Plantation (60 page)

Rusty and I had become friends of a sort. She volunteered to be Eric’s companion during Mother’s illness, but we all knew she was deeply in love with Trip. And that he was with her.

That would have been objectionable, but given the change in him when she was around, we all had to agree that she was bringing out his better side. She attended Gambler’s Anonymous meetings with him. There was no evidence of him gambling—on the contrary—and he frequently thanked Mother for getting him out of trouble and me for having Matthew do the hard part.

Matthew? Well, Matthew came by once or twice a week. We had a few dinners together in the kitchen with Eric and Millie and on occasion, Jack was there too. Matthew and Jack got along fine.

It didn’t seem right to sit at Mother’s table without her. Most of my energy went toward trying to will Mother’s recovery. Sit in 4 8 6

D o r o t h e a B e n t o n F r a n k her dining room? No. Either her seat would be empty or someone would fill it. It was like sacrilege and we continued our days in denial waiting for her to get well, watching her die.

Frances Mae tried to attempt repair with us, sending Mother homemade cards and letters from her girls, photographs to be placed around her bedroom, and hard candies to keep Mother’s mouth from getting dry.

But, Mother slept a lot then, unaware of all the activity around her. Sometimes for two or three days straight. I spent a lot of time in my room, reading the Bible that had now progressed to following me from room to room.

“I get the message!” I said to the air in the living room when it appeared on the coffee table. So I would open it at random and read. I kept stumbling on passages about God’s mercy, and came to understand that Divine mercy was about forgiving our imperfections and His understanding of our weaknesses. Boy, I had plenty of those!

Jack called Saturday and wanted to see me. Mother was asleep.

Millie had gone to Charleston with Mr. Jenkins; Eric was fishing with Trip. Frances Mae was coming with the girls for dinner. Seeing her was unavoidable. At least she was bringing a casserole. I said to Jack, okay, I want to take a nap first, so why don’t you come out around four, and we can all have dinner outside?

“Fine,” he said. “Caroline?”

“Mm-hmm?”

“You okay? Can I bring you anything?”

“No, thanks, Jack, but you’re a sweetheart to ask.”

“Susan and Simon send you their best.”

“Tell Susan I’ll call her soon, okay?”

“Sure. They wanted to come out with me, but I told them it was just too much with everything going on.”

“Thanks, I appreciate that.”

Jack knew that this wasn’t the time to look for a commitment from me. Yes, I loved him, and more each day. He knew it too.

P l a n t a t i o n

4 8 7

When love was like ours, no one had to make any great announce-ments. Our growing love was a given. But, right then, Mother’s comfort was my first priority. I was exhausted from stress and climbing the steps was almost like climbing a mountain. My legs were heavy and I could hardly hold my eyes open. My French doors were open to receive the fresh air, and I slipped between my sheets, sleeping almost immediately.

I woke up to the sound of rain, a constant rapping of drops on the roof. I had been dreaming of Daddy. He was young and handsome and had come for a visit. Was that it? Yes. In my dream, I knew there was a reason he didn’t live with us anymore, but I couldn’t think of what it was. He gave me a Hershey bar.
This is for
you,
he seemed to say. But
I’m grown up, Daddy,
I said.
Then give it to
Eric.
We were in the hall by the front door and Daddy stopped looking at me and looked up the stairs. His face was filled with wonder. Mother was coming down, face beaming, and radiant—

her delight at seeing him so powerful, so apparent. Then I woke up.
It’s just a dream,
I told myself. I knew that it wasn’t.

I rolled over and looked at my bedside clock. Three in the afternoon. I decided to check on Mother.

“Is she sleeping?” I asked Mrs. Nelson.

“Indeed, she is. Why don’t you sit with her and I’ll go get us some iced tea.”

“Sure, thanks.”

She left the room and I pulled a chair to Mother’s bedside. She looked so tiny and fragile. I took her hand in mine and just looked at her. Time passed and she stirred a little, smacking her lips from dryness.

“Do you want some water, Mother?”

She nodded her head, so I poured some water into her glass and put the straw to her lips.

“Ice,” she said.

I dug into the bucket and put small slivers of ice on the end of a spoon for her.

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D o r o t h e a B e n t o n F r a n k

“Here we go,” I said, slipping the spoon between her lips.

