This One and Magic Life (13 page)

“
IS SOMETHING WRONG WITH YOUR SISTER-IN-LAW?” DELMORE
Ricketts asks Hektor who is at the sink washing the glasses.

“She may have had a little too much bourbon. I think she'll be all right for the rosary, though. I've never seen her do this before.”

“Grief. We all handle it in our own way. Facing mortality's closed doors.”

“I guess so.” Hektor dries the glasses and puts them on the counter. “I'd recommend a walk on the beach, but a jubilee really messes it up for several days. There's no telling what condition it's in.”

“I think I'll go down and see,” Father Audubon says. “All sorts of birds should be down there feasting. You don't want to come?”

“No, thanks. My brother should be here soon. May might like to go, though. I think she's out front.”

“I'll see. Do you know not long ago I saw two bald eagles at Hurricane Lake? We see them every now and then. The odd thing was that these two were actually
diving into the water fishing. And I didn't have my camera with me.” He pulls one from his pocket. “I learned my lesson.”

“Good luck,” Hektor says. My God, he thinks, Mariel was right. He does look like a priest.

Reese comes in carrying a plate as Father Audubon leaves.

“More ham,” he says. “What's that priest doing here?”

“He's a friend of Artie's from San Francisco. He lives in Mississippi now and came over for the funeral.”

“Knew he was a priest.” Reese places the ham on the counter. “What you want me to do with all those daylilies?”

“Just stick them anywhere. Take some home. I told Mariel she could have all she wants.”

“I wet them down. There's no hurry.”

“Thanks.”

Reese pulls out a chair and sits down at the kitchen table. Hektor does likewise.

“Well,” Reese says.

“Well,” Hektor says.

“What you reckon Dolly's going to do?”

“I have no idea. If she wants, I'll buy the house. May and I could come over here on weekends and during the summer.”

“She ought to live here,” Reese says.

“There's not much for young people in Harlow, Reese.”

“Everything there is.”

“That's what my father used to say. And the important things, sure. But Dolly likes that children's theater group in Atlanta. I doubt she'll want to give that up. And she needs to be where she can meet some young men, too.”

Reese nods. “I keep seeing Artie, Hektor. I saw her out by the pecan tree while ago. I waved and she waved back. She looked good. And happy.”

“That's the way it was when Mama and Papa died. I kept seeing them. Especially Mama. Sitting at the top of the beach steps. I never told anybody that before.”

“Who knows,” Reese says.

“Who knows,” Hektor says.

The two men sit quietly for a few minutes, each thinking. They hear Father Audubon calling for May and May's answer. “He's going to the beach to look for birds,” Hektor says.

“The beach stinks.”

“He'll find that out.”

“You know what, Hektor? I know when Artie decided to be cremated.”

“When was that?”

“Last jubilee. Back in June. She managed to make it down to the beach and watched me burning all the stuff that had washed up. She took some of the ashes and wrote her name on the sand with it. Wore her out, but there was her name, plain as day.”

“Could be,” Hektor says. “I wouldn't want it for me, but I can sort of understand Artie wanting it. Back to the elements, one with nature.” He pauses. “I guess.”

“Donnie's gonna sprinkle the ashes in the bay?”

“I think so. She said for him to do it on a day that was perfect. That's a strange thing to say, isn't it?”

“I don't know. There's lots of perfect days around here. You take October. Seventy-five degrees and a breeze from the north and the sun shining like it never thought of doing anything else. That's pretty perfect.”

“Or April.”

“May when the gardenias are blooming.”

“We sound like a damn Chamber of Commerce brochure,” Hektor says.

“Just don't mention hurricanes. Hurricane Frederick nearly scared me to death. You know Artie and I stayed here. Lord, Lord! Last time I'll do that.”

“You would if Artie did.”

Reese smiles. “Most probably. She was scared as I was, though. She said, ‘Reese, I told you to leave. You die, it's not my fault.' I told her I wouldn't hold it against her. She said Irene would. She said I ought to be up in Atmore safe with my wife. I told her we both ought to be. Lord, what a time that was!” Reese shakes his head, remembering. “And now, look.”

“But just think. You saw her a while ago sitting under the pecan tree.”

“God's truth.”

The phone rings but neither man moves. Someone will pick it up. It will not be anything of importance. And even if it is, the sun will dip into the bay in a couple of hours and the moon will rise and the earth will continue its journey somewhere.

“I was in an earthquake once,” Hektor says. “Talk about being scared!”

But he knows that was not when he was most scared.

