey would want that for him.

“What are you waiting for?”

Mama asked sharply.

“Yes’m.”

* * *

I was waiting in the kitchen for Covey. Wilton had heard the request, pondered it, then after giving me a long look, had gone to fetch his daughter. It was midafternoon, and the July heat made the kitchen hotter than Clementine’s oven. All the windows and doors were open to keep the air moving but to little avail. I sat at the wood table, fanning myself with a wide palmetto fan. Upstairs, my father was talking with my mother behind closed doors.

From outdoors I heard voices. I swiped the sweat from my brow with a napkin and sprang to my feet. Wilton appeared first, his tall frame filling the doorway. He held the screen door open for Covey to walk through. Covey looked slender in her best white eyelet dress. Unwittingly my gaze went to her abdomen. She wasn’t showing yet.

“Quick. Come with me,”

I said and grabbed her hand.

I led her to the living room where we could talk alone. The thick drapes were drawn against the heat of the sun and the carpets had been pulled up and put in storage. Still the air felt stifling as we faced each other in the dimly lit room. Her eyes were wide with anxiety when they met mine.

“What’s this about?”

Covey asked.

I scratched my arm nervously. I couldn’t let her walk in there unprepared. This was all my doing. I took a breath and met her gaze. “I’m sorry, Covey. I told my mother your secret.”

Covey skipped a beat in disbelief. “What?”

She brought her hand to her cheek, appalled.

I heard the anger and shock in her voice and pushed on, wanting to convince her that all would be well, that I’d acted in her best interest. I began speaking rapidly. “Mama was in bed, not eating, not coming out of her room. Drinking. . . . You know how she gets when she’s sad. I couldn’t console her. She kept crying how she lost her boy. Her Heyward. It was so sad, Covey. I felt so helpless seeing her like that. And . . . it just spilled out. I . . . I told her that there was part of Heyward still alive. That you were having Heyward’s baby. Covey, you should have seen her. Mama sprang to life. She took a bath, she dressed. And now she wants to see you. Daddy too. They’ll tell you how happy they are. How we all are here to help you.”

Covey stood listening to me, her arms rigid at her sides, her hands in fists, her face tightening in anger. When at last I finished talking, she took a menacing step toward me.

“How could you?”

Her shaking voice was harsh and accusing.

“Covey, I—”

“You betrayed me!”

she screamed.

I sucked in my breath. I’d never seen Covey so angry.

“You had no right!”

she cried. “This was my secret to keep. Mine!”

She turned away. “I trusted you.”

“But Covey, why keep it a secret? The truth was going to come out eventually.”

“Only if you told anyone. And you did.”

“Can’t you see that we’re happy you’re having Heyward’s child. It’s a miracle. We have a part of Heyward still living.”

She spun around, eyes blazing. “Are you?”

I hesitated, confused. “What?”

“Tell me, Eliza. How do you know your mother is happy about this? Or your father? Did they say that?”

“Well . . .”

I stuttered. “When I told Mama, she was energized. She and Daddy are talking now. Imagine that this is a lot to take in. But of course, they’re happy. Why wouldn’t they be?”

“Oh Eliza,”

Covey spat out with disdain. “You are so na?ve. And stubborn. You’ve always seen the world as you wish it to be, not as it truly is. And you expect the world to follow suit.”

Stung, I sputtered, “What do you mean by that?”

“You’ve always seen the world through your own particular lens. When you were little and only wanted to work in the barn, you wouldn’t try to understand or even consider why your mother pushed for you to behave like a girl. You simply refused. It didn’t fit your view of the world. Then remember how you insisted I attend the tutoring classes? Your mother didn’t want me in there. She knew a Black girl could not go to school with white children. Nonetheless you fought tooth and nail to make it so, not caring one whit about scandal. Not until you went to Charleston did you begin to change your behavior . . . because it suited you to do so! And even there, you put me in difficult situations, refusing to acknowledge the strict segregation of our races.”

She looked away, pressing her lips tight.

“And I love you for it,”

she said, turning back, her eyes shining. “But you’re not a child anymore! I am not merely your childhood friend. I am a Black woman and you are a white woman. We live in different worlds. You cannot be blind to the situation I find myself in now. Heyward—”

She broke at the name and took a moment to collect herself. “My Heyward is gone, and I’ve lost my support. I am a Negro woman having a white man’s child. This is not a happy situation. For me, my dreams have ended. For your family, it is a scandal!”

she cried, her patience at an end.

Covey wasn’t arguing her point any longer. This wasn’t about right or wrong. She was telling me how it was.

