Nora, Nora Read online

  ANNE RIVERS

  SIDDONS

  NORA, NORA

  A Novel

  This book is for Patsy Dickey, heart friend.

  Nora, Nora

  I set this story back in my own dreaming, small-town South, in my own time, 1961: that suspended time swung between two epochs that shaped America for good and all. I think I chose it because that turbulent transition was the greatest epiphany of my life, a crossing from the sweet, insular world I knew to another one, volatile and frightening and yet entirely necessary and right.

  ANNE RIVERS SIDDONS

  Contents

  PROLOGUE

  The Losers Club met every weekday afternoon at four o’clock…

  ONE

  Peyton McKenzie changed her name when she was six years…

  TWO

  Peyton watched her movies again that night after supper, after…

  THREE

  Peyton went to school the next day with a scarf…

  FOUR

  You have a little bitty head in proportion to your…

  FIVE

  The first thing you noticed about Nora Findlay, Peyton thought…

  SIX

  Peyton got up early the next morning, whether to avoid…

  SEVEN

  In the night the teasing sultriness broke and winter came…

  EIGHT

  When Peyton woke on Sunday morning the house was still…

  NINE

  The next morning Nora said at breakfast that she planned…

  TEN

  That night, and for many, many nights afterward, Peyton wrote…

  ELEVEN

  On Saint Patrick’s Day Nora took Peyton and Frazier into…

  TWELVE

  All through the early days of that spring, Nora incised…

  THIRTEEN

  After that, Peyton became obsessed with her Cousin Nora. She…

  FOURTEEN

  She did not float, though. When she got up that…

  FIFTEEN

  Sonny Burkholter was Lytton’s claim to fame, its shining star.

  SIXTEEN

  There was a song they used to sing in the…

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PRAISE

  BOOKS BY ANNE RIVERS SIDDONS

  COPYRIGHT

  ABOUT THE PUBLISHER

  Prologue

  The Losers Club met every weekday afternoon at four o’clock in the toolshed behind the Methodist parsonage on the corner of Peyton McKenzie’s street. Peyton would be out of her seventh-grade classes at the Lytton Grammar School and sometimes through her homework by then; her father would be cloistered away in the study he had fixed up for himself over the garage behind the elephantine McKenzie house on Green Street; and Clothilde would be grumbling to herself and moving ponderously about the kitchen preparing supper for them. Peyton would not be required of man or woman for at least another two hours. She would have shed her school clothes and carefully stored them in her nunlike closet, and skimmed gratefully into her soft, faded, milk-blue jeans, or flapping cotton boxer shorts and a T-shirt in the summer, looking like a starved pullet, all frail, air-light bones and translucent razor angles.

  Ernie Longworth, the second member of the club after Peyton, would be dressed in the bursting coveralls he wore all day in the pursuit of his duties as sexton of the Methodist church. Ernie was thirty-four years old, pursed and peevish as an old budgerigar, sullen and rude to almost everyone but his darting tarantula mother, the parsonage housekeeper, with whom he lived in a little house behind the official minister’s residence, and the members of the Losers Club.

  Ernie was very fat and pale and fish-eyed behind his thick glasses, and sometimes reeked with what he called, with a loving flirt of the tongue, grave dirt, as he also kept the Lytton Cemetery on a part-time basis. But he read voraciously, and fiercely loved classical music and a sort of obscure theater that had nothing to do with the traveling road companies that performed “light modern classics” on the steps of the Erlanger Theater in Atlanta, twenty miles away, to which Frazier McKenzie dutifully took his daughter and one or two parent-appointed children—not friends; Peyton had no friends of her own age and gender—once or twice a year.