DELMORE RICKETTS, IN SPITE OF LIVING SO CLOSE TO MOBILE
Bay, has never seen it. He is amazed at the gnarled live oak trees, the magnolias, and the pines that soar a hundred feet into the air. The beach is not wide, and the sand is pinkish, unlike any he has ever seen. Birds are everywhere, still enjoying the bounty from the jubilee. They move aside impatiently as he and May approach, and then they come right back to their meal. Some gulls actually refuse to move. Delmore Ricketts could reach over and pick them up. Probably he would be pecked for his impertinence. He does, however, touch one lightly on the back to see if it will fly away. It doesn't, merely squawks a warning.

“Tell me what kind of birds they all are,” May says. “I know the gulls and the sandpipers. And those two big ones over there are great blue herons. They were Aunt Artie's pets.”

“Over there in that tidal pool?”

May nods. “They look gray to me.”

“If they fly off, you'll see they look blue. At least the bigger one will. He's the male.”

“They're here at the same time every day,” May says. “If they were late, Aunt Artie would worry about them.”

“They're beautiful.” Father Audubon hands May a small pair of binoculars. “Look at them through these.”

“Wow! They must have a million feathers.”

“Probably,” Father Audubon agrees. “That's what gets them into trouble during oil spills. They try to clean their feathers and they swallow a lot of oil.”

“We don't have any oil around here to spill.”

“Hmmm,” says Father Audubon, looking out across the bay.

“Let me show you where the creek comes in,” May says, taking his hand. “There's lots of birds there. I'm not supposed to go up the creek, though. Snakes, I reckon. Maybe alligators.”

Father Audubon wipes his sweating forehead with the back of his hand. “How far is it?”

“Right up there where the beach ends. It just looks like it's ending. It's really a creek. Kind of like a swamp that comes right down on the beach. It's nice and cool.”

“Well, I'm all for that,” Father Audubon says. “You know, May, this is strange terrain. Cliffs and swamps right together.”

“There's probably some of them in the creek, too.”

“What?”

“Terrains. They like to get up on the logs when the sun's shining.”

“Most probably.” Father Audubon nods. “Let's be as quiet as we can so if any birds are fishing in the creek we won't scare them away.”

“Okay.” May tiptoes over the sand.

The mouth of the creek, Father Audubon decides as they get closer, is probably a rather permanent tidal
pool. The large live oaks and palmettos, however, suggest bayou.

“Look,” May whispers, pointing upward. A large flock of birds in a loose V are soaring over the bay.

“Brown pelicans,” Father Audubon says. “They were almost gone for a while.”

“Gone where?”

“Extinct. Killed off mainly by pesticides. They're coming back, though.”

“That's good.”

“There's hope.” Father Audubon counts eighteen pelicans in the v. He does this automatically.

Their feet are miring down as if in quicksand. “Ouch,” May exclaims, stepping on something sharp.

A loud cry and a burst of wings. A huge white bird flies right toward them, so close they have to duck. “Kewrooh!” it screams, “Kewrooh!” It sails over them and out over the water.

“Lord God!” May says, holding her hands against her racing heart.

“My God! My God!” Father Audubon grabs his binoculars and gets the bird in the sight. “Look at that. Oh, my sweet Jesus, would you look at that!” He runs down the beach. “Come back! Come back, you angel, you gift of God!”

May can still hear the huge bird's strange scream. The bird itself, however, is becoming just a pinpoint against the blue sky. She checks to see if her foot is bleeding, and limps down the beach toward Father Audubon who is now jumping up and down in a sort of rhythmical dance. “May, May,” he says, grabbing both her hands, dancing in a circle.

“My God,” he says suddenly, letting go of the child's hands and sitting on the beach. He leans his
head over between his knees. “May,” he says, “we have just seen a whooping crane.”

“That white bird? That thing nearly scared me to death.”

Father Audubon lifts his head up and looks at the sky. “Thank you, God,” he says.

“It was special?”

“So special that not many people have ever seen one. You remember that, May. You've seen a whooping crane. That makes you special, too.” He sits for a few minutes looking in the direction that the bird disappeared. Then he jumps up. “I've got to go make a phone call,” he says. “Right now.”

“I'll come up in a few minutes,” May says.

“Okay.” Father Audubon starts running down the beach. “Remember!” he shouts back.

May takes the slices of bread she has brought with her and walks toward the water. She tears the bread into pieces and throws it to the two herons. They grab it before it ever touches the sand. They bump into each other, squabble. May laughs. “You're special, too,” she says.

 

Mariel answers the phone. The ringing awakens Dolly who can tell by the angle of the sun across the floor that it's late afternoon. She's sitting on the edge of the bed when her mother comes in.

“It's Bobby,” Mariel says. “I told him you weren't feeling good and I didn't know if you were awake or not. You want to take it?”

“I'll take it.” Dolly reaches over to the nightstand and picks up the phone. “Bobby?”

Mariel hesitates for a moment and then leaves. She still doesn't know what the relationship is now between Dolly and Bobby. All she knows is she's got a hurt child
in there and by damn, that Bobby Hamrick better not hurt her any more.