She sucked on the ice chips and I went to the bathroom to get a cold cloth. I wiped her face, carefully and slowly. I don’t know why I did that except that I remembered she did it for me when I was little and sick with a virus. It always made me feel better.

“How are you feeling today, Miss Lavinia?”

She opened her eyes and looked at me, recognizing me.

“Caroline?”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Caroline?”

Her voice was weak. “Yes, ma’am?”

“Pearls. Get them. Call me Mother. Still Mother.”

“Always,” I said and I choked on tears. I couldn’t help it.

I went to her dresser and took the pearls from the drawer.

Maybe she wanted to wear them and so what, I thought, why shouldn’t she?

Her eyes were closed again, so I put them in her hand. Silently, she felt them and a smile crossed her face.

“Put them on,” she said. “Don’t need them anymore.”

“Oh, Mother, I don’t know . . .”

“No,” she said, “put them on.”

By now I was sobbing, realizing this was the last conversation we would have. There was no one to call—except the nurse. Selfishly, I guess, I didn’t want to share this moment with her. Or anyone. I put on the pearls.

“I’ll take good care of them, Mother, thank you.”

She opened her eyes again, looking at me with such love and intensity, the tears just streaming down my face; she patted my hand.

“Don’t cry, baby,” she said, tenderly and almost whispering,

“I’m just going home.” It was a strain for her to find her words and a struggle to speak them.

“Please don’t leave me, Mother, I’m not ready.” I put my head on the mattress next to her.

“Eric,” she said in a whisper.

P l a n t a t i o n

4 8 9

I raised my head and tried to understand what she meant.

“What?”

“I wanted to see him grow.” She sighed and closed her eyes again. “Regret. My only one.”

“I’ll pray for you. Every day.”

“Caroline?” She spoke louder, as though she thought I had left the room.

“Yes, ma’am?”

“My roses! Smell them?”

“No, Momma, I don’t.”

“Momma. I like that. Momma.”

She sat straight up in the bed and looked at something I couldn’t see.

“Oh!” she said. It was an exclamation of surprise.

“What? What is it? Mother!”

She stopped staring in her state of . . . was it hallucination?

She looked at me, then laid her head down again. “Fertilize the roses for me, all right?”

A full sentence, whispered, but spoken nonetheless. She drifted off to sleep. Or at least I thought it was sleep.

By three-thirty, Mrs. Nelson had called Jack and he was already on his way. Millie and Mr. Jenkins returned and joined me at Mother’s bedside. Trip and Eric came back, triumphant with a cooler filled with fish. When Trip got the word, he kept Eric out on the docks on the pretense of cleaning their haul. Frances Mae and the girls came and Millie let them poke their noses in for a moment and then shooed them downstairs.

When Jack examined Mother, he intimated that it wouldn’t be long.

“Days?” we asked.

“Hours, I’m afraid,” he said. His sympathy was genuine. “I’ll be right here.”

Mother’s breathing became labored and loud. It frightened me and Millie.

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D o r o t h e a B e n t o n F r a n k

“We’d better call Miss Sweetie and Miss Nancy,” I said.

“I’ll do it,” she said, “you stay with your mother.”

Hours passed and Millie lifted the sheets to look at Mother’s feet.

“What are you doing?” I said.

“Feet stiff and blood pooling,” she said and pointed to the dark marks on Mother’s lower legs. “Dear Jesus, it’s almost time.”

I was so unnerved, that I called Richard. Maybe it was some last-ditch effort to let him redeem something of himself.

“Dr. Levine.” He answered the phone with his name. I decided to ignore this.

“Richard?” My voice broke for the zillionth time that day.

“Mother’s dying.”

“I know, Caroline, I’m sure this is difficult for you.”

“No, I mean she’s dying now. Today. Tonight. Can you come?”

“Sweetheart, I appreciate your anxiety, I truly do, but today is out of the question! It’s already dark, and I have a seven-thirty breakfast meeting . . .”

“You said to call you if I needed you. I need you.”

“Caroline, I’m sorry. I just can’t. When she’s dead, I’ll come.”

I hung up the phone without saying good-bye.

Our vigil lasted until around midnight. Everyone had come and gone from Mother’s room except Frances Mae, who thought it was best to keep her girls downstairs. She was probably right.

