Plantation (22 page)

And may there be no moaning of the bar,
When I put out to sea.”

—
te nnyson

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Sobered, I sat at the end of Daddy’s grave on the low wall and read the tombstone several times. In the blue light of night, to sit at the edge of my father’s resting place, the raw smells and sounds of the river just over the bluff—these things made me think and feel deeply.

Millie left my side then returned to me with a conch shell from the golf cart. She walked away again, to the edge of the bluff in the moonlight, where she stood in silhouette against the night sky. She was protection and powerful magic, all at once.

I knew in my mind that my father would hear whatever I needed to say to him. And, that he would answer my heart. I had not done this in years, but I fell back into the ritual as though it was just yesterday that I had called upon his spirit. I got on my knees and began to pray in my own way.

“Please, God of all, Mother of all, bless my father’s soul, his family, and all who knew and loved him. Please let my father speak to my heart. I need his counsel.”

I concentrated and waited until I could have sworn Daddy was beside me. “Daddy, you’re not going to like this. Mother is being tormented by Trip and Frances Mae. They want Mother to leave Tall Pines so they can have it. And, Millie is getting close to retirement, I think. Anyway, I had a horrible fight with Frances Mae tonight. I don’t know what to do. Please help me. And, please, show me the way with Richard and Eric too. I love you, Daddy, and I miss you. I pray for you every day, but you know that.”

I felt a heaviness in my throat as I concentrated. I tried to quiet my mind so I could hear him. Over and over, I could hear these words:
Be my daughter
. That was all. I opened my eyes and sighed, half expecting to see him there. I scooped some dirt from over his heart in his grave into the conch shell. Millie came to my side and took it with one hand, giving me something with the other.

“Yanh,” she said, “give him this to taste. No man ever love my gumbo like Mr. Nevil.”

It was a very small Tupperware container with three or four 1 7 0

D o r o t h e a B e n t o n F r a n k tablespoons of gumbo. I opened it, dug a little hole with my finger, poured in the stew, and covered it up, patting the cool earth. I looked up to see her sprinkle something over the dirt in the conch shell.

Smiling, I looked up at Millie. “If I know Daddy at all, he’d rather have a bourbon! What are you using, salt?” Salt was mixed with the dust to keep it alive with the spirit.

“No, sugar. You’re right. Next time we bring him some Old Crow. It’s past midnight now. Let’s get us on home before your Miss Lavinia come running in her nightgown to find us in the moonlight and your brother for sure carry her off to the crazy house. I got the goofer dust; you got the answer?”

“I’m not sure, Millie, I’m not sure.”

“Well, you think on it for a while.”

On the way home, we stopped at her cottage. It was a clap-board bungalow, with a small front porch. The old wicker rockers with blue-and-white flowered cushions and the hanging plants of full, dark green ferns that decorated it were inviting. It was small, just six rooms, but beautiful. Millie turned the lights on in the living room and then pulled the overhead light on the ceiling fan when we entered her kitchen. She filled her kettle with water and lit the flame beneath it. I was in the mood for tea and she knew it.

“How’s your garden this year, Millie?”

“You mussy be joking with me, girl. You want some tea?”

“Sure, thanks. Warm up my bones!” I knew that come June, she’d have bumper crops. She always did.

“Sit yourself down. You gone tell me what Frances Mae say to upset you so bad or do I have to beat it out of you?”

I sat at her immaculate kitchen table as I had at least one thousand times in my life. All those times I had come here to unburden my heart—just like now. Her table still held the white Popsicle stick napkin holder I had made for her years ago at summer camp.

Twenty or so paper napkins stood there all neatly folded in half. I fingered them; she watched me and finally my eyes met hers.

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“You gone tell me for three reasons,” she said. “Number one, iffin you don’t, you ain’t getting none of my special tea I been saving for you. Number two, I want to stop this fool mess with your brother and his wife just as much as you do. And number three, somebody in this family needs to start learning what I been knowing all my life ’cause when I go, a library gone be going with me!

Now, you gone be my partner or what? Come on!”

She got up, giving me a moment to consider what she had said.

“Like I have any choice,” I said.

