“？‘I can provide for Miriam.’？” August’s mother laughed. “Miriam can provide for Miriam. Lord knows, I didn’t raise a silly girl. It’s not even so much she would be forsaking Southwestern—”
A silver pickup, its bed lined with tall fishing poles, careened down the street, obscuring the conversation in the parlor. “Damn it,” August hissed. She cast a furious glance at the truck as it passed. “Niggas here stay fishing,” she muttered.
“Will you love her, is what I’m concerned about,” her mother was saying. “Treat her right? Do for her and care for her? Be there when she’s sick and when she’s lonesome?”
“You’re an Edith Wharton fan, ma’am?”
“You’re literate, then. Well, at least that’s something. Wasn’t sure what y’all Northerners were taught in school. Or if at all.”
“I love her,” the Marine said simply.
And at the very same moment, both August and her mother said the exact same thing—August whispering sharply into the leaves of the plum tree, her mother’s voice low and threatlike in the quiet parlor.
“You better,” the two North women said.
* * *
—
Seventeen years later, August would answer the phone in the middle of the night to hear her sister sobbing on the other end. Something Miriam rarely did: cry. Barely comprehensible. August had to strain, but she was able to make out the words fight, black eye, and ashamed. Even in her half-awake state, she could remember sitting in the plum tree, straining her ear to the stained-glass window, hearing her mother resign herself to her daughter’s fate.
Lying in her mother’s four-poster oak bed, listening to her sister’s sobs, August silently counted the bullets she had left in the Remington, calculated how many hours it would take to drive from Memphis to North Carolina, reckoned how long she would be in jail for killing a no-good Yankee. If she should even bother with burying the body. Maybe she’d prefer to drive the damn corpse to the police station herself, toss it out the door, and scream, “Take this shit.”
“Come home,” August said. She was certain, felt it in her bones, that her mother would have said the exact same thing.
CHAPTER 5
Miriam
1995
The annual black-and-white Marine Corps Ball was an extravaganza. The dress code was formal. Ranking Marine Corps officers would don the Marine Corps dress blue: a blue jacket trimmed in red stitching and paired with brilliant blue trousers that had a matching red pinstripe running down the outer seam of the leg. His sword was at his right side, the ivory handle of the weapon shone like a tooth. As had been tradition for hundreds of years, women wore black or white or any combination of the two.
Miriam’s gold sequined train shone like celestial glimmer on the pinewood floors of the Marston Pavilion. Camp Lejeune, in Onslow County, North Carolina, was the largest Marine Corps base on the East Coast, and the sprawling Officers’ Club overlooked the New River, with sweeping coastal views of the Atlantic. She and Jax approached the Tinian Ballroom, which was awash in light. The ballroom had been christened for a Pacific battle where, in a matter of days, the Marines devastated, captured, and occupied a tiny Asian island north of Guam called Tinian. Three domes too big to be considered chandeliers hung from the ceiling and gave the room a Romanesque gleam.
Miriam was exhausted. Most days caring for Joan, now ten, and Mya, seven, left her worn out by eight. Plus, she and Jax had stayed up late the night before hurling burning insults at each other. You ain’t a man at all. You need all them medals and badges, don’t you? Can’t be a man at home though. Miriam had been clutching the note she’d found from his secretary in his fatigues pocket. And Jax. Sitting in a plush armchair in the dark, chain-smoking and smirking all the while. Tongue as good as forked. Laughter in his voice. So what, I strayed? You let that boy do that to Joan. Having you for a mother is worse than having no mother at all.
She had decided that morning to wear a gown the color of spun gold. The Marine Corps Ball was traditionally a black-and-white affair. Miriam didn’t care. For once, she wanted to take charge, wear what she felt like wearing that night, answer to no one.
The dress was heavy. The sequins were hand-stitched. The gown had a dramatic side split and nothing for a back. It was held together by a small clasp at the base of the neck and the sheer will of the gods. The dress had been her grandmother’s creation. She remembered her mother gazing at it fondly when she’d passed it on to Miriam, wrapped in blue tissue paper and stored in a tight trunk to keep out moths.
“My mama made this for me. I wore this the night Myron came home from the war. We had a right fine meal out on Beale…” Hazel had said, drifting off into nostalgia. Miriam would pull out the dress from time to time but had never worn it before. Wanted to save it for an occasion that would honor the last time it was worn.
“You look like a goddamned fool,” Jax whispered. He clutched her arm with more force than was necessary to help her keep her balance as he steered her into the elegant, elaborate ballroom.
Everyone in the ballroom—Marines with their wives in long black and white gowns and jacketed waiters holding trays of champagne—all seemed to crane their necks as one as Miriam walked across the floor. The lively chatter cut out, replaced by gasps from some of the Marines’ wives. Even the music stopped for a moment. The band fumbled at their instruments as the couple continued walking to their assigned table. Not a sound could be heard apart from Miriam’s ruby red heels clicking along the pine floor.
Miriam whispered, “You’re hurting my arm.”
Jax ignored her—her and the hundreds of shocked eyes that followed their progress across the room.
Then, a Chicago accent, thick with sharp As and crisp Os, broke the silence. “Well, well, well. Look at the couple I brought together.” Always the bachelor, Mazz stood alone next to their table, holding a tumbler of whiskey, swaying a little already from the booze. Ever the spitting image of a young Marlon Brando, he looked sharp in his Marine Corps dress blues. He was as tough as he was handsome. Had scorpions as pets in the Gulf. Smoked cigars or chewed tobacco. Scoffed at cigarettes. Said those were for women and children. He was what the Marines called “Old Salt.” He was the finest marksman on Camp Lejeune, and though a rank below her husband, Mazz commanded almost as much respect.
The orchestra resumed a lively waltz, and people turned back to their conversations.
With one strong tug, Miriam broke free from Jax’s hold on her arm. “Antonio,” she said and, in the Italian way he had taught her, planted two soft kisses on both Mazz’s cheeks.
“Miriam,” Mazz said. Then, nodding toward Jax, “I still can’t figure it out. How in the world you get you a woman like this?”
Miriam, lifting a champagne flute from a passing tray, let out a bitter laugh, threw her head back, and finished the glass in a few swift gulps. She handed the empty glass to Jax, who took it without looking at her.
“I’m going to the ladies’ room,” she said then, not making any effort to conceal the disgust in her voice.
“Don’t you go starting the next Troy on me, Meer,” Mazz called out as Miriam left. “I’m too fucking lit to hold my rifle, swear to God.”