The Swan House (64 page)

So the five of us, Daddy, Jimmy, Trixie, Robbie, and I sat next to Roy and Loretta and Tony on the front pew. The pianist was softly playing the hymn, “What a Friend We Have in Jesus,” and I could hear sniffling all around me. Ella Mae's casket, a beautiful shiny mahogany one, sat right in front of us with a bouquet of flowers on it. Dozens of other flower arrangements were spread out across the front of the sanctuary.

Pastor James stepped to the pulpit and started to speak. “Dearly beloved in Christ, we are gathered here today to honor the memory of one of our most precious sista's in the Lawd, Ella Mae Maddux. Ella Mae was a member of Mt. Carmel for almost forty years, ever since she and her husband, Roy, moved to Atlanta from Monroe, Georgia, back in the 1920s. For most of those years she he'ped in various ways here at Mt. Carmel, ways ya didn't often notice. With the chil'un, in the kitchen, cleanin' up afta' a meal, he'pin' Miss Abigail with the lunches on Saturdays. We sure do remember her fried chicken and her fine pies and that delicious strawberry shortcake she was famous for.”

There were murmurs of “Sho' do,” from behind me, and I glanced over my shoulder to see many men and women nodding their heads.

“'Cause Ella Mae was a servant of Jesus. That's what she was. Not one to eva' go on about herself, she was known for her kindness to her family and neighbors when they were in difficulty, and for her joyful disposition.

“Not that she wasn't acquainted with grief. Ella Mae and Roy raised two fine young women, Gina and Loretta. Gina was killed in an automobile accident right near the church ova' fifteen years ago. Yes, Ella Mae has known sufferin', and she shared in others' pain with her tender heart.

“As many of you know, Ella Mae also worked on the otha' side of town, ova' in Buckhead for a white family who are with us today. John Jason Middleton and his children, Mary Swan and Jimmy. One of the hardest things Ella Mae had to face was the death of Miz Middleton in that plane crash in Paris last June.” He got a little choked up and paused for a moment. “She worked for this family for more than sixteen years, and Roy wanted me ta make sure and say how much she loved them, and how much she appreciated all they did ta help her and Roy out.” He glanced our way and nodded solemnly.

“We sure are gonna miss Ella Mae, 'cause we weren't ready for her ta leave us. No, we weren't.” He leaned against the pulpit and stared intently into the congregation. “But ya know what, my brotha's and sista's? She was ready. Ella Mae was ready to meet her Savior. She loved her Jesus with her whole heart, and it was that faith in Him that allowed her to live through a heap o' trouble with a song in her heart and a smile on her lips. And so I know she would want me ta ask ya this question today, the question that was the most important for her. Are you ready? Are you ready ta meet yore Savior? It's the most important decision you'll eva' make in yore whole life. He's waiting fo' you, arms outstretched, yore Savior and friend.”

Pastor James talked on about Jesus for another ten minutes, and then the whole congregation sang three hymns. Then Pastor James spoke again.

“Before we leave here today, I want to tell you that the church has received two beautiful paintin's in memory of Ella Mae. The first one was painted by Miz Sheila Middleton. This here paintin' was given to Ella Mae by Sheila, and the Middleton family has kindly given it to our church.” Pastor James brought out the painting of Ella Mae holding me. The congregation seemed to strain together as one, trying to get a better view of the painting. Many of the women dabbed their eyes. “I think this painting is a poignant reminder of the times we are living in, times of unrest and change. Times of hope. Hope.”

He motioned to me, and I stood up. “The second paintin' has been given to us by Miss Mary Swan Middleton. I believe she would like to say a word to us today. Mary Swan?”

I made my way beside Pastor James and looked out onto the con- gregation of black faces. And what I had to do then seemed a hundred times harder suddenly than the speech I'd made on Friday night. The knot in my throat wouldn't go away, and fresh tears threatened to spill from my eyes at any second. My legs trembled slightly.

“I just wanted to say how much I loved Ella Mae. How much she was like a second mother to me. Like Pastor James said, my own mother died in the Orly crash, and well, with Ella Mae gone, I sure am going to miss them both. But I also wanted to give something to your church. I kind of feel like it's my church too, because I come down here on Saturdays to help with the lunches. Ella Mae brought me down when I was grieving for my mother, and she was right—it helped me a lot. She was like that. She knew how to help people get beyond themselves.

