No Dark Valley (3 page)

In the doorway from the living room appeared the bent figure of an old man with a white goatee. For a moment he stood absolutely still, peering into the dining room at Al and Celia. Then he shuffled forward toward the table and leaned down close. “Looking for some more of that cobbler,” he said, staring hard at the chicken pot pie.

Aunt Beulah came back into the dining room carrying a brown plastic pitcher of tea. “No, Buford, that cobbler you're wantin' is down here,” she said loudly and pointed him to the far end of the table.

“Uncle Buford,” Celia whispered to Al. “I don't think I would have ever recognized him. He's shrunk.” She watched as Aunt Beulah set the pitcher down and helped him fill his plate with cobbler. “He's Aunt Beulah's twin brother. The only boy in the family. He used to be a preacher—a very long-winded one.”

“So there was a bull among the cows,” Al said. “He looks like he could be Colonel Sanders' grandfather.” He stabbed at his plate with his fork. “Hey, what are these little brown things, anyway? They're good.”

“Crowder peas,” Celia said. “He's married to Aunt Bernice, who used to dramatize the story of Elijah and Jezebel for all the neighbor kids. She made a very convincing Jezebel.” Uncle Buford headed slowly back to the living room, stopping briefly to peer over at Celia and Al, then emitting a soft belch and moving on.

“Here, let me pour y'all some tea,” Aunt Beulah said. “Sorry we got to use these little foam cups. They don't hardly hold enough to spit at.” As she poured, Celia saw that her hands still shook the way they always had.

“Oh, now, see there, I've gone and dribbled some on your plate,” Aunt Beulah said. Before moving away, she leaned in close to Celia and spoke confidingly, her rhinestone pendant dangling near Celia's chin. “Celia, hon, you don't have to rush, but I do want you and Al to come with me to the funeral parlor when you're done. I asked them to leave the casket open for a little bit before the funeral so you could see her if you got here in time. She looks so sweet. My, they did such a good job on her.”

Aunt Beulah left with the pitcher of tea. “A ‘good job'?” Al said. “Celia, these people are everything you said and more.” He lifted a spoonful of stewed apples and examined them appreciatively. “But they can sure cook.” He chewed for a moment, then said, “Hey, you don't have to go through with this, you know. We can leave. We can think up some excuse to tell them and go back home. Or don't tell them anything—just get in the car and leave. They can have the funeral without you. Nobody can make you stay.”

Celia shook her head. “I've come this far, I might as well finish it.” But it was more than that, though she knew Al would laugh if she told him about it. The truth was, she had made a promise to her grandmother years ago. Not that she wasn't above breaking a promise. She had done that often enough. But this one was different. It was the kind that would rise up to haunt you if you didn't keep it.

It was the last time she had seen her grandmother, actually. Fourteen years ago this spring. Grandmother had ridden a Trailways bus all the way up to Blackrock to attend Celia's college graduation. Celia had tried to discourage her, but she had her mind made up. “Everybody needs family at their graduation,” she had said flatly. “I didn't pay for your education. Your daddy's money did that, along with your granddaddy Coleman's, but I still feel like I had a part in it.” And then, as if Celia didn't already know what she meant, she went on to explain. “I prayed for you every single day, Celie.”

It had been more than a little bother, she recalled, working out the details—having to borrow a friend's car to pick her grandmother up at the bus station, take her to a motel near the campus, get her to the graduation ceremony, take her somewhere to eat, take her back to the bus station, all that.

It amazed Celia at the time that the two of them were able to spend those two days together in Delaware pretending nothing had happened, as if they had parted four years earlier on the best of terms. Not that the two days had been without strain. Anybody watching them could probably have told that there was a volcanic history between them. But the eruptions were in the past, and they both took care to step over the landscape gingerly.

It was at the bus station at the end of the two days that the promise had been exacted, though Celia had never actually spoken the words
I promise
. Grandmother had handed her a small box and said, “Here, I wanted to give you something. You've done good in your studies, and I'm proud of you.” Grandmother wasn't the sentimental type, so this was a surprising speech for her to make.

