This One and Magic Life (16 page)

MAKE NO MISTAKE ABOUT IT, DOLLY, WE CATESES WERE PINEY
woods trash, still are to the folks in Harlow regardless of what we do or who we marry.

You could have sliced that town right down the middle. The nice people lived on the bluff and the ladies played bridge and ate at the Grand Hotel at least once a week. Their husbands worked in Mobile, and on weekends they played golf or went out on their boats.

The white trash's houses, sometimes just shacks, were scattered around in the woods, some near the bay but never on it. Our fathers worked in garages or on fishing boats or on the grounds at the Grand Hotel. Or not at all. My father, your grandfather, Will Cates, worked at the boat dock and drank. Your grandmother Nomie was a maid at the hotel.

Of course my sister Elizabeth and I were impressed with Sarah Sullivan when we were teenagers. And I know, God knows my analysts have told me enough, that the things we admired so like the china and silver and Mrs. Sullivan's clothes were superficial. But there
was more to it than that. When we studied that poem in school about a woman walking in beauty, I thought that poem could have been written about Sarah Sullivan.

I know what they say about her, about her mental illness and her affairs. I know how she hurt her husband and children. But she walked in beauty. Dolly, your grandmother Sarah walked in beauty.

Mama would say, “Beauty is as beauty does.” And I realize now how hard it must have been for her, having us come in bragging so much on Sarah Sullivan and her parties and Mama struggling to keep food on the table for us. So many of us needing things, pulling at her from all directions, and the child she loved best, Toy, dead and buried long ago.

Toy came about three weeks early and caught Mama by surprise. There were a couple of doctors staying at the hotel who were called, so Mama probably got better care than she had for any of the rest of us. Anyway, they put her on a cot in a storage room behind the gift shop, and Toy was born before the second doctor could get off the golf course. Mama named her Dorothy, but everybody called her Toy right from the beginning because the gift shop lady said she looked like a toy. A little doll.

Toy. My sister you are named for, Dolly. My first real memory.

“Sit on the floor, Mariel,” and Mama putting her into my arms. The warmth, the sweet, milky breath. She opened her eyes and looked at me.

I didn't want Elizabeth to have a turn holding her. Toy was my baby. I'd lean over Mama's lap while she nursed her, rub my hand over her head, feel the soft spot where her pulse beat, the spot Mama said we must be very careful of. Her hair felt like silk. It was black,
not like the rest of us, but Mama said it would fall out and come back blond like ours had done. Every day I'd look to see if she was bald yet.

How old was I? Four years old? Look at Mariel playing in the dirt yard the day Toy dies. The day Papa caused her to die. Gather on the porch and grieve for Naomi and even Will who has to live with his guilt. But Mariel, Elizabeth, Harry, Jacob, Steve, Ben. They're children. They play in the yard, their world going on. What do they know about death? Come have some cake, children.

And we did. And I told myself that Toy was inside, sleeping in the dresser drawer. Once I even heard her cry. How is it I remember this? I said to Jacob, “Toy's crying.”

“No, Mariel. Papa left her in the sun too long until she got blisters all over and died.”

But I knew the sun couldn't make you die. I pulled off my shirt and sat in the yard and waited. And what I thought was right. I didn't die.

“Better come in now, Mariel.” Father Carroll's hand was cool against my hot shoulder. He picked me up and carried me inside and washed my face and hands.

“Is Toy really dead?” I asked him.

“Yes. Gone to heaven to live with Jesus.”

“Does Jesus know not to touch her soft spot?”

“Yes.”

“She won't come back?”

“No. She'll wait for us, though.” He carried me to the bed where Elizabeth was already sleeping. “Try and get a nap now.”

But I couldn't sleep. Mama was on the other side of the wall. I got up and opened the door to her room. She was leaning over the washbowl. I could see the
steam rising from the cloth she held against her breasts.

“Mama?” She turned. “Mama?” I said again, this time not sure. This woman's face was swollen and gray.

“Come here,” she said. The cloth dropped from her breasts. She picked me up and sat in the rocking chair.

