Читать книгу Sweetgrass - Мэри Монро, Мэри Элис Монро, Mary Monroe Alice - Страница 7

During the days of slavery in the Old South, men made large work baskets from bull rush because this marsh grass was strong and durable. Women made functional baskets for the home using sweetgrass, which was softer and abundant. Today’s baskets are made with sweetgrass, bull rush and long-leaf pine needles bound together by strips of the unopened center leaves of palmetto trees.

NAN’S HAND RESTED ON the telephone receiver as she gathered her wits.

“Close your mouth, Mama. You’re catching flies.” Harry jabbed his younger brother in the ribs as they laughed. They were gathered around the table, waiting on dinner.

Nan snapped her mouth shut only for as long as it took her to smile. She hurried over to the table.

“You won’t believe it!” she announced, her voice rising. She was rewarded with the rarity of the complete attention of her teenage sons, Harry and Chas, as well as her husband, Hank.

Looking at the bunch, she thought there could be no doubt who the boys’ father was. Not that she and Hank looked all that different from each other. The boys both had their parents’ blond hair and bright blue eyes. Harry, at seventeen, had the Blakely height and slender build, while it looked as though Chas would be shorter and more muscular, like Hank. Though at fifteen, he might sprout another few inches and be taller than his father.

Hank’s neatly cropped blond head emerged from behind the Post and Courier. “We won’t believe what?”

“That was Mama June. You’ll never guess who’s home!”

“Morgan,” answered Hank with little enthusiasm, returning his attention to the newspaper.

Nan felt a flutter of disappointment that his quick answer stole the thunder from her announcement. She rallied. “Yes! That doesn’t surprise you?”

“Not really. Your father is in the hospital. It’s only fitting he’d come home.”

“What’s the big deal?” Chas asked sullenly, disappointed in the news.

“Yeah, who cares?” added Harry. “We barely know who he is.”

Her pale brows furrowed with displeasure at their lackluster reaction as she cut the heat on the stove with a quick twist of her wrist. “Well, it took me by surprise.”

Sometimes it was just plain hard living with a bunch of males, she thought. They just didn’t get it. Matters of family didn’t register. She was sick to death of listening to their endless sports reports or excruciating details about cars. Sometimes she felt as though she were talking to herself throughout the meal, desperately trying to engage them in conversation while they ignored her and shoveled food.

Nan looked at her sons. Despite their outwardly good looks, they sometimes struck her as spiritless. She didn’t detect the spark of drive or ambition or dreams that gave even ordinary-looking boys such appeal. She brushed aside her disappointment and told herself they were just going through a phase.

With practiced efficiency she gave the rice a final lift and poured the mass into a brightly colored serving bowl that coordinated with the dinner china. Then with a quick grab of serving spoons, she carried the rice and a bowl of buttered beans to the table of waiting men. She sat in her chair and they all bowed their heads and said the blessing.

“It’s a sorry state of affairs that y’all feel so blasé about your only uncle being in town.” Nan handed Harry the bowl of rice to pass.

“He’s not our only uncle,” corrected Harry, taking hold of the serving spoons and helping himself. “We’ve got Uncle Phillip and Uncle Joe living right close. We see them all the time.”

“On my side, I meant. In the Blakely family, there’s just me and Morgan.”

Hank relinquished his newspaper to take his turn with the rice. “I don’t know where you get this me and him stuff,” he argued. “Seems to me your brother is a me only kind of guy. In all the years I’ve known him, Morgan’s made it pretty clear how he feels about family. How long have we been married? We’ve seen him, what? Two or three times? It’s his own fault that his nephews don’t know who he is.”

“I know, I know,” Nan released in a moan, bringing the country-fried steak on a matching serving platter closer. Still, the criticism seemed to her unfair. “Morgan has a lot of history to deal with, don’t forget.”

Her hands rested on the platter as she paused and looked around the table. It was moments like this, seeing her family gathered together, that she treasured most. “I’m truly blessed to have you and the boys,” she said, gifting each of them with a loving look. “Morgan has nothing or no one. It’s just so sad, is all.”

“Uh, Mama…” Harry lifted his brows, his gaze intent on the meat.