“Hey, Dolly. I was out of town and just got your message about Artie. I'm so sorry. You okay?”

“I've been better.”

“Your mother said you were sick.”

“Sinus. I'm okay.”

“When's the funeral? I'm coming down.”

Dolly's chest is hurting. She sits up straight, pushes her shoulders back, and tries to breathe deeply. “No, Bobby.”

“I won't bother you. I swear, Dolly. I just want to say goodbye to Artie.”

“It's too late, Bobby.”

“The good Catholic family?”

“Something like that.”

There is silence for a moment and then Bobby asks, “And you, Dolly? Would you welcome me? I'm straight and have been for two months.”

Tears are streaming down Dolly's cheeks. “Don't come, Bobby,” she says and gently replaces the receiver on its cradle.

She goes into the bathroom and splashes her face with cold water. She shivers; she must still have fever. A glance in the mirror is not reassuring. She puts on her robe and stretches out on the bed again.

Mariel sticks her head in the door. “How're you feeling?”

“I'm not sure. Bobby said he was coming to the funeral tomorrow. I told him no. He still may come, though.”

“I hope he's got enough sense not to.” Mariel lays her hand on Dolly's forehead. “I'll get you a cold washrag,” she says, “and some ginger ale with lots of ice. Dave Horton called while you were asleep and said for
you not to try to go to the rosary if you still have fever. But he said if your fever has broken, you can go to the funeral and he'll see you there.”

Dolly catches and holds her mother's hand. It's cool and dry. “Mama,” she says, “why are you having the funeral when Artie didn't want one?”

“You know, I decided this afternoon I wouldn't. I was up in Artie's studio and thought if she doesn't want a funeral it's her business. I even told Father Carroll we weren't going to have one, but he came barreling over here to see what was wrong, poor old fellow barely able to get around, wanting to know what was wrong. And God help me, I told him it was all a mistake, that, of course, we were having a funeral. I think he thought I'd lost my mind.” Mariel slips her hand away from Dolly's. “So don't ask me why, Dolly. I don't know.”

“It's okay, Mama.”

“I don't know whether it is or not.” Mariel goes to the bathroom for the washrag; she comes back holding it against her own forehead. “But I know this. It's not that I'm all that religious or anything. It's just that when people die, you need to have funerals for them. And Artie should have given us some warning. She should have at least told Donnie.”

She hands the wet washrag to Dolly. “I'm babbling. I've had several drinks of bourbon over the course of the last hour and I feel it.”

Dolly takes the cloth and lays it across her forehead. “Why do you think she wanted to be cremated, Mama?”

“Lord knows. I never knew what made Artie tick.”

Dolly smiles. “Yes, you did. She was an artist.”

“Huh. A lot of sense that makes. Artists are just folks who think they can get away with more than the
rest of us.” Mariel sits on the bed and adjusts the cloth on Dolly's forehead. “I was always jealous of you and Artie, you know.” Mariel is surprised by the confession, but Dolly isn't.

“I know. I needed you both, though.”

“I was jealous of her and your father, too.” What is this? The bourbon?

“He needed you both, too.”

“I suppose so.” Mariel looks down the beach where she sees two figures she thinks are Delmore Ricketts and May walking at the edge of the water.

“Artie was jealous of you, too,” Dolly says.

“No. She didn't like me very much, but it wasn't jealousy.”

“Sure it was. She would have Reese and me help her clean up the house before you'd get here, and she'd change clothes.”

Mariel thinks of some of the outfits she has seen Artie in and wonders what in the world she had changed from.

“Things weren't always great for her, Mama.”

“I know that. But she gave the impression they were. The paintings and the traveling and the fame. It seemed easy. And then, of course, she had my husband for her twin and you for her daughter when she wanted you.”

“A surrogate daughter.”

“I suppose so.”

Dolly folds the cloth across her forehead. “Mama, don't be so hard on yourself.”

“That's what my psychiatrist says.” Mariel looks at Dolly and sees nothing of herself. “I'll get you some more aspirin, honey,” she says. She starts toward the bathroom door and turns. “I love you, Dolly.”

“I love you, Mama.” Dolly turns and burrows her
face into the pillow that smells of Artie's almond sachet.

Bobby.

Lying on the bed where, though she does not know it, her father and Artie were conceived (Hektor was conceived on the beach after a midnight swim), she allows herself a whole memory of Bobby, of loving him.

They had gone to Stone Mountain and taken a picnic lunch. It was October, and the trees were beginning to turn. The sky was as clear blue as if someone had Windexed it, and Bobby was wearing a blue shirt. When he kissed her, he had tasted like apples.

This is what she will remember of Bobby, she decides. None of the bad things. Just a day colorful as patchwork and a kiss that tasted like crisp fall apples.

She is young.