  Ernie had been Peyton’s friend ever since she was old enough to toddle up the street alone and discover him pottering fussily around his lair, a meticulously kept corner of the toolshed that held a bookcase made of bricks and boards, a gut-springing easy chair with a tape-mended ottoman, a black Franklin stove with a flue that ran out the window, and a coal scuttle beside it. Ernie kept a small white plastic Philco radio on a shelf there, and there was usually a Tupperware pitcher of his mother’s grudging pastel iced tea, or three Coca-Colas in an old red metal ice chest, waiting for the club members when they congregated. Ernie invariably looked up in elaborate annoyance when Peyton entered the shed; he would set aside his paperback with a slap, face down on the ottoman, and give her a pale-blue swimming glare of sorely tried forbearance. Though he treated her as an equal, talking to her as if she were his age, or he hers, he was generally so waspishly ineffectual that no one, including Peyton, took him seriously. But she was still proud to have him in the Losers Club, because of his obviously superior mind and lofty taste and opinions on cultural matters, and she often parroted these to Clothilde, who only snorted.

  “What good they do him if he can’t get himself no further than that ol’ toolshed and his mama’s supper table,” she would say, banging the iron down on the sweet-steaming percale pillowcase on her ironing board.

  “He likes what he does,” Peyton would say. “He wants to do what he does. It leaves him more time for cultivating the mind than a real job in Atlanta would do. Ernie cares more for things of the spirit than of the flesh.”

  “Look to me like he care plenty about his flesh,” Chloe said, but she said it good-naturedly, for her. Chloe did not see anything amiss with the time Peyton spent in the parsonage toolshed with Ernie Longworth, nor did anyone else in Lytton…not yet, at any rate. Everyone knew Ernie was harmless, if strange. Everyone knew that Peyton McKenzie was nothing but a thin, frail, queer, “nervous” child; the Peytons, which her long-dead mother had been, had always been aristocratically nervous and frail. Lila Lee Peyton had, indeed, died of that frailty at Peyton’s birth.

  Chloe did not even mind that her own grandson, eight-year-old Boot, was the third member of the Losers Club. Boot had been born with a clubfoot, and was still too young to be left alone, so Chloe had been bringing him to work with her to the big house ever since he was two, when his own mother vanished into the haze of the neon light that was Atlanta, and on up through the spangled chain of eastern cities toward New York, to be seen no more in Lytton. Boot, almost dwarfishly small for his age, was sadly persecuted by the healthy children of the kind, slow-moving women in the Bottoms who might have willingly minded him for Clothilde, and in any case, Chloe wouldn’t have dreamed of leaving him behind. He was flesh of her flesh, bone of her bone. But she was grateful that he had a place to go afternoons for a couple of hours, so that she could prepare the McKenzie supper in peace. To most of Lytton, Boot affected a close, mulish, sullen, subservient demeanor that demanded no engagement by any onlooker, but with Chloe and Peyton and Ernie he was himself, a bright, sweet-tempered fatalistic child who was older and wiser by eons than his tender years.

  Boot was always the last one to appear at Losers Club meetings, because his infirmity slowed him down, and the toolshed lay at the far end of the garden. This was an overgrown jungle of amok rose bushes, crazed and rampaging wisteria, and kudzu-shrouded cement benches and plaster statuary, the decayed remnants of an ambitious “Garden of Inspiration” conceived by some unremembered minister and executed with loathing by Ernie. He was only too gla
d to let savage nature strangle out the pruned and seemly Methodist inspirational artifacts and flora. Boot had a hard time threading his way through the virulent green maze; they could hear his floundering in the undergrowth, and the clump-scrape of his heavy leather boot on the gravel path long before his cheerful caramel face appeared in the doorway. It gave them time to change the subject if they had been talking about him, or about some topic that might be offensive to him. In Lytton, Georgia, in 1961, there were many of those, though in truth Boot would not have been offended if they had reached his flaring Dumbo ears; no one else in Lytton, black or white, thought to spare the tender sensibilities of a silent, gimpy little Negro boy. Wise, pragmatic Boot did not mind. He knew that Peyton and Ernie edited their conversations sometimes when he approached. His ears were as keen as his foot was useless. They were, like an insect’s antennae, instruments of his survival. He appreciated the gesture of the stopped conversations, though, and always pretended that he had not the faintest idea what they had been talking about.