“Oh.” The moment was gone. She reached out her hand with alacrity to pass the platter of meat around, followed by the beans. One by one the plates were topped with enormous mounds of rice, thick slices of fried steak and scoops of beans.

“Pass the gravy, Chas,” Harry demanded.

Nan rose to carry the serving dishes to the sideboard. The boys were growing faster than cotton in July and she never seemed able to fill the bottomless pits they called their stomachs. She sighed as she watched them dive into their plates. The thought that it would be polite to wait for their mother to be seated at the table before eating never even crossed their minds. She looked at Hank for support, but he was ladling gravy on his rice, oblivious to the poor manners of his sons.

“Boys…” she muttered as she reached for her glass and poured herself a liberal glass of wine. When she took her seat at the opposite head of the table, no one so much as lifted a head. Nan sipped her wine, shoving her plate aside.

At least they were eating together as a family, she told herself, tamping down the disappointment she always felt at mealtime. Mama June had always maintained lively discussions at the dinner table, encouraging each of her children to join in. Nan remembered heated debates and merciless teasing and, always, laughter.

At least until Hamlin died. Her brother had been so alive! A natural storyteller with a joke or a quip always dangling at his tongue. Everything had changed after he was gone. To this day, she mourned.

When Nan married, she’d tried to restore the vitality in her own family that she’d felt was lost in the Blakelys after the tragedy of her brother’s death had torn the family apart. At the very least, she was keeping the family dinner tradition alive.

Suddenly, she remembered something else.

“Oh, yes! Mama June wants us all to come for Sunday dinner.”

This announcement was met with rolled eyes and groans from the boys.

“You just stop that, hear? You haven’t been to see your grandmother in so long, she’s taken to asking after you. Don’t you realize how lonely she is with Granddaddy in the hospital? You two boys are the apples of her eye and it’s a scandal how seldom you pay her visits. I should take your car privileges away.” It was a feeble threat and everyone knew it. Still, she felt compelled to assert some semblance of authority. “You are going to Sunday dinner.”

“Yes, ma’am,” they muttered, sullenly appealing to their father with their eyes.

Hank polished his glasses with his napkin, a habit she’d come to recognize as a preface to a lecture. “Morgan’s being here will just complicate things, you realize.”

“I don’t see how. He’s here to see Daddy. I don’t expect he’ll stay long.”

“Not if he’s true to form, he won’t. But you know your mama’s been real uneasy about leaving Sweetgrass, no matter how we’ve tried to reason with her.”

“I don’t expect his visit will make a difference one way or the other. More’s the pity. Mama June could use the support of her family now. I wish he would take an interest.”

“Are you so sure? We haven’t seen the will and he is the only remaining Blakely.”

She swirled her wine and replied dryly, “Last I looked, I’m still alive and I’m still a Blakely.”

“You know what I mean,” he said.

She tilted her head and drank. “I’m afraid I do.”

“You’re not a Blakely any more,” Chas said, looking up with an obstinate glare. “You’re a Leland.”

Hank chuckled and raised his brows at his wife.

Nan’s gaze swept the three sets of eyes that looked at her from across the table with a possessiveness she found oddly comforting. She thought back to the time her father had said those same words to her. Preston’s tanned and deeply lined face, usually thoughtful, had been hard and his eyes were like blue chips of ice. She shivered at the memory. That day she’d told her father that she’d decided to follow her new husband’s wishes and sell the fifty coastal acres deeded to her at her marriage. Hank had brokered a deal with a local development firm and it had been a major boost to his career in real estate.

She had been a young bride, behaving in the manner in which she’d been bred. A woman’s place was at her husband’s side. As the wife, she was the accommodator, the peacemaker, the right hand to her husband. She was doing what her culture—what the Bible—taught.

That deal had cost her. To her father’s mind, selling the family land had severed her tie to the family. Her father cast her from the status of an “us” to a “them” in his polarized vision of the world. It wasn’t something spoken; he was never one to confront her about it. He held his disappointment inside, simmering under the cool surface. The separation was felt indirectly, subtly, so that the relationship cooled not overnight, but over the course of months and years. Nan had always felt his silent treatment was undeserved. And it had hurt her, deeply.

“I surely am a Leland,” she replied to Harry’s assertion. “But you have Blakely blood running through your veins, too, don’t forget.”