Although she faced away from me, I could see her smiling by the way she cocked her head. When she pulled back the red gingham curtain to her pantry, there were the herbs. For the first time in so many years, I saw Millie’s arsenal of herbal weapons. There were gallon-size Mason jars, all of them lined up on the three shelves and filled with whole and crushed ingredients. She put the shell of goofer dust on the counter and paused to consider what she needed, removing several jars from the shelves. She scooped out handfuls into separate small bowls.

Her kitchen window, the one over the sink, was a greenhouse—an extension shelf with large panes of framed glass for heat.

It was filled with old clay pots that held carefully tended herbs, waiting for the warm weather to find their place in her garden. She reached up and snapped some lavender from a baby bush and let it drop to the drain board. “Now, where’s my chamomile?” She leaned over to another bush and snapped off some branches.

“Thank you, Mother,” she said.

She opened the back door of her kitchen and indicated with a nod that I should follow her. We went across her back porch and down into her garden.

“Millie!” It took my breath away. She had a rosemary hedge on one side that gave a fierce fragrance to the night air, only to be outdone by the smells of tea olive trees. Sweet. Pungent. Hyacinths bloomed in beds with daffodils and tulips. And everywhere were 1 7 2

D o r o t h e a B e n t o n F r a n k camellias. I picked a bloom from a bush and held it in my hand, thinking what a miracle flowers were. Its petals were white with stripes of deep pink. It looked too perfect to be real. Then I leaned down to the ground to smell the hyacinth blossoms. “God, Millie, it smells so outrageous out here, I don’t know whether to eat or take a bath!”

That made her laugh. “Oh, do now! I’ll give you some alligator root to soak with before we go. Come yanh, I want to give you a piece of tea olive for your bedroom. Come. We got work.”

We went back inside and Millie continued talking like it was the middle of the day. My head was floating in a cloud of spring’s near arrival.

“March weather makes me think about all I got to do to get ready for summer! I don’t know why I bother anymore with basil and dill. Come June, the monarchs come to town and eat up every scrap!”

“Yeah, they’re like locusts! But June means all the jasmine is ready to pop.”

Her kettle was whistling, so I moved it to the front burner. She moved the small bowls and the shell of dust to the table. Before she would mix the herbs, she poured tea.

“Yeah, God, and it also means your mother will be having fits over her roses for the next six months!”

I shifted in my chair and she put a cup and saucer in front of me.

“Chamomile, orange peel, Saint-John’s-wort, and peppermint.”

She poured the steaming water over the herb mix in the bottom of her teapot. “Make you feel wonderful.” I picked it up and it warmed my hands. “Soon’s we drink our tea, I need to find my Red Devil lye and some ten-penny nails. Next we have a little service and then we can go on home and fix your mother’s house against Frances Mae and any kinda bad thing. So talk to me. We ain’t got all night.”

“Promise me you won’t go crazy?”

“I ain’t making no kinda promise till I know the story.”

“Okay. She said Eric was a moron, Millie. I wanted to hit her.

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I’ve never hit a person in my life and I was ready to beat the hell out of her.”

Millie jumped up from the table and she put her hands on her hips. When Millie was angry, she reverted to Gullah and it frightened me as I watched her spin and pace. I was about to let the tears roll.

“He say what? Fuh true? Dat woe-man gone better watch she mouth! That kinda talk ain’t no good fuh dat chile she carry. Bring bad juju, yanh? Ain’t no right! I got a mind to . . .”

“Millie, Eric’s not a moron. He’s a bright, energetic, sweet . . .”

I held the cup to my lips and my eyes filled up with tears. Tears, big old crocodile tears, slipped down my face.

When she saw me cry, her rant ceased. Millie took a deep breath and put her hand on my shoulder and said, “Hush now, Caroline, ain’t nothing wrong with your boy. He’s perfect. She ain’t gone say nothing like that to you ever again and if she does, just tell her we’ll see where we all land in time, ain’t that right? Damn. I’d like to whup her behind. But no use in that. Life’s a river and the water keeps moving.” She dug in her pocket and handed me a tissue. “Yanh.

Blow your nose and talk to me. What’d your daddy say, chile?”