“So I wanted to give you the first painting I've ever painted.” I turned around and retrieved my painting of Oakland Cemetery from the alcove. “I'm not a famous painter or gifted like Mama, but all through the fall I've been working on this painting. Painting this has helped me grieve, and well, I think we're all gonna be grieving some more. But this painting is about hope. I found hope in this sanctuary about a month ago. And I'm not sure why, but I think this painting should be for you all.”

Pastor James held up my unframed canvas of Oakland Cemetery—my representation of the year of death. This was Carl and Loretta and me, brought together in one place by the graves of those we had loved. Faced with death, we were, in fact, exactly the same, bent forward in prayer and grief. You could not tell what color the person's skin was under those heavy tombstones.

“Thank ya, Mary Swan. Thank ya kindly. It's a lovely gift,” Pastor James was saying. Then to the congregation he encouraged, “Please feel free ta come by and admire these paintin's afta' the service.”

I caught sight of Carl beaming back at me from the congregation, nodding his head in approval. And as I sat back down, I thought of what he had said to me.
“One day, Mary Swan, you're gonna do somethin'
from your heart, not just somethin' that shows your brains. You're gonna do
somethin' that makes people cry. Somethin' that touches their soul.”
So now as I looked out at the congregation, I saw that nearly every face was glistening and wet. The black faces and the white ones. Even Daddy's.

Carl had been right. Painting revealed my heart. If I really felt something strong enough and dared to put it onto canvas, maybe the real Mary Swan would come out after all.

Chapter 30

T
hank goodness spring came early to Atlanta that year. As soon as February neared the end of its twenty-eight-day countdown, the weather warmed, and nature began proclaiming a rebirth. The pansies and primroses were still tossing their winter heads when the tulips bloomed, and then the first shoots appeared on the dogwood trees and the azaleas came out and covered the lawns of all the houses in Buck-head. Just driving from my house to school was a feast for my eyes. The trees and shrubs boasted every possible shade of pink, and there was plenty of red and white and purple and yellow splashed across the yards too. For me it was a sign that the terrible year of death was maybe behind us, and that life would indeed continue.

On a breezy Saturday in early March, I drove to Mt. Carmel for the first time since Ella Mae's funeral two and a half weeks earlier. I felt a pinching in my chest without Ella Mae at the wheel, and I blinked back tears during the whole drive.

As soon as I stepped into the fellowship hall, people called out, “Mighty fine ta see ya, Mary Swan.” Then Carl and I began our weekly routine of serving spaghetti and garlic bread.

As we were finishing up the dishes, Carl said, “Puddin' and the boys and I were wonderin' if you'd come with us to the cemetery.”

“I don't know, Carl. I've been to too many cemeteries this year.”

“It's beautiful right now,” Carl commented wistfully. “I think you'd like to see it.”

So once again we all walked from Mt. Carmel to Oakland Cemetery. We passed under those brick arches and along the uneven road, and I found myself smiling. Life was blooming all around us at Oakland. We stopped beside a dogwood tree and examined its pink blooms.

“Do you know that there's a story in the dogwood blossom?” I asked the children, and they shook their heads.

“Look at the flower. It's in the shape of a cross, and at the end of each petal it looks like there are nail prints. There's even what looks like a tiny crown of thorns in the center. It's like God is reminding us through His creation of Christ's death and resurrection.” The children peered intently at the dogwood blossom while I thought to myself that none of these things had ever seemed remotely important to me before. But now they did. My, how it mattered that there was hope.

Carl helped each sibling pick a blossom from the tree, and then we walked to my mother's tombstone. I knelt by the simple marker. Puddin' got down beside me, squinted at the writing on the marker, and read, “Sheila McKenzie Middleton, 1924–1962. Beloved wife, mother, artist, friend.” Then she looked up at me, perplexed, and said, “I cain't make one bit o' sense outta the otha' words written there.”