“Forewarned is forearmed,” her husband joked, jabbing at the meat with his fork.

“Now, that’s not nice.” Nan flushed as the boys barked out a laugh. She sat back in her chair, feeling as though a chasm had expanded between the two sides of the table, dividing them. She narrowed her eyes as she regarded her husband. For all his jokes, Hank had been plenty thrilled to be part of the historical Blakely clan when he’d married into it.

Though she couldn’t blame him for his change of heart. Daddy’s indifference toward him had been positively embarrassing.

She looked at her hands, tanned and slim. Beneath a thick diamond-and-gold wedding set, the skin was white, like a brand on her left ring finger. She was Nan Leland. For eighteen years, Hank and the boys had been the epicenter of her life. Wasn’t a wife and mother supposed to be the heart of the home? Now, however, the boys were poised for leaving and her husband seemed more and more distant. Her father was near death, her mother was alone in that empty house… She took a ragged breath, then a thought brought a half smile.

But Morgan was home.

Her mind turned to the long, welcoming avenue of oaks at Sweetgrass. While the boys laughed between themselves, Nan was listening to the voice of the little girl still alive within her, fiercely whispering, “I’m a Blakely, too.”

Across the churning, gray-green Ashley River in Charleston, Morgan was clenching his fists at his thighs, a nervous reaction to the strident ding of the hospital elevator. Seconds later, the metal doors swished open and he faced the mint-green walls of the medical center’s third floor. He sucked in his breath and drew inward as he followed the yellow arrow painted onto the polished floors that would lead him to the stroke rehabilitation center. As he walked, an elderly, pasty-faced inpatient clothed in the flimsy, dignity-depriving hospital gown limped past him with great effort, clutching a stainless-steel walker and supported on either side by some family member offering encouraging comments.

The nurse at the station looked up in a guarded greeting.

“I’m looking for Preston Blakely’s room. I’m his son,” he added. “Morgan Blakely.”

“Your father is in room 321,” she said after a quick check. Her voice seemed too loud for the hushed floor. “He’s finished his therapy session and is resting.”

“Will I disturb him?”

“Oh, no. He’ll enjoy the company, though he might not show it.” Her rigid face shifted suddenly to reveal concern. “This is your first visit, isn’t it?” When he nodded she leaned forward and said kindly, “You do know that he can’t speak? Or move much?”

“Yes.”

“Just checking. Didn’t want you to be shocked. It’s never easy to see a loved one the first time in that condition.” Her eyes remained dubious but she waved him on. “You let me know if you need my help for anything.”

He clenched his fists again and swallowed hard. His feet moved as though on automatic pilot as he scanned the faux-wood doors for 321. When he found it, he paused outside the silent, dimly lit room.

Morgan rarely saw his father in bed. Preston Blakely was a man who prided himself on rising before the sun, the kind of man who liked to get a head start on his day. Morgan perceived his father as someone vertical, standing erect, upright and plumb. So to see him lying prone on the thin, hard, unforgiving surface of a hospital bed was unnatural, like coming across a buffalo down in the prairie. The first time he’d witnessed that lifeless mountain of a beast, it had sent a numbing chill straight to his core. He felt the same helplessness now, unsure of what to expect or of what to do next.

It wasn’t courage that compelled him to take the step into the dim, sterile room. Nor was it a son’s sense of duty. Compassion brought him to his father’s side. A thin blue cotton blanket covered his father, giving him a mummy-like appearance as he lay flat, toes pointed, one arm curled oddly against his chest, the other lying still by his side.

Preston seemed small. His usually tanned and ruddy complexion had turned pasty white, and skin sagged from his prominent cheekbones like putty. His mouth, which could deliver orders and a good story with equal authority, now hung slack and drooped to one side. It frightened Morgan to the core to see him this way. He was acutely aware that he was on his feet and his father was not.

Morgan pulled a chair closer to the bed and slumped into it. He folded his hands across his belly and sat quietly staring at his father while, inwardly, memories raged with an old, seething anger. After what seemed a long time, he checked his watch, then groaned, knowing he’d be here for hours more. Already he felt depleted. He got up to walk around the room, checking out the flower arrangements, recognizing the names of old family friends on the cards.