“If word of this gets out, your family would be stigmatized. Do you think your mother would tolerate anything to harm the Rivers family? Would she allow anything or anyone . . . me . . . to stain her darling Heyward’s reputation? Better he was dead! Heyward knew this. Why do you think we kept our love a secret? Why did he suggest we leave Mayfield? The country? He knew things wouldn’t change.”

Covey clenched her fists and paced the room.

“Covey, I thought I was doing the right thing,”

I choked out.

“For who?”

I was taken aback. “For you!”

“Not for your family?”

“I admit, I was thrilled to learn you were pregnant with Heyward’s child. I wanted some part of him to continue. And yes, for the family. Think what this means to us. Heyward’s child . . .”

I took a step closer. “Covey, I truly believe you need our help now. And we will help you. There’s no reason to keep your baby a secret.”

“It’s more than a secret,”

Covey cried, stepping away. “We aren’t talking about girlish tales here. This is my life. My decision. My privacy! Do you think I’m keeping quiet to avoid a scandal? What do I care about a scandal! I choose privacy to protect my dignity and my child. You have no concept of the risk you put me in that I might lose both.”

“You won’t lose your child.”

“How do you know?”

When I didn’t answer she put her hand to her forehead. “Your parents are upstairs now seeking legal, social, and financial solutions to address this situation discreetly. To make this problem go away before my dirty little secret is exposed. I know them. They will manipulate me and my child to suit their needs.”

I listened to her reasoning, horrified because I heard hints of the truth in it. “Go upstairs and at least talk with them. Hear what they have to say. You might be wrong. I pray you are. If not, I’ll help you find another solution. But please, Covey, go talk to them.”

Covey stared at me, an expression of defiance blazing in her dark eyes. “No, Eliza! I will not do their bidding. I won’t allow the Rivers family to have anything to do with my child.”

She pounded her chest with her fist. “My child. Not theirs. Not yours. Mine.”

Covey strode from the room to the front hall. She moved toward the kitchen, then stopped. Instead, she turned around facing the front door. With her shoulders back, she walked straight to it and swung the door open.

I chased after her. “Covey, wait. Don’t leave like this. You’re my friend. Let’s talk.”

Covey turned her head to look over her shoulder. Her face was expressionless, but her cold gaze sent a dagger through my heart.

“You’re no friend of mine, Eliza Rivers. I never want to see you again.”

Covey faced forward and walked out the front door. Out of my life.

* * *

The following day, there was hell to pay. Mama ordered Daddy to go directly to the cottage and forcibly bring Covey to the house. Of course, another row ensued. Daddy begrudgingly refused. Instead, he and Wilton went alone to the barn office to talk. It was a long, drawn-out afternoon. We all knew this incident put Wilton in an untenable position. He was the manager of the plantation and worked directly with my father. More, as a Black man he had no legal redress in the courts. Finally, he was Daddy’s friend. But he was Covey’s father first and by rights, Heyward did wrong by her.

Mama paced in the living room. Lesesne remained moody and true to form, stayed in his room. When I knocked on his door to check on him, he looked wan and glassy eyed. The room reeked of cigarette smoke, and I smelled alcohol on his breath. I returned with a tray of food and a pitcher of water.

The house was a ship on rocky waters, like the mighty Titanic that had sunk a few years before. My lifeboat was the kitchen, a humble haven. The old stove was an iron behemoth, the heart of the sanctuary, its blackened surface a testament to the countless meals prepared over flickering flames.

I found Clementine sitting at the long table, seemingly immune to the heat, humming softly while removing stones from a bowl of blanched peaches. I sat beside her, stretched my arm across the table, and rested my head on it. I smelled the scent of her sweat mingled with talc and the sweetness of the peaches.

“Why won’t Covey just come?”

I asked. It was more of a moan. When I heard no reply, I looked over to her. She was cutting the peaches in half and removing the pits with a gentle twisting motion, then slicing the peach into even thin wedges. Her lips were tight, and her silent composure held secrets and thoughts close to her chest. Yet there was a sadness to the mask.

“I know I did wrong to tell Mama about the baby,”

I said in way of a confession. “I betrayed Covey’s confidence. I’m so sorry.”

Clementine worked on.

“Covey called me na?ve, and I know now she was right. I see it all clearly now, what with the way Mama’s acting. She’s more worried about a scandal than she is about Covey or the baby.”

I put my cheek down against my arm. “Heyward’s baby . . . I just wanted to help. And I’ve only made things worse.”

Clementine did not respond as her hands worked.

“I don’t know what I should do. I started off to the cottage to talk to Covey, but I came back. I don’t think I’d be welcome. I never saw her so mad.”

I looked again at Clementine. “Do you think she’ll forgive me?”

Clementine rested her hand on the rim of the large bowl and looked at me. Her dark eyes held depths unfathomable. “Perhaps in time. All in good time.”