“He said,
Be my daughter
. What the hell is that supposed to mean? I
am
his daughter!” The tears kept streaming down.

“I don’t know, but it will all show itself in time. Let’s try to stop now, all right? Come on, baby. Let’s hush.”

I looked up at Millie and her lips were set so hard against each other that they were nearly white.

“Hate’s a terrible thing. We shouldn’t let her get to us, but picking on a child ain’t right.”

“She’s a bitch.”

“Yes, she is, and a stupid one besides. And, she gone get hers by-and-by. Now come on. Dwell on it a little while. I knew from the day you were born with a caul that you had the second sight.

Well, no visions so far, but at least you can hear!”

I sat there with my forehead resting on the heels of my hands, sniveling like a schoolgirl. The caul. They all said it was true. I was 1 7 4

D o r o t h e a B e n t o n F r a n k delivered by a midwife at Tall Pines. Millie was there to help. They were surprised to see the caul over me, the thin membrane, that Millie swore meant I had some psychic powers or potential or something. All I know is that she kept it, spread it out on cardboard and dried it. It sounded disgusting to me, but I never doubted Millie’s word. And the tiny chips she used of it, when she did a ceremony for my safety or protection, must have had some strong luck.

“Lord, chile, you got too much worriation in your head.” She looked at me and saw that I was reasonably calm. “Let’s do what we come to do; it’s getting late.”

I felt better—relieved. It was so good to be able to talk to her.

All my life I’d told her things that I never told Mother. Giving my trouble to Millie’s heart nearly solved my problems. But not quite.

I was still as angry as all hell with Frances Mae.

I followed Millie with the bowls and shell to a closet in the living room that, in a normal home, would have held coats. Not in Millie’s house. When you opened the door there was an altar dedicated to her orisha, the angelic deities of her Yoruban religion of Ife. Needless to say, Millie was a high priestess. It was no secret. For decades, people had come to her from all over the Lowcountry for cures and for advice.

The altar was a curious collection of plaster and wooden Christian statues and clay statues of African deities. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph were there in various representations from the Holy Family to Jesus alone as the Infant of Prague or the Sacred Heart. A large plaster Madonna held the center on an elevated surface covered in pristine white linen, edged in lace that, no doubt, Millie had tatted.

Photographs of our family and Millie’s family and friends were propped against candles in various glass containers and of various colors. There were small clay statues of Ori, Obatala, Eshu, Oshun, Ogun, Oya, Shango, and the rest of the sixteen angels, or odu. I had played with them as a child, like dolls, while Millie told me their stories. Each one stood for a particular ethic and served to remind the devotee to find the highest good in everything and everyone.

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I knew that each candle represented a deity and that each color held a special meaning. Strings of cowrie shells, and rattles made of gourds and decorated with feathers, were placed among the other objects. It had been fifteen years or more since I had seen her altar and what used to make me giggle, I now accepted and respected as serious.

First, she sprinkled a little water on the floor. Next, she lit the red candle dedicated to Eshu Elegba. When she did this, she rattled the gourd and said,
“Iba! Elegba esu lona!”
(Praise to Elegba who owns the road!) Without a pause she dropped and touched her right hip and elbow to the floor, and repeated this with her left side. The gesture was very much like a genuflect, but it also meant she was going to send her prayers to a female orisha. But first, she appeased Eshu, because he was the prime negotiator with the other ancient elders.

Then she lit a candle for Oya, the goddess of the cemetery, the departed, and rebirth. Much like eastern religions, Ife held that some things must die so that others can be born. Oya was invoked for protection, as she was known to be a great warrior. She was recognized as the wind and possessed great psychic abilities. Millie called to her in Yoruban and mixed the dust in the mortar with the herbs. Then she rattled the gourd several more times and rang a small handbell twice. She blew out the candles and turned back to face me. She put the ground herbs and goofer dust in a Ziploc and said, “Now, come on, let’s get you back to the big house before the sun starts coming up.” Then, she put something in my hand. “This is a piece of Saint John the Conqueror for you to carry wherever you go and this is alligator root for your bath. Make you sleep good.”