“Toy,” she said. And I did what I had wanted to do while I watched Toy nursing. I took Mama's breast into my mouth. And while she held me close, I drank.

The pieces came together, how Papa had put Toy on a quilt on the porch and, drunk, had gone to sleep and left her there all afternoon. How was it that he was left alone with her? Where were Mrs. Potts and the rest of us? Were we swimming in the bay or playing at Mrs. Potts's sister's house while Toy was burning up?

Mama, coming home from work, found her, already blistered, already unconscious. She ran with her to the hotel, and Mr. Graham, the manager, took them to Mobile to the hospital.

But she was gone before the sun came up. “Gone to Jesus,” Father Carroll assured us. “Gone to Jesus,” he told Mama who sat with her beads in her hands turning them over and over. “Gone to Jesus,” he told Papa who sat out by the live oak tree not saying anything.

“Take your papa some food,” Grandmama said. And we did. But what we had taken him earlier was still there covered in ants.

Jacob told us years later that Father Carroll had told Mama and Grandmama that he was afraid Papa might commit suicide, and they should watch him.

“He's doing it anyway,” Grandmama said. “Might as well get it over with before he takes somebody else with him.”

But Mama didn't say anything. The day after the
funeral she went back to work. Mrs. Potts came as usual and Grandmama went home. Papa left the live oak. We could hear him chopping wood all morning. I kept hearing Toy cry and I'd run in the house calling for her. Once she was there, lying in her dresser drawer bed, her arms reaching up for me. But I wasn't allowed to pick her up. “You're okay,” I said. “You're okay.” How is it that I remember this?

Papa fixed himself a pallet in the woodshed and slept there in the summer. I'm not sure what he did in the winter. Jacob said he thought he had a room in Mobile. Sometimes he was home; sometimes not. For a while we missed him.

I have this memory, though, that comes skittering up sometimes when I'm not thinking about Papa at all. It likes to catch me by surprise. We are going to the bay swimming, all six of us kids. We walk down the shell road and cut through the Sullivans' yard.

As we start over the dune, Jacob says, “Whoa!” We stop and he scrambles down to what looks like a partially clothed body that had been washed up against the dune right on the path.

“It's okay,” he says. “He's just asleep.” And we walk down the path, stepping over our father who is lying face-down in the sand. The sun has already turned his bare back red; a whiskey bottle is clutched in his hand.

By the time we finish our swim, a long one, and start home, he is gone.

MARIEL HAS CALLED HER MOTHER TO TELL HER THE ROSARY IS
still on. Now she and Donnie are driving along the beach road to pick her up. The sun, above the horizon as they started toward Naomi Cates's house, dips, a giant orange, into the bay. One can almost hear the sizzle as it touches the water. In five minutes, it is gone. Mariel is convinced it falls faster as it nears the horizon. She doesn't mention this to Donnie who is thinking the same thing.

“Someone has been dumping trash on Mama's road again,” she says. “Do you think we can get Reese to come clean it up?”

“The county ought to do it.”

“But it takes forever. Last time I called them it took six weeks.”

“We can ask him. I'm sure he will. He thinks your mother is handed down.”

“I know. They'll probably just sit on the porch and watch soap operas.”

“He'll get it done eventually.”

Mariel takes off her sunglasses and rubs her eyes which feel heavy, swollen. “I wonder what he's going to do now.”

“Stay on at the house as usual. Regardless. What I wonder is what Dolly will do.”

“She'll go back to Atlanta, I expect. There's not much for her here.”

“Maybe.” Donnie turns on his left turn signal. Habit. No one else is on the road. “I hope she makes the right decisions.”

“So do I. Bobby called this afternoon. He may come to the funeral tomorrow, she said.”

“She still won't talk about the divorce, will she?”

“Not really. I think she talked to Artie some.” Mariel grabs Donnie's arm. “There's the garbage. See?” Someone has added a stained mattress to the pile since she was there earlier in the day. Well, her mother couldn't be blamed for that. “It just makes me furious.”