  “Awright,” he would pipe, heaving himself down on the ottoman and breathing deeply from the effort of negotiating the Garden of Inspiration. “Who done the dumbest thing today?”

  1

  Peyton McKenzie changed her name when she was six years old, on the first day of her first year in elementary school. For all her short life she had been called Prilla or sometimes Priscilla, her first name, the latter usually when she was In Trouble, but that stopped with rocklike finality when the first scabby classmate began to chant, “Prilla, Prilla, mother-killer.” By the time the entire first grade in the Lytton Grammar School had taken up the refrain, Peyton McKenzie had been born, and there was no chance at all that she would return to the womb.

  “It’s a man’s name, for heaven’s sake, Priscilla,” her Aunt Augusta said in exasperation for the fourth or fifth time, after Peyton’s father had given up on her. “What’s wrong with ‘Priscilla’? It’s a lovely name. Generations of your mama’s family have named their daughters Priscilla. I believe the first was Priscilla Barnwell, who came over to Virginia well before the American Revolution. You should be proud.”

  “Peyton is my middle name,” Peyton muttered. “It’s as much mine as Priscilla.” Both she and Augusta McKenzie knew there would be no changing of Peyton’s mind, but Augusta saw it as her duty as the dominant woman in Peyton’s life to do battle with the granite streak of willfulness in her niece. On the death of Peyton’s mother at her birth, Frazier McKenzie had tacitly placed the day-to-day shaping and pruning of his daughter in his sister-in-law’s hands. By the time of Peyton’s first great rebellion, aunt and niece were old and experienced adversaries. Each knew the other’s strengths and vulnerabilities. Augusta McKenzie knew full well she wasn’t going to win this one. But she would never know why, because Peyton never told anyone about the cold, whining little chant at school that morning, not until much later, and none of the other children would tell, either. Her beleaguered teacher soon forgot about the name change entirely. She was the first in a long procession of teachers to forget about Peyton McKenzie for long stretches of time.

  Only Peyton remembered, each day of her life and deep in her smallest cell, that she had, indeed, killed her mother. If her father never so much as hinted to her that he held her undistinguished being responsible for the extinguishing of the radiant flame her mother had been, Peyton put it down to Frazier McKenzie’s natural reticence. He had been, all her life, as politely remote as a benign godparent. He was so with everyone, except Peyton’s older brother, Buddy. When Buddy died in an accident in his air-force trainer, when Peyton was five, Frazier McKenzie closed up shop on his laughter, anger, small foolishnesses, and large passions. Now, at twelve, Peyton could remember no other father than the cooled and static one she had. Her father seemed to remember her only intermittently.

  She told the Losers Club about the name change on a February day when it seemed as if earth and air and sky were all made of the same sodden gray cloth. It happens sometimes in the Deep South when winter can no longer muster an honest cold but will not admit the warm tides of spring lapping at the gates. It is a climatic sulk, not a great tantrum, and like any proper sulk it can last for days and even weeks, exhausting spirits and fraying nerves and sucking open hearts with its sluggish tongue. Ernie had been so petulant that Boot had told him to shut up if he didn’t have anything to add to the day’s litanies of inanities and abasement. Even Boot seemed more dutiful than enthusiastic over his contribution to the club’s itinerary, a lusterless account of wiping out the Canaday children’s hopscotch grid with his orthotic boot.

  “Well, if I couldn’t do better than that, I just wouldn’t say anything,” Ernie sniffed, affronted. Ernie was plagued this day by demons. His small shed was so humid that the lone window was sweated over and the pages of his copy of The Inferno, laid casually with its title up on his bookcase, were glued together. His overalls stuck to him, and his thinning, spindrift hair frizzed with the damp, and he was starting a sinus infection. He had also forgotten to return his mother’s library books.

  “You ain’t said anything,” Boot pointed out. “And I jes’ as soon you didn’t. You as mean as an old settin’ hen today. Peyton gon’ have to come up with something really fine to make up for you.”

  Two pairs of cool eyes turned toward her. Peyton, who had planned to recount the deliberate serving to her of the last helping of tepid turnip greens in the school lunch line while a steaming pot of spaghetti and meat sauce awaited those behind her, swiftly changed her mind.