There was a chart posted on the door, a simple hand-drawn box with lines marking date and time of day. It was colored in red, blue and yellow, and he knew for certain that it was made by his mother, who had always made lists of the children’s chores with little stars pasted on them. On the chart were the signatures of those who had volunteered to sit with Preston. The same few names appeared over and over, and as the days turned to weeks, even those names appeared less frequently. In the past few days, most of the slots were blank save for his mother’s name.

Morgan was sorry to see how few times his sister’s and nephews’ names were listed. Today, his own name stood alone in his scrawling script. Writing it, he’d vowed it would appear on the chart every day until his father was released.

When he turned toward his father, he jerked back, stunned. His father’s eyes were open in the cadaverous face, staring at him. Morgan’s heart pounded as he looked into the vivid blue eyes so much like his own. The eyes that stared back at him widened, and Morgan could have sworn his father acknowledged him.

Morgan licked his lips, parched with nervousness. He moved the chair closer, the wood scraping loudly on the floor, and sat down. Yet there wasn’t any reaction, not even a twitch, from his father. His stillness was eerie. Morgan thought of all the times in the past when his father had roared at him to do this or that, or berated him for what he’d done wrong. All those times, Morgan had wished his dad would just shut the hell up. But this mute, sad-eyed, terrified silence was far worse.

Morgan reached out and hesitatingly placed his hand over his father’s. Touching his father like this was strange, even unprecedented. The bones of his large hand felt fragile and his skin felt dry and cool. Morgan leaned forward and in a hoarse voice choked with repressed emotion spoke his first words to his father in more than a decade.

“I’m here now, Daddy. You’re not alone.”

Later that evening, Morgan walked under the canopy of the avenue of oaks with a bottle of Jim Beam and Blackjack for company. The dog, delighted with the attention after weeks of neglect, shuffled at his side. The old dog’s gait was stiff and labored, and his heavy paws dragged the dirt in the soft roadbed. Overhead, gnarled gray branches soared high into the sky to intertwine and form an arch that rivaled the flying buttresses of a European cathedral.

It was his father who had made that comparison, Morgan remembered. Preston used to walk this path daily, often with his head bent as though in prayer. Morgan flashed back to a time he and his older brother, Hamlin, were walking along the avenue with him. Preston had been in a rare mood of introspection and told his sons in a solemn voice that he felt closer to his Creator walking in this church of God’s making than he ever did in one of man’s.

His mother, in contrast, prayed in church. The Blakelys were long-standing, staunch members of the Christ Church Episcopal Parish, and his mother was no exception. When he was little, his mother used to settle him on her lap during service by whispering the names of all the Episcopal ministers that graced the family tree. Or she’d tell of how she, along with generations of Blakely women before her, had stitched the fine needlework that graced the altar. He remembered how he’d slowly relax in her arms, surrounded in her scent of gardenias, a fine sheen of sweat from the stifling heat across his brow, while the murmurs of the faithful droned on.

Morgan felt a sudden longing for the years lost. Each great oak that he passed seemed to him as one of his ancestors, erect and silent, watching with judgment as this last remaining Blakely heir slunk along the worn path, his pockets empty and his dreams unrealized.

Unworthy, he heard in the rustle of leaves.

“You’re all dead!” he shouted, then swallowed hard, struck fresh with guilt at the sudden memory of his brother.

Morgan brought the bottle to his lips and drank thirstily. Why was he dredging up things he hadn’t thought about in years? Families had a way of tossing one straight back to the nursery. He didn’t have any intention of playing the role of angry young rebel again. He liked to think he’d traveled beyond that point in his life, at least.

Straight ahead, soft yellow light flowed from the mullioned windows of his family’s house. When he reached the porch stairs, Blackjack paused, tail wagging, and looked up expectantly.

“You’re like a ronin, aren’t you, boy? Just an old, master-less hound, like me,” he said, reaching over to pat the velvety fur. “No point in pretending any longer that you’re staying in your den, huh? Mama June’s wise to your tricks. Tell you what. She ain’t going to chase you off the porch. Nope. Truth is, no one has the heart. So, come on, then.” He grandly waved the dog up toward the house, tottering with the effort.