Millie made coffee with all the caffeine she could and we drank it. Miss Sweetie passed around slices of strawberry pound cake and Miss Nancy passed through the rooms, picking up glasses, cups, just doing whatever she could to stay busy.

Trip poured liberal douses of bourbon into his coffee and offered it all around. Most of us declined it and he began to drink himself into a stupor. For once I couldn’t blame him. His manli-ness was not required. Jack and Mr. Jenkins could perform whatever was required. The awful truth was that there wasn’t anything anyone could do. Nature was taking its course.

P l a n t a t i o n

4 9 1

At about one o’clock in the morning, I was alone in Mother’s room with Jack and Millie.

“Why don’t you ladies get some sleep?” Jack said. “I’ll wake you if there’s any change.”

“Not me,” Millie said, “I ain’t leaving.”

“Me either. How could I sleep anyway?”

“Well, I’m gonna go on down and fix myself a cup of coffee,”

he said.

“Humph,” Millie said to me as he left the room, “think that man’s gonna mess up my kitchen? I’ll be right back. Lavinia? Don’t go nowhere!”

Mother’s breathing was so loud; it sounded like croup. And then, it stopped. Just like that. One minute she was here, the next minute she was gone. Like somebody pulled the plug. Just like that. I was stunned. I didn’t know what to do, so I waited. I tried to hold her hand. When there was no reflex from her, I put it to rest by her side. I knew I should tell the others.

It took all my strength to get up and do this. I leaned over Mother first and kissed her forehead.

“Love you, Miss Lavinia,” I said, “I love you.”

I looked at her for a few more seconds and then went to deliver the worst news since my father’s death. For some reason, almost everyone was in the living room or the foyer when I came down the stairs. I imagine the look on my face told them what I hadn’t said.

“Oh, God,” Miss Sweetie said, “she’s gone, isn’t she?”

“Yes,” I said.

Jack ran up the steps and hugged me.

“Oh, God.”

“I’m going to see about your mother,” he said.

I wanted to kiss him for that. My eyes traveled the room for Millie, whose eyes met mine, and I saw Mr. Jenkins put his arms around her for comfort. Trip was in the chair with Frances Mae at his side. They were both weeping. She stared at my neck. The pearls. I had forgotten that I even had them on.

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D o r o t h e a B e n t o n F r a n k

“She ain’t even cold and yewr already grabbing! Shame on you!” Frances Mae said.

“Shut your trap, Frances Mae,” Trip said. “Just shut up!” He got up and came to my side.

“She gave them to me,” I said evenly.

“I know she did, honey,” Trip said. He put his arms around me and I cried like a baby, the same way I had when Daddy died, making sounds I didn’t know were there inside me.

“Let’s go outside,” he said.

We passed Eric in the kitchen.

“Come on with us, baby,” I said to him, “I’ve got something to tell you.”

“Grandmother’s dead, isn’t she?”

“Yes, come on.”

We left the house—my brother, my son, and I—and we did what we had always done when the pain was too great. We went to the river to listen to her song and searched the sky for signs of peace.

Forty-nine

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HIS may sound strange to say, but my mother’s wake was one of the proudest moments of my life. I cannot T put words to the feelings I had as hundreds of people came and went, telling me how they had loved my mother and my father too. I was their daughter. I made another oath with myself to live up to their name.

The noise level of the wake was deafening, people talking and telling stories. Somehow I knew Mother was there, listening, with Daddy. Every now and then I could feel her objection to a story or an event as they were described by her friends.

“I remember when she told me that Jackie Kennedy had called her to see if she and Nevil wanted to spend the weekend at the White House to discuss protocol,” one friend said, “and she said,

‘Ma’am, if it’s an advisor on etiquette you seek, surely there is a book you can find in the Library of Congress!’ Oh! She was something, all right! Can you imagine telling Jackie Kennedy no?”

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D o r o t h e a B e n t o n F r a n k I could feel Mother’s spirit bristle. She had gone to Washington and advised Mrs. Kennedy; and a picture of the two of them stood on a table in the living room for as long as I could remember. She had told that story over and over. But it was funny, I had to admit.

Mother was truly larger than life, and if Mother’s friends had turned out by the score in her honor, so had mine. Richard had flown in that morning, heart filled with apologies and arms filled with flowers. He felt terrible about not coming the day I had called. It didn’t matter to me anymore.