I laughed. “Of course you can't! That's because they're written in French. My mama was half French. And one of her favorite painters was a Frenchman named Claude Monet.” I slowly pronounced the words,
“Je sais seulement que je fais ce que je peux pour exprimer ce que
j' éprouve devant la nature.”

“That sounds perty, Mary Swan! What does it mean?”

“It's a quote from Mr. Monet, and it says, ‘I only know that I do what I can to express what I feel from nature.' Something like that. Anyway, we chose the quote because it was one of Mama's favorite's and because it's what she tried to do, too, as an artist.”

“I wish we had a place to visit my mama's grave,” Mike said solemnly.

I stood up. “You don't know where she's buried?”

“Nope,” he said sadly.

“Didn't have any money for a burial,” Carl explained. “Miss Abigail tried to find out. She thinks Mama's buried at a cemetery a far piece from here. So me and the kids come here to Oakland and go down to Potter's Field and lay our flowers down in the field full of unmarked graves. The children take whatever nature offers.” He nodded to them. “Y'all kin go on.” And they took off down the gently sloping hill to the back of the large cemetery.

“I was pretty sure you were praying in Potter's Field every time you came here with me,” I said.

“Yeah. You got that right in your painting, Mary Swan. Every time you visit your mother's grave, I jus' go down there and kneel in the grass and thank the good Lord for my mother. 'Cause no matter how messed up she was, she still gave life to me and my siblings, and I'm thankful for that.”

We were slowly walking toward Potter's Field when Carl stopped and sat down beside the bronze statue of a wounded lion that was set in the part of the cemetery where all the Confederate soldiers were buried. I took a seat beside him.

“I wanted to tell you, Mary Swan, that I won't be coming down to Mt. Carmel on Saturdays much anymore.”

I couldn't hide the surprise on my face.

“I've been accepted at Morehouse College for next year.” He smiled with satisfaction.

“That's really great, Carl. Right here in Atlanta. So you can still live at home?”

“Yeah. But I've got to take a couple of classes starting soon to catch up. They meet on Friday nights and Saturday mornin's. And then I'll be workin' on Saturday afternoons at the gas station. Gotta git in extra hours to help pay for tuition.”

I felt my chest constrict.

“So I won't have much time. But I sure hope you'll keep coming down to help Miss Abigail. She really appreciates it.” He looked slightly embarrassed. “I mean, I hope that now that Ella Mae isn't here, and well, I won't be around as much, well, I hope you won't think you're not needed.”

“No, Carl. I'll keep coming,” I said too quickly. Then after some thought, I added, “I don't know if they need me, but I need these people. They're my friends.”

He looked me in the eyes and said, “Well, then, that's mighty fine.”

I felt a sweet closeness and an unexplainable distance from him at the same time.

“I wish you wouldn't keep staring at me with those green eyes of yours, girl.”

“I'm sorry. It just seems like this is good-bye.”

“Ain't good-bye, Mary Swan. That's one good thing about the Lord. In the Lord, we just gotta say, ‘I'll be seein' you around sometime.'”

I threw my arms around him, and he held me tight against him in that quiet, empty section of the cemetery, me crying into his chest. Then he let go of me and stood up and sauntered off down the hill to where Mike and James and Puddin' were playing in the field.

Jean-Pierre Rampal was playing on the stereo in my room, and Rachel was lying on her back next to me on my bed. “Do you think Carl was trying to say good-bye permanently?” Rachel asked.

“I don't know. But I think he wanted to make sure I'd still help out down at Grant Park. And I want to. Only, it makes me wonder if I've changed at all. Or if I only went down there because of Carl.”

“You've changed all right,” Rachel assured me, but she had a funny little smile on her face. Suddenly I realized she was staring at my chest.

“Oh, Rachel! For heaven's sake. I'm not talking about my body. I'm talking about what's inside. About my soul!” I said it in my best melodramatic voice.

“Well, of course you are, Swan! And that's precisely why I know you've changed. Last year all you could think about was your body. Now you're thinking about real, important matters. You've changed.”

“You really think so?”

“Absolutely. You've got a purpose or something. You believe in something bigger than yourself or your upbringing. You're religious, open-minded, less sheltered, artistic. . . .”