Call Me Lydia Read online

  Call Me Lydia is dedicated to Audra, who came to know Lydia as well as I do, and whose help was essential in telling her story.

  Chapter One

  Lydia glanced impatiently at the sign above the ramp as she nudged her way through the crowd, slowing her pace only momentarily to reach into her shoulder bag for a cigarette and thank the man who almost fell over himself to light it for her. She climbed the escalator as if it were stairs, used her hip to open the door, and stepped out into blinding sun. Her cigarette dangled from her mouth as she shaded her eyes to look for a cab. Spotting one, she started toward it, only to stop suddenly and drop her bags to the ground. Parked right behind it was a very familiar, shiny, charcoal gray limousine.

  "Dad! How did you know to pick me up here?"

  John Merchant smiled. He always knew where she was, but had to marvel at her L.L. Bean getup. She was even wearing chukka boots, and smoking. He walked over and plucked the cigarette from her mouth, dropped it to the ground and stepped on it, then embraced her dearly. "Oh, how I've missed you."

  Lydia held on tight, thinking about the months she'd been away, and was reluctant to let go. "I've missed you too, Dad."

  "I've been so lonely since you left."

  "Well, I'm home now."

  John stepped back, wiping his eyes as he motioned to George, and she went over and kissed him lightly on the cheek. "How are you, George?"

  "Just fine, Miss Lydia. Just fine."

  "And Betty?"

  "She's fine too," he said, as he picked up her luggage and shoulder bag. “Course, she's fat like always."

  Lydia laughed, and for just a second, everything seemed normal. Then she looked at her father, standing quietly at her side, and remembered why she'd left. And why she was back now.

  George opened the trunk to put her bags away, but she stopped him. "Wait!" she said. "My cigarettes are in there!" He exchanged an exaggerated, eye-rolling glance with her father, handed her the bag, and closed the trunk with a sigh, then walked around to open the door for them.

  Lydia lit a cigarette as soon as she got in and leaned back, watching the smoke as it billowed to the ceiling. "Are you having any thoughts of reneging, Dad?"

  He shook his head and smiled. She looked so much like her mother, so beautiful. "When did you start smoking?"

  Lydia waved her hand, as if that were a silly question, undeserving of an answer, and took another drag. "Any change since we talked on the phone?"

  "Worse at best," John said.

  Lydia looked at him. "Does that comment make sense, Dad?"

  "About as much as a woman smoking."

  Lydia shrugged. "But I suppose it's all right for a man?"

  He said, "No" at first, but quickly changed that to, "Yes. Better that than a woman, because women shouldn't smoke."

  Lydia nodded, knowing better than to debate his set, albeit gentlemanly codes and just looked out her window. It was rush hour.

  "Do you think it makes you look grown-up?"

  "I am grown-up, Dad. I'm twenty-four years old."

  "You're still a child," he said, his face going blank. "To me anyway."

  Lydia reached over and squeezed his hand. "And always."

  John nodded, pacified for the moment, then smiled expectantly. "I thought we'd go by and visit Mother."

  Lydia glanced at her watch, his timing was so exact. "You haven't been there in such a long time," he said. She shook her head, but he persisted. "I can't see what one minute..."

  "Right, Dad. And neither can I. So I'm not going, and that's all there is to it."

  "You can't stay away forever."

  "Oh yes, I can," she said, snuffing her cigarette out. "Besides, you go enough for both of us."

  At that, her father turned and stared out at the traffic. Several minutes passed. "She knows that you don't come to see her."

  Lydia shook her head. "No, she doesn't. Only you and the caretaker know."

  "It would break her heart if she heard you say things like that."

  Lydia leaned her head back and sighed, recalling all the times they'd had similar conversations. "You can't break a dead person's heart, Dad."

  John started to argue, but she held her hand up. "Nor can going to the cemetery keep someone alive."

  John's eyes widened, a devastated look on his face. But Lydia remained steadfast, not even glancing his way, and they rode on with a distance of silence between them. The radio announcer was predicting rain.