I sat up. “How much time? Do you think I should go see her? Apologize again? Maybe I should.”

I pushed back my chair to rise and felt Clementine’s hand on my arm.

“Stay put, Eliza. Have a little patience.”

“But what good will waiting do?”

Clementine put her knife down and retrieved the cotton towel. She dried her hands, ruminating on the subject, then sat back and looked at me.

“You and Covey, though you be friends, are very different. You live in different worlds.”

“I understand the laws. We abided by them in Charleston. But we’re at Mayfield. It’s different here. We aren’t segregated like we are in the city.”

“I’m not talking just about prejudice,”

replied Clementine. “You see the world differently than most folks, but you must try to understand how your friend is thinking and feeling right now. In her world. That’s what a true friend does.”

Chastised, I slid back onto the chair.

Clementine reached out to pick up a peach. “Let’s say you and Covey both had a hankerin’ for a peach. Now, you would march out to the orchard, find a tree covered with peaches, and pick out the peach you wanted. Likely the biggest and juiciest of the lot.”

“Sounds like me,”

I said with a light laugh.

Clementine nodded. “You’d climb up that tree and pluck that peach. Or if you couldn’t reach it, you’d find a stick and shake that branch till the peach fall. Then you’d bite into that peach on the spot and eat it all up lickety-split. That’s who you are. You know what you want, go after it with all your heart, and you usually get it. You a force to be reckoned with.”

I settled my chin in my palm. “And Covey?”

“Now Covey, she’d go to the orchard, wander around it a bit admiring the trees, then when she found a peach she wanted she’d sit beneath it and wait for it to fall. Maybe draw a picture of it.”

I chuckled at that. “Yeah.”

“When that peach finally falls, she’d study it, smell it, then take a bite. If it was sweet and ripe, she’d eat it there. But if it was not ripe, or even mushy, she’d hold her hunger and take it home and make a pie with it. Or jam. Fix the peach with some sugar. That’s who Covey is. She takes things in, ruminates a bit, and if there’s a problem she figures out how to fix it. When she makes a decision, she holds true to it. Nothing or no one will change her mind. And she won’t be rushed.”

“You’re saying I should give Covey time to make up her own mind.”

“I’m saying have patience. Covey will do what Covey wants to do.”

Clementine picked up a peach and handed it to me with a small paring knife.

For the next hour, I sat with Clementine slicing peaches. Neither of us had anything more to say as we pared the fruit, tossed them with sugar, and drizzled them with lemon juice. When we finished, we put them aside to macerate and create a delicious syrup for the pie filling.

We were washing our hands at the sink when I spotted Daddy and Wilton emerging from the barn. Daddy’s face was solemn. Wilton was leading his horse. The two men shook hands. Then Wilton climbed upon his horse and trotted off.

“I think Wilton’s gone to fetch Covey!”

Clementine was drying her hands on her apron when Daddy walked into the kitchen.

I rushed up to him. “Is Covey coming?”

Daddy put his hand on my shoulder and cast a glance at Clementine. She looked away, her eyes troubled. “No,”

he said with a shake of his head. “Covey isn’t coming. Not ever again.”

I blinked, not sure I’d heard right. “What do you mean?”

“Covey’s gone. She packed up her things this morning and left Mayfield.”

“What? Where did she go?”

I turned to look at Clementine. Her face remained impassive.

“Wilton said she went to her aunt’s house, somewhere up in the North. Her mother’s sister, I believe.”

He glanced again at Clementine for confirmation.

“But she can’t just leave,”

I cried. “Daddy, she needs us now, more than ever.”

“Don’t get yourself all worked up,”

he said. “This was Covey’s decision. Wilton and I worked out how we could help her in a manner she would accept. Don’t ask,”

he added firmly, holding up his hand when I tried to speak. “That part is none of your business. And in truth, it might all be for the best.”

“What about the baby? Will we get to see it?”

Daddy’s voice was low, exhausted. “I don’t know.”

I looked at Clementine. I knew she knew something as sure as I knew she would never tell.

“This isn’t right!”

I exclaimed. Turning to Clementine, I cried, “Covey can’t be gone. She just can’t.”

Clementine looked away.

I rushed past Daddy and Clementine to the door, and once outdoors I began to run toward the barn. Covey couldn’t be gone. It didn’t make sense that she’d just up and leave. To where? She never spoke to me of an aunt in the North. That was just some message she had sent to my parents as an excuse.

I slowed to a walk as my mind worked furiously on these questions. She did that because she wanted to escape my parents. Mayfield. Me, I realized. Her final words rang in my head: You’re no friend of mine, Eliza Rivers. I never want to see you again.

I stopped and buried my face in my palm. My heart felt like a dead weight in my body. Like the ship had sunk and I had already drowned.