“We'll get it cleaned up,” Donnie says. “Hektor and I can come down here tomorrow with his truck.”

“Why do people do that, though? Dump garbage on people's property?”

“I don't know, honey. But don't worry about it. I'll get it up.”

“Don't patronize me,” Mariel says. “I'll get it up myself. I'll go get that lazy pinheaded Junior Morgan out here and make him do his job. That's what he gets paid for.”

“Mariel,” Donnie says, “are we talking about garbage?”

“What do you mean?”

“I told you the rosary and funeral are okay. I meant it.”

“No, you didn't. Besides, just telling me they're okay is patronizing.” She looks over at Donnie. He
looks more rested since his nap and food. “I don't like you, Donnie,” she says.

“Yes, you do.” He reaches over to pat her hand.

“I do not. You patronize me. Just like Artie did.”

He takes her hand into his. “I'm sorry,” he says. “I really don't intend to.”

Mariel sighs.

Naomi Cates is standing in her yard waiting for them. She has on the black dress she has worn to funerals for thirty years and yellow flip-flops.

“I couldn't find my good black shoes,” she explains. “I'll just tell everyone these are my rosary thongs. Artie would have loved it.”

“Mama, you can't do that,” Mariel says. “Where all did you look?”

“Everywhere.” She gives Donnie a hug. “How you doing, baby?”

“I'm okay.”

“Mariel told me about your trip to Birmingham. I'm glad you decided to go on and have the funeral, though.”

“So am I.” He looks over Naomi's head straight into Mariel's eyes. I mean it.

“I'm going to go look in your closet again.” Mariel says.

“Won't do any good, but thanks.”

“I think you're right. Artie would love the flip-flops,” Donnie is saying as Mariel goes through the door.

“They are rather arty, aren't they?” Naomi grins. “My Lord, that was an awful pun, wasn't it?”

“Awful,” Donnie agrees. He is thinking how much he loves Naomi Cates.

“Well, let's sit down here on the steps for a minute. She's not going to find them, but you know Mariel.”

“She says I patronize her,” Donnie says, sitting beside his mother-in-law.

“You do. I'm glad to hear she's recognizing it.”

“You really think so?”

“Of course. Mariel tries too hard. It makes her a perfect target.”

“But I don't mean to hurt her.”

“Neither do I.” Naomi wiggles red painted toenails and sighs. “Days you have to worry are when you can't feel your feet.”

“You don't have any feeling in your feet sometimes?”

“Not often. I'm okay. That's what happens when you're eighty.”

“Who says?”

“Me. I'm the expert.”

They sit silently for a moment. “Tell her you love her more,” Naomi says.

“Yes,” Donnie agrees.

“Is Dolly going to get to come to the rosary?”

“She's still got fever. I think she'll make it tomorrow, though.”

“How did she take Artie's wanting to be cremated?”

“Well, it was a shock to all of us. I think she's okay with it, though.”

“And you?”

Tears flood Donnie's eyes. “I'm not okay with anything right now, Nomie.”

The back door slams. “Here they are,” Mariel says triumphantly. “They were under the sofa on the porch.”

“Lord, I wonder how they got there?”

“Here are some stockings, too. Can you put them on in the car, Mama?”

“Panty hose in the car? No way. It takes a whole
room and several pieces of furniture for me to accomplish that.”

“Well, hurry. We need to be there soon.”

Naomi groans and gets up. “We'll be there soon enough,” she says.

“Do you think she's okay?” Mariel watches her mother shuffle into the house.

“She's fine. Here.” Donnie pats the step. “Sit down.”

Mariel brushes off the step. “I don't want to mess up my dress.”

They sit quietly for a few minutes looking over the bay. Then Donnie says, “Tell you what. Let's buy the house from Dolly. Move out here. Just shack up together on the beach. How about that?”

“Don't make me think about another thing right now, Donnie.”

“We could, you know.”

Mariel puts her face down into her hands. “Don't tell me this now.”

“Why?”

“Because it's bullshit.”