  George had barely pulled to a stop in front of the house when Lydia got out, took her own bags, and headed for the garage.

  "Aren't you coming in for a while?" John asked.

  "No. I'm only gonna stop for a few seconds to see Betty, then I'm off. I want to get settled in at the beach house."

  “Which will take all of ten minutes," John said, throwing a critical glance at her luggage.

  Lydia ignored that. "Is the beach house open?"

  He nodded and followed after her. "At least stay for dinner. Betty made your favorite."

  "What? Peanut butter and jelly?"

  John laughed. "No, your next favorite, Swiss steak and mashed potatoes. God knows, you could use a good meal. You're much too thin."

  Lydia pulled the garage doors open. "No, I'm not. I'm exactly the right weight for my height."

  "You can't use a standard weight chart, Lydia," he teased, referring to her ample chest. "Nor could your mother."

  Lydia rolled her eyes and laughed. "Yeah, but even so, I feel good. And as far as I'm concerned, that's all that matters."

  The top was down on her car and as she tossed her bags into the back seat, she glanced at the ignition, knowing the keys had probably been in it since the day she'd left. She got in and started it with her father watching, hoping, praying she'd change her mind and stay. And after backing it out and looking over at him, she did.

  "All right, but just for dinner. We agreed I could live out at the beach house, so I don't want to get into that again. Okay?"

  John nodded regretfully, and that brought on her next concern. "There isn't a place setting for Mom still, is there?"

  Her father's expression said it all, which had Lydia shak­ing her head emphatically. "Not if I'm going to eat with you."

  "But..."

  "I'm not doing it, Dad! Goddamn it, I'm not!"

  John swallowed with great difficulty, then nodded, and she pulled past him and parked in front of the house, letting the engine idle for a few minutes before turning it off.

  "I probably should have had George drive it some while you were away," he said then, much too remorsefully.

  Lydia glanced back at over a hundred thousand dollars of Mercedes’ red-convertible best, knowing there was no way he'd have let anyone else drive it. To do that, he would first have had to admit to himself that she was gone.

  "Nah, it'll be all right," she said, linking her arm in his as they walked up the steps. She was sure George had taken care of it anyway; otherwise it probably wouldn't have started. Before they were two feet in the door, she was calling out, "Betty! I'm here!"

  Her voice echoed off the walls of the two-story foyer, as a silver-haired black woman came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. "Praise the Lord and thank you, Jesus! My Miss Lydia's home!"

  Lydia laughed, hugging her tightly. "Hey, don't bother Him on my account."

  "It's no bother to Him," Betty said, rocking her back and forth. "That's what He's up there for. And that's why you's home safe."

  Lydia tried to shrug her shoulders, disagreeing with that, but couldn't, and gave up. Besides, she loved Betty's hugs, always feeling so safe inside of one. Betty stepped back to get a good look at her, smiling as she propped her hands on her hips. "You's pretty as a picture, Miss Lydia, pretty as a pict
ure."

  "Thank you, you look pretty damned terrific yourself."

  Betty scowled, first at Lydia, then her father. "See what you's lettin' her go off to school did. It taught her to swear."

  John managed a faint smile, but looked as if he was miles away, and Lydia picked up on it immediately. It was now or never. Choosing now, she headed for the den. "Betty, please remove Mom's plate. She won't be dining with us this evening. Meanwhile, I'm gonna fix myself a drink. Want one, Dad?"

  John shook his head, sighing as he followed her. "No, I don't think so.” Hard as he tried, looking at her now, he couldn't remember her as a child. She'd grown up too much and too fast. "You drink now too?"

  Lydia nodded, smiling. "Just Scotch."

  John let out another sigh, thinking of the months she'd been away, and decided if there had been one good thing about it, it was his being oblivious to her new lifestyle.

  Lydia sat down, glanced around the room as she lit a cigarette, and saw that nothing had changed. Her mother's chair was still turned slightly away from the window, with the ottoman butted up to it the way she liked it, the afghan folded just so. Even the novel she'd been reading when she still had the strength was there.

