Instead of a gun she pulls out a wrapped gift in shiny light blue paper tied with a white satin bow. And here comes a card. I watch as she bends down and sets them both on my doormat. She stands back up, then turns and walks away. The echo of her clicking heels can be heard a mile off.
Once I figure she’s gone for good, I creak open the door, bend down, and scoop up the gift and the card. Simply because I’m curious. Half of me is scared to see what’s inside. Suppose it has some kind of deadly poison inside, set to go off when it opens? Or a small bomb ready to set me on fire?
On second thought I better not open the box, but I go ahead and take a chance on the card, open the envelope, and slide it out slowly. It’s on fine ivory paper with a deckled edge, a watercolor rendering of the Alpha Delt House with our Greek letters over the front door. I’m still alive—praise Jesus—so I turn it over to see what in the world she has to say for herself.
Dear Miss Pearl,
It’s never been easy for me to admit when I’m wrong. Call it control. Call it a generational curse. Call it whatever you want, but it doesn’t justify the bitter truth. I treated you horribly. The bad news, for me anyway, is that you aren’t the only one. To be candid, I’ve hurt so many people, in so many ways, I don’t know how I’ll ever begin to clean up the carnage.
This is for you. I’m not worthy of it. Everything it represents is the opposite of who I’ve become. I’m not sure what to do about that, but it’s certainly not your problem. Although I don’t deserve it, I can only pray that someday you may be able to forgive me.
Even though I’m no longer president, I hope you’ll please return to the House as the House Director. Amending the bylaws was the easy part, I’m sure. But finding another real Mississippi Pearl would be impossible. You are our official jewel, the heart of Alpha Delta Beta.
With Love,
Lilith Turner Whitmore
I am thunderstruck. My heart, the one I thought had petrified when it came to her, cracks. These are the last—last—words I ever expected to hear from Lilith Whitmore. Half of me believes it must be a hoax; she couldn’t have written these words if a gun were put to her head. But the other part of me says: “Open the gift, Pearl.”
When I remove the bow and tear back the wrapping, I find a small black velvet box. Real slow like, I open the lid. When I see what’s inside, my breath catches. It’s Miss Lilith’s pin. The one she wears over her heart every time she walks in the House. I’d seen plenty of them over the years, but seeing hers up close makes me think it’s older than most—an antique from another generation. Someone told me her mother was an Alpha Delt. Perhaps it was hers.
“Pearl,” I hear a small voice call from the stairwell. The sound of her heels fills the air as she walks toward me. I’ve never seen her looking so casual. Blue jeans and a short jacket. Her hair is a mess, no makeup on her face. Once she gets closer she tries looking at me, but her lids fall, like she can hardly do it.
There’s a battle going on between my head and my heart. My heart wants to believe her, but my head is still telling me no, it’s all for show.
Before I have a chance to put words together she says, “I am the antithesis of every symbol on that pin.” Then she hangs her head. She’s close enough now that I can see sprouts of gray have rooted in her part. After a long stretch of time, she finally pulls her head up. “I am ashamed of myself for ever wearing it. But that shame pales in comparison to the disgusting way I’ve treated you.”
Confusion is swirling through me every which a way. So much of it, I can’tspeak. At first I thought I was crazy thinking I could hear emotion in her voice, and now, this close to her, I see real tears.
“Instead of listening to you, when you came to me about the House Director job, I insulted you. Of course you’re qualified.” Her shoulders crumple, like she’s hiding from herself. She presses a hand against her cheek, hangs her head again. “I can’t stand the sight of myself.”
This woman is not the Lilith Whitmore I know.
I’m thinking of at least touching her on the shoulder, but before I can do it she says, “To think I held a hard line about the college degree requirement is… deplorable. Oh my God.” She squeezes her head in her hands. “I’m a monster.”
Now I feel like I have to say something. If I don’t, I’ll be the monster. So I go ahead and say exactly what’s been on my mind since she started talking. “I appreciate all you’re saying; I really do. I’m curious, though, what changed your mind?” It must have to do with her getting fired.
“Four weeks ago, at the House, when all the girls took a stand for you, and rightfully so, Annie Laurie—my one and only child,the love of my life—told me she was embarrassed to be my daughter. And not to call her again.” Her voice cracks. Teardrops stream down her face. “I hurt so much I can hardly breathe.”
This lady is crying her heart out. And struggling for her words. After digging in her pocketbook, she pulls out a used tissue and dabs her cheeks. “I started th-thinking about what I’d already passed on to her, and I couldn’t stand myself. No wonder she has no fr-friends.”
“That’s not true, Miss Lilith. She has friends.”
“It’s absolutely true. She was cut from Alpha Delt. Not a single vote.”
I jerk my head back, give her a dazed look. What is she talking about?
She wipes another tear from the end of her nose. “I saw the list. Not a single vote. So I manipulated the Rush ballot. I couldn’t stand for her to be hurt and rejected again. I’d tried everything I knew to buy her a set of friends, but it never worked. When I saw her at the House, with the girls actually embracing her for taking up for you, something clicked. I finally understood what a witch I’d become and worse, what I’d passed on to her.” She hangs her head again and sobs.
I take a deep breath. This is a lot to hear out of someone. Especially her.
She blows her nose, looks me in the eye. “I’ve been thinking about whatyou said about generational racism. I never thought I came from a racist family. But after thinking about it for days I realized: We’re all racists. Even my own mother. The woman I strove to be exactly like. I’m embarrassed to admit that, but it’s true.”
I start to comment, but decide to let her finish.
“Gage and I were furious when Ole Miss wanted to change the mascot to the brown bear. We rued the day we had to stop singing Dixie at the games. And we really hated it when we were forced to stop waving our little Rebel flags. I thought Ole Miss was crazy for making the change. It was all tradition, but I never thought about the real reason behind it until you said what you said. It’s terribly offensive. Please know I am so, so sorry.” When she pleads I see honest emotion on her face. I’m starting to believe her.
If this isn’t an uncanny turn of events I don’t know what is. For the last twenty-five years I’ve been sitting in the therapist’s chair counseling hundreds of girls through whatever they’ve been going through and now here she is, as broken as any person I’ve ever seen, taking her own seat. Not in my closet, at my home. I want to be very careful what I say, because until now, she’s done ninety-nine percent of the talking.