Blackjack’s tail wagged and he bounded forward. Morgan took the stairs more slowly. Once on the porch, Blackjack brought his muzzle to Morgan’s hand, demanding. Morgan patted his broad head. Comforted by the motion, Morgan obliged until Blackjack was at last satisfied and ambled at a soft, padded pace to the cushioned settee he’d claimed as his own. After climbing up, the old dog settled with a low grunt, worn out from the long walk.

Morgan eyed the curled-up dog and wished he could settle in as easily for the night. His joints were stiff from sitting all day in the hard hospital chair and, rolling his shoulders, he knew he’d ache tonight. Despite his fatigue and the bourbon running through his veins, however, his mind was still churning. He felt restless and wasn’t ready to go in just yet, so he took a final swig from the bottle, leaned against one of the eight porch pillars and lit a cigarette.

What the hell was he doing here? he asked himself. He’d been away from Sweetgrass for more than a decade, yet even in the darkness he knew the land as well as the lines of his own body. Looking out, he could readily mark the Blakely borders along the shadowy, ragged outline of the marsh. It extended far out to where the cordgrass met sea and sky to form the horizon. The landscape seemed unchanged in all the years he’d been gone—at least within the gates of Sweetgrass.

He’d half expected his parents to remain the same, too. Yet, today he’d seen for himself the ravages that time wrought on the people he loved and had left behind.

He ran his hand in a sulky sweep through his hair. Time had not been kind to him, either. The years of wandering had not brought him the answers he’d hoped they would. The answers he sought were not on the open road, nor in the mountains of Montana. This he’d learned today while sitting at his father’s side. As he searched those eyes that stared back at him with the intensity of an acetylene torch, the excuses had burned clean away and he’d realized that the answers he sought were here, at Sweetgrass, with his father.

“Aw, hell,” he muttered, pulling a long drag from his cigarette and tossing the bottle into the darkness. It fell with a satisfying crash.

Behind him, the front door creaked open.

“Morgan? There you are! I thought I heard a noise.” Mama June closed the door behind her and joined him on the porch.

“Just havin’ a smoke.”

“Thank you for smoking on the porch.” Mama June pulled her sweater a little tighter around her neck and came closer.

He glanced to his side. His mother seemed small and slight beside him, more girl-like than he’d remembered. “Kind of chilly tonight.”

“But it’s so bright and clear. Look! Venus is flirting with the Carolina moon.”

The moon was an upturned sliver of light cut in a swath of black velvet. Venus, piercingly bright, punctuated the curve like a beauty mark at the tip of a courtesan’s smile.

“How is he today?” she asked. “It’s the first day I haven’t been in to see him.”

“I expect he’s much the same as when you last saw him.” He flicked the ash and took another drag on his cigarette. “But he’s sure as hell not at all the same as when I last saw him.”

Her gaze searched his unkempt appearance with concern and he knew that she caught the scent of bourbon that clung to him.

“I was anxious about how you’d react,” she replied at length. “Are you all right?”

“Sure.”

“I see,” she said.

And he knew that she did.

“It was damn hard seeing him like that.”

“I tried to prepare you.”

“How do you prepare someone for something like that?”

She sighed. “I suppose that’s why Nan and the boys have such a hard time visiting.”

Morgan swallowed his retort with the smoke, feeling the burn. He dropped the cigarette and ground it with his heel. “Have you given any thought to what we talked about this morning?”

Her face grew troubled. Turning, she gripped the porch railing. “I’ve thought of little else.”

“Have you reached any conclusions?”

She looked out into the darkness for a moment. When she turned back, curiosity shone in her eyes. “Tell me, Morgan, you’ve looked into his eyes today. What did you see?”

He exhaled slowly. “I never thought I’d see fear in Daddy’s eyes. But I saw it today.”

“I’ve seen it, too!” she exclaimed, seizing the moment. “Every day. He’s trapped in there. He can’t even tell us what he wants.” She took a breath. “But I know what he wants. His eyes are speaking to me. They’re screaming bring me home!”

“Then that’s what you should do.”

Her expression shifted from elation to worry. “I wish it were so easy. It’s rife with problems. I know that bringing Preston home to Sweetgrass doesn’t make a whit of sense in dollars and cents. But his recovery isn’t just about money, is it?” she asked. “His recovery also depends on his spirit and his will. And I assure you, Preston’s will and spirit are intricately connected with Sweetgrass.” She looked up at him, her eyes entreating. “But I can’t do it alone.”