  "How many of those do you drink in a day?" John asked.

  Lydia shrugged, thinking, sometimes too many, some­times not enough.

  "Lydia?

  "Dad, please...don't treat me like this."

  John forced a smile. "Well, I'm trying not to, in case you haven't noticed."

  Lydia chuckled and said, "Try a little harder," which was something he used to always tell her. And it made him laugh.

  Betty announced dinner was ready, and as usual, John was seated at one end of the table, Lydia the other. It had always been that way, even when her mother was alive.

  "So is everything ready for tomorrow?" Lydia asked.

  John nodded, hardly glancing up. He was busy moving his food around his plate. "You'll have the office next to mine."

  Lydia shook her head, saying with a mouthful, "Huh-uh, no way. I want out by the shop. In fact, I was thinking about setting up in the old conference room. Is it still empty?"

  "No. It's being used as a lunchroom for the foremen, so that won't do." He put his fork down, looking tired. "And I thought it would be nice having you close to me, not that I would get in your way."

  Lydia waved a piece of bread. "That's not the point. I want to be able to see out over the shop. That's why I thought the old conference room?”

  "But what about the foremen?"

  Lydia shrugged. "I don't know. But I can't see that it's that big of a deal. They can just eat with everyone else until I can figure out another place for them."

  John sighed. "They're going to love you right off the bat."

  "Shit, Dad! I don't want them to love me. I just want to put the company back on its feet."

  "By stepping on toes?"

  Lydia thought about the advice she'd been given. "If that's what it takes, yes."

  John sat back, frowning, and Lydia shook her head, mimicking his expression. "You can't kiss ass, Dad. And the first day is as good as any to let them know that."

  What a mouth, he thought. Where did she get it? He was just about to ask her that, when she held her hand up. "If you want to back out, now’s your chance."

  "It's just that..."

  Lydia drew a deep breath. "We have discussed this, Dad."

  John lowered his eyes. "I know. And no, I'm not backing out. I' m just suggesting that you not go in there like gangbusters."

  Lydia smiled. "I won't. But I'm not sneaking in the back door either."

  Betty came in with dessert and raved over Lydia's clean plate. "Thank you, Jesus! It's so nice to cook for someone that’s appreciates it."

  "Everything was absolutely delicious," Lydia said, smiling.

  “And I ate," John insisted, when Betty turned to him. "I ate a little bit of everything."

  Betty rolled her eyes. “I can see you ain't ate a thing. I ain't blind." She mumbled all the way back to the kitchen. "I don't fool easy, you's can't fool me."

  Betty's blackberry pie was Lydia's favorite, so she dove into it eagerly and was practically down to the last crumb before she looked down the table at her father. He had yet to take his first bite.

  "Dad, come on, don't worry. Everything'll be all right."

  John nodded, glancing somberly at the chair his wife had occupied, and although Lydia had sworn against it, no matter what, she found herself trying to reason with him.

  "Dad, the trouble with you and me, the difference." She pointed to her mother's chair. "You insist on remembering Mom the way she was just before she died. And you're forcing me to do the same. Only I don't want to remember her that way. I want to remember her when she was well. I want to remember her laughing." She drew a deep breath. He'd buried his face in his hands and she was bracing herself for his tears. She was ready for them now and waited. But when he did look up and the tears were there, it still got to her.

  "I'm sorry, Dad," she said, swallowing hard. "But I can't watch you do this. I just can’t."

  * * *

  For as long as Lydia could remember, the beach house was there, welcoming her like an old friend. This day was no different. She parked to the side of the garage; careful to pull past the trees, and with her bags slung over her shoulder, went inside.

  In a way, she was grateful her mother hadn't been able to come to the beach house the last few months of her life. Too frail to make the trip, short as it was, she'd spared it that feeling of death that still dominated the big house.