  “I killed my mother,” she said, her heart beating hard with the sheer daring of it, and the first opening of the pit of that old pain. The others were silent, looking at her. She looked back, feeling for an instant only the heedless joy of a great coup.

  “You ain’t, neither,” Boot said finally.

  “You flatter yourself,” Ernie said.

  But they knew they were bested by a long shot.

  “I did, too,” Peyton said. “She died not a day after I was born. She bled to death. Everybody knows that. I’ve always known it.”

  “Then why didn’t you say?” Boot asked. He was having a hard time relinquishing his sultancy of humiliation.

  “You’d have only said I was showing off. Ernie, you did say it. And not only did I kill her, but when I was in first grade I changed my name to Peyton because the kids were singing a song about ‘Prilla, Prilla, mother-killer,’ and I made it stick, too.”

  She folded her arms over her thin chest and looked at them complacently. Nobody was going to touch her on this day, and perhaps not on any of the following ones.

  “Well, I guess she certainly must have had a fleeting moment of deathbed regret for her actions nine months before,” Ernie said in elaborate distaste.

  “What do you mean?” Peyton said. She could feel her crown slipping away from her.

  “He means he bet she sorry she fucked your daddy on the night she got you,” Boot said, his good humor restored. “Yeah, man, that was one sorry fuck. That was a killer.”

  “My mother did not fuck,” Peyton said, her face flaming with the audacity of the spoken word as well as the sheer idiocy of it. Of course her mother had fucked; here she sat, didn’t she, on this gray day years distant from the fatal fucking? Peyton knew what fucking was. You could not live in a small southern town in deep farm country, in the company of strapping bus kids from the farms who not only knew what it was but were actually doing it, and not know. It was just that she did not know how it was accomplished, and simply could not imagine. Her cousin Ben Player had shown her their old bull humping a cow once, on the Player farm, when they were both eight or nine, but Peyton still could not translate that ponderous, sucking, backward mounting with people. Most especially not her father. Her mother she could not remember, of course, but she had been told often enough what an ethereal sprite she had been. It was inconceivable to Peyton that she would participate in such a huge, clumsy, wet thing.

  “W
ell, if she didn’t fuck, you must have been the result of an immaculate conception, and from what I hear, it was way too late for that,” Ernie said snidely.

  “What are you talking about?” Peyton said, knowing she was going to hate whatever she would hear.

  “Nothing. Forget I said anything. Everybody knows your mama was a saint,” Ernie said, and would say no more. In truth, he was appalled at his own meanness, but he was not about to admit it. He leaned back in the spavined armchair and picked up The Inferno.

  “Meeting adjourned,” he said coldly. “I have better things to do than sit around with infants and talk about fucking.”

  They watched him for a couple of minutes, but he did not look up, and finally Boot said, “Come on, Peyton. He just mad because you outdone him. Let’s go to your house. Mamaw gon’ make apple butter this afternoon, only I ain’t supposed to know it.”

  At the edge of the gravel sidewalk that gave over to the front walk of Peyton’s house, he looked up at her.

  “You really kill your ma?” he said.

  “I really did.”

  “Holy shit, if that ain’t something,” Boot said, and he clumped into the house in search of forbidden fruit.

  That night Peyton lay in bed waiting to become a woman.

  She had felt it coming all afternoon, small at first, a nudging pressure under her heart, but it had increased steadily, and now it was a huge old tidal surge, smelling somehow of sea brine, tasting of clean lake fish in her throat, something loosed from the tight, cold sac she had pierced that afternoon, something that would drown her and cast her up utterly changed, something that would divide time. Because she could imagine no change more profound than the one from what she was now into womanhood, Peyton thought that must be it. She lay on her back in the quiet dark of the little room that had been her nursery, the lair she would not relinquish no matter what amount of shame her Aunt Augusta heaped on her, and ran her hands over her body, down to her hips and up to her face and down again, wondering where the change would start and how it would feel.