The box wasn't wrapped but had a piece of gold yarn around it, tied in a bow on top. “Go on, open it before I get on the bus,” Grandmother had said. Inside, Celia had found a watch. Not a new watch, though. “It used to belong to your mother,” Grandmother had said. “It was one of the few pretty things she ever owned. Your daddy gave it to her before they married, and she fussed at him for spending so much. She used it a long time, but then it needed a new crystal and she left off wearing it for a while. It was sitting at home on her dresser the day they went out to buy that clothes dryer. I put it back to save for you.”

That was how Grandmother always referred to the day Celia's parents had died—“the day they went out to buy that clothes dryer.” On their way back from the appliance store, they had been struck head on by a drunk driver in the middle of the day and killed instantly, both of them. This drunk couldn't wait till nighttime to get behind the wheel of his car. No, he'd had to take his joyride at four o'clock in the afternoon. Of course he staggered away from the accident unharmed while Celia's parents lay strapped in their seats, crushed to death. Celia was barely fifteen years old. She had been at home doing her geometry homework when it happened.

“I thought it'd make a nice graduation gift,” her grandmother said that day at the bus station. “I got it out and took it to the jewelry store, and they cleaned it up and fixed it up like new.”

Celia nodded, staring down at the watch. The face was tiny, not as big as her thumbnail, and the bracelet band folded over and snapped. “It does,” she said. “It makes a very nice gift.” If someone had asked her the day before to describe her mother's watch, she couldn't have, but now, touching her finger to its small face, it seemed altogether familiar, like something she had handled every day for many years.

“Well, good, I'm glad you like it,” Grandmother said. “Here, you'd better close it back up and put it somewhere safe before somebody comes along and steals it. You might have to get the band adjusted. Your mother's wrist was about as big around as a stick.” She grunted. “'Course, you're not any bigger'n she was.” She reached down and picked up her old red train case. “Well, I got to go get me a seat on the bus. I like one by the window.” They stood facing each other for the briefest span of time, as if waiting for something, and then Grandmother said, “There's no telling when we'll see each other again, but I'm only asking you to promise me one thing, Celie. Nothing more, only this one thing.”

Celia said nothing. She was old enough now to know the danger of promises.

“I want you to promise you'll come back home to see me buried when the time comes,” Grandmother said.

Celia didn't know what to say, but Grandmother didn't wait for an answer. She moved away toward the bus, then stopped and turned around once more. “I tried, Celie. I did try. I didn't do very good, I know that, but I tried.” And then she was gone. Celia watched her mount the steps into the bus, saw her move down the aisle and settle into a seat by the window. When the bus pulled out, she turned her head and looked out at Celia, but neither one of them waved.

2

On That Beautiful Shore

The funeral home didn't seem to Celia to be the most prosperous of enterprises. WALSH'S FUNERAL SERVICES the sign out front said. She remembered it from when she had lived here in Dunmore, since it was right off one of the main streets of town and you had to pass right by it to go practically anywhere. She had even attended several funerals here with her grandmother years ago, though it hadn't seemed to be in such a state of decline back then. But maybe it was always this way and she hadn't noticed. Lately, it seemed that everywhere she looked things were shabby and run-down.

She might be headed to her job at the art gallery, for instance, and glance out the window of her car at a red light and see the curb littered with cigarette butts, smashed pop cans, and burger bags. A heavy sadness would come over her to see how dirty it all looked. And sometimes the art gallery itself filled her with the same kind of sorrow. If she allowed herself to look away from the paintings and sculptures, her eyes would go straight to the long crack in the ceiling, the water stains on the wall around the front window, and the rusted vent, and she would feel an urge to weep.

Once recently, coming out of the grocery store, she had stopped beside the row of newspaper vending machines, sitting in a crooked row, and stared at the depressing sight. One was badly dented, as if someone had taken a baseball bat to it. On the pavement all around the machines were paper cups, straws, old chewing gum, candy wrappers, even a few half-eaten French fries.