  She put her bags down on the floor and looked around the living room for a moment. It had been done in turn-of-the-­century colonial, with her mother's flair, and everywhere she looked, she could see her, happy and healthy like she used to be. But then her mind wandered. With her mother's illness diagnosed just before Lydia was to enter graduate school, after they had spent two years scouting for the right one, she stayed at the local university instead. She drove back and forth every day, hating to leave her mother's side in the morning and dreading going back to it in the evening. The cancer was ravaging her. Then, by the grace of God, or the curse of the devil, she died on a Sunday, ending her pain, with her husband and her daughter holding onto her hands as she took her last breath.

  Lydia shivered, and deciding she needed a different train of thought, tossed her bag into the first bedroom, and came back out and poured a Scotch. She sipped it slowly at first, but soon gave that up and downed the rest. Then she unlocked the sliding doors to the patio and went out by the pool. As she knelt down to pass her hand through the water, she could hear the sound of the ocean waves beyond the drop. The sound was as familiar as the scent.

  She straightened up slowly, walked over to the railing, and looked out. She was sure the biggest reason her father never accepted her mother's death was because of the slow and painful way she'd lingered. He'd clung to the hope that she would be the one to beat the odds, always telling her how strong she was, while urging Betty to pray for a miracle, and he'd refused to believe in anything else.

  He wasn't the same now that she was gone, and without realizing it, neither was Lydia. Her decision to transfer to Clairborn to complete her graduate work had been against her father's wishes. But it was the school she and her mother had chosen, and she needed to get away. It would only be for a year and a half, and besides, she actually felt it would be better for him as well. After all, he had the business to occupy him, and even though he was well past retirement age, Lydia being a menopause baby, he'd always thrived on it. But she'd been wrong, and as a result, Merchant Manufacturing was in trouble.

  His phone call just before she finished her last semester of school came as a surprise and, admittedly, set her back a little. As an only child, she knew the family business would some­day rest on her shoulders, and her education directed her toward it. She just didn't expect it to be this soon. She'd made some plans of her own, things she
wanted to do for a while. But he wanted her home now, and to persuade her, he offered her "free rein."

  That's how he'd put it, this, the very same man whom she repeatedly caught peeking over her shoulder whenever she tried something new. And yet, he sounded like he really meant it. He said he was tired. He said he'd lost interest. He said she had to come. When he told her the company was on the verge of bankruptcy and that he didn't care anymore, it was settled.

  She could remember him asking, "When?" Des­perately asking, "When?" Though her reply had been a vague "I'm not sure" and they hadn't talked since, he was there at the airport waiting for her.

  The ocean looked so inviting; she climbed down the wooden steps to the beach and slipped her shoes off to walk along the shore. Three hovering seagulls followed her lei­surely, swooping down to scrounge about before taking flight again. When she came to "Screwing Rock," she sat down and looked out at a distant sailboat, dwarfing a large ship beyond it and the ones beyond that. She turned and gazed at the houses above, thinking about all the times she and her friends tried to climb the drop, never once making it. They were lucky if they got halfway. Looking at it now, that was no wonder, because it seemed even steeper than she remembered.

  The houses were the same though, all Cape Cods with screened porches and balconied garages, patios caressed with trellises and clinging vines, each lot indistinguishable from the next, and yet totally secluded from the others. And there was that sense in the air, a feeling surrounding the area, one nurtured by old-guard wealth refusing change. A feeling that here things would always be the same, the same as when she was a child.

  The rock was uncomfortable to sit on, making her wonder how it ever got its nickname, and laughing to herself about it, she started back. When she reached the steps, suddenly her mood changed, and she needed a cigarette badly.

  She practically ran up, going for the pack like a desert trekker to water, and then had to catch her breath before she could light one up. The wait was agony. After awhile, she thought she should probably call Sharon, but decided against it. Then she thought about Greg. He'd made her promise to call him just as soon as she arrived. But she put that off too. Now wasn't the time. All she wanted on her mind was the day ahead. The phone rang, startling her, and had it not been so persistent, she might have been able to push it aside also. But as it was..."Hello."