He knew where she was heading and placed his hands on the railing, leaning heavily. “Mama June…”

“Wait.” She drew back her shoulders. “All right, I’m ready. Ask me your question. One more time.”

A wry smile played at his lips upon seeing her rail-straight posture. He delivered his line sincerely. “Mama June, what do you want to do?”

She lifted her chin. “I want to bring Preston home to Sweetgrass. I want to care for him here, in his home, for as long as it takes him to get his voice back and let me know what he wants to do next.” She paused to take a breath. “And, I want you to stay.”

He barked out a laugh. “Well, ma’am, when you finally get around to answering a question, you sure deliver a mouthful.”

“You did ask.”

His jaw tightened, holding back the reply on his tongue. He’d been considering the option all day, wrestling with it with every bit as much desperation as Jacob with the Angel. He didn’t want to stay. Every instinct told him to get in his truck and hightail it back to the quiet isolation of Montana. Then he looked at his mother, waiting expectantly, and his decision tumbled into place.

“All right, then, angel,” he said with resignation. “It looks like you’ve won this one. I’ll stay.”

“Thank you, Morgan!”

He leaned back against the pillar. “Don’t thank me yet, Mama June. I don’t know how long we’re going to be able to hang on here. It won’t be easy. You may regret this.”

“Regret you coming home to help your father? Regret bringing Preston home to heal? Never!”

He chuckled at the passion of her statement. “All right then,” he said again. He ran both hands through his hair, scratching away the last of the bourbon from his head. “Now that that’s settled, I’m starving.” He patted his lean stomach. “Got anything to eat?”

Smiling at the age-old question, she stretched up to kiss his cheek. “Music to my ears. You go on and wash up and I’ll fix you something. I’ll be there directly.”

She watched him go inside, heard the soft clap of the screen door close behind him. Alone, she turned toward the vast darkness beyond, then looked to the heavens. The stars sparkled with a brilliance nearly as bright as the hope shining in her eyes.

Later that night a storm barreled through the Lowcountry, bringing with it crackling lightning and rumbling thunder that shook the rafters. Mama June roused from her sleep, blinking her eyes slowly as she grew accustomed to the deep darkness. She could see nothing save for the intermittent flashes of light from the storm. She wasn’t afraid. Ever since coming to live at Sweetgrass she’d thrilled to the fast-moving storms that swept from the mainland toward the ocean.

Restless, she turned over to her back and, placing her hands on her chest, played the game of counting the seconds between lightning and thunder. Rain tapped against the windows and the roof as she reviewed her decision to bring Preston home.

The tapping grew louder, interrupting her thoughts. Mama June glanced over to the window. Her breath hitched in her throat as she caught sight of a misty white mass hovering near the window. Squinting, she thought she saw a figure in the mist. The outline of a woman’s form in a nightcap and a long period dress appeared, looking directly at her. Mama June felt the hairs on her body rise.

Then lightning flashed again, bold and bright, and thunder clapped so near and loud that Mama June clutched her gown and nearly jumped from her skin. When she looked again, the apparition was gone.

Mama June sat up in her bed and, with a trembling hand, flicked on the bedside lamp. Instantly, a soothing light filled the room, reassuring her that she was indeed alone. Only the curtains flapped at the window. She brought her hand to her heart, and as her breathing came back to normal, she tried to dredge up the memory of what she’d just seen. It had happened so quickly, she couldn’t be sure if what she’d seen was real or a dream. Perhaps it was merely the strange light patterns from the lightning against the curtains.

“You old fool,” she muttered to herself, lowering back into bed and turning off the bedside lamp. “You’re just imagining things.”

The storm quickly passed out to sea and only a gentle rain pattered on the rooftop. Mama June felt a heavy weariness droop her eyelids and weigh down her bones. She lay her head down on the pillow and brought her blanket close under her chin, telling herself for the thousandth time that her imagination had got the best of her on this emotional day.

And yet…a persistent voice in her mind told her that she’d not been imagining anything at all. She knew what she’d seen in the floating mist—or rather, who.

It was the ghost of the family’s first matriarch, Beatrice. And she’d been smiling.