Even her own apartment sometimes filled her with a melancholy awareness of things going downhill. The harder she tried to keep it absolutely spotless, the more she saw examples on every hand of breakdown, of the accumulated years of wear and tear. One of the kitchen cupboards had begun to sag away from the ceiling molding, and she had taken out a cereal bowl recently to find a dead roach in it. Windowsills, baseboards, picture frames—there was no way to keep dust from gathering. In housekeeping, every principle of science worked against you—gravity, friction, all those laws of thermodynamics.

Aunt Beulah's house had been sad, too. The peeling wallpaper, the clutter everywhere, the scuffed hardwood floors and dusty bookshelves. And now here it was again at the funeral home, more evidence of dilapidation and neglect. The carpet, probably a pretty shade of rose at one time, was faded and worn. Around the entrance it looked almost gray. Tacky still-life prints hung on the walls—flowers and fruit, both of which in real life started the inevitable process of decay almost as soon as they were picked.

The man who came forward to meet them as they entered was everything you'd expect from a second-rate establishment. His black hair was thickly oiled and combed straight back from his high pale forehead. He wore a pained smile, perhaps in keeping with the atmosphere of mourning, and his dark suit had the sheen of cheap fabric. Moreover, it hung loosely on him, obviously made for a more robust man than the one who even now seemed to be wasting away inside it. In the breast pocket was tucked a maroon handkerchief the same color as his necktie. His shoes had a hard Formica shine.

He took Aunt Beulah's hand as if they were old friends. “Is this the granddaughter you were telling me of?” he said softly, glancing toward Celia. His voice was too lubricated, too womanly.

Aunt Beulah nodded. “Celia, this is Mr. Shelby, one of the directors here. He's been such a help to us.” She nodded again and addressed the man. “This is Sadie's granddaughter, Celia, and her fiancé, Al. I wanted them to see her before you closed the casket.”

Mr. Shelby gave a little bow. “Just as we discussed,” he said primly. “If you'll come this way.” The way he walked reminded Celia of someone on a tightrope, the shiny pointed toes of his shoes touching first with each small step. They passed silently across the carpeted lobby and into a hallway. “Here we are,” he said, stopping at a doorway and motioning them in. “Take your time. We're running well on schedule. We won't need to close the viewing for another half hour at least.”

The
viewing
—the word made Celia cringe. The room was dimly lit, and eight or ten flower arrangements flanked the casket. “That one's yours.” Aunt Beulah pointed to an arrangement of pink roses and miniature white carnations as they stepped forward. Celia noted that it was the largest arrangement there, which didn't surprise her, considering what little she knew of her grandmother's friends. Not exactly well-heeled, any of them. They'd be far more likely to give a donation to the missionary fund at church in memory of her grandmother than to order flowers, which most of them would see as throwing away good money.

The lid was open, and though Celia thought this whole concept of a viewing was barbaric, she knew she had to look. She had tried to brace herself for what she would see. Fourteen years was a long time. A lot of changes could take place in a person's appearance during that time, especially if there had been illness toward the end. As she stared down at her grandmother's face, however, she was amazed at how few the changes were. Her skin was as Celia remembered it, like cream parchment that had been crushed and then smoothed out again. Her features were the same—no evidence of drastic weight loss or great suffering. She might have simply lain down for a rest and drifted off.

The biggest difference was her hair. Someone had curled it, and it was longer than she used to wear it. She must have been really sick these past few months, Celia thought, or she never would have tolerated it that long. If there was one thing her grandmother was particular about concerning her appearance, it was her hair. It had to be kept short and away from her face. The longer style and the curls gave her a softer look, more grandmotherly. The way she used to wear it, short and brushed straight back, had always looked hard and manly in Celia's opinion. She had never looked like a grandmother who would bake cookies or hold you in her lap and read to you, although when Celia was younger she had done those very things whenever she came to visit.

They had dressed her in a cranberry suit with a large plastic-looking pearl brooch at the neck, and one gnarled, brown-mottled hand lay across the other. Celia's eyes rested on the hands. She realized she had rarely observed Grandmother's hands idle before.