“Did I just hear what I think I heard?” Naomi stands in the doorway, shoes and stockings on.

“I'm afraid so,” Donnie says. “You should have taught her better.”

“She learned it at home.” Naomi takes Donnie's hand. “Let's go.”

 

The group on the community pier is applauding the sunset as Hektor, May, and Father Audubon drive by.

“It's a town custom,” Hektor explains. “Everyone in Harlow thinks they have to clap for the sun's performance.”

“Encourage it to come back tomorrow,” Father Audubon says.

“Something like that. Truthfully, more of an excuse for a shot of bourbon or whatever.”

“It's fun,” May says. “I like to go to the pier for sunset.”

“Sunrise, sunset,” Hektor sings. “Sunrise, sunset.”

“Swiftly fly the years,” Father Audubon joins in. Neither can remember the next words so they end up humming the tune. They come to the stop sign and turn right toward the funeral home.

“I can't believe we're doing this,” Hektor says. “Having a rosary over an empty coffin.”

“Think of it this way. All funerals are over empty coffins.”

“Spoken like a true priest, Del.”

“Just trying to help.”

“I know.” Hektor waves at a boy on a motorcycle. Sunrise. Sunset.

“I believe in God,” May says. “I believe Aunt Artie is in heaven sitting at the right hand of God Almighty. From thence she shall come to judge the quick and the dead.”

“That's good, honey. I hope she's the one gets to judge us.”

“She will be.” May straightens the skirt of her blue dress.

“Jesus used to live at the North Pole,” Hektor tells Father Audubon.

“When did he move?” Father Audubon asks.

“Y'all are teasing me,” May says.

Hektor hugs her. “Not really.”

They turn into the parking lot of Bay Chapel East. Several other cars are already there. Hektor recognizes
Dorothy Jenkins going in the door. “That's Artie's sister-in-law,” he says.

“I forgot she was married.”

“She wasn't for long. Carl was killed in Korea. She was a widow at twenty-two.”

“And never remarried.”

“I don't think she even came close. There were men, of course, lots of them. But there was only one Carl. I lived with them when they were first married. Good fellow.”

“Is he buried here?”

“No. He was reported missing and finally they declared him dead. I'm not sure Artie ever gave him up.” Hektor pulls into a parking space. “Our parents are here, though. They drowned in the bay in a sailing accident when we were teenagers.”

“I lost my parents when I was a child,” Father Audubon says. “My aunt brought me up.”

“I don't have a mama,” May says. Both men laugh at her tone of voice. “Well, I don't! I'm going to talk to Kelly Stuart though.”

“She's too young for me,” Hektor says.

“We'll let her decide that.” May slides out of the truck into Father Audubon's arms.

“Yes ma'am, Miss May,” Hektor says. They walk to the heavy front doors. Just as they get there, Donnie, Mariel, and Naomi Cates pull into the drive.

“I'll wait and come in with them,” May says.

“Okay, sweetheart. Just remember, Mr. Ricketts is a friend of Aunt Artie's from San Francisco.”

“Isn't he?”

“Of course he is.” The two men watch the child run across the parking lot. Her white socks flash in the late light.

“You are a lucky man, Hektor Sullivan,” Father Audubon says.

“I think ‘blessed' may be the adjective.”

They step into the coolness and artificial light of the funeral parlor. Mr. Griffin is standing just inside the door talking to Dorothy Jenkins.

“Mr. Sullivan,” he says.

Hektor introduces Delmore Ricketts to both Mr. Griffin and Dorothy Jenkins.

“We're having the rosary in the chapel,” Mr. Griffin says. “I know it's supposed to be a private service, but you know Harlow.”

“That's fine.”

“Father Carroll is already in there.” Mr. Griffin points vaguely toward the chapel.

“The rest of the family is coming in. We'll wait on them.”

Dorothy excuses herself and goes into the chapel. She looks old, Hektor thinks. It seems to him that women either balloon or shrink as they age. Dorothy is shrinking. He remembers her leading cheers in high school, plump, golden. Damn. Damn. Sunrise. Sunset.