This One and Magic Life (21 page)

“True.” Hektor stops and says he's going up Logan Creek. “You want to go?”

“I think it's past time we did.”

They turn and walk along the slippery creek bank. “Watch for snakes,” Donnie warns Hektor.

After a few minutes, Hektor and Donnie agree that nothing looks familiar.

“There was a big water oak that used to be right about here. We dug the grave between the tree and the creek because the ground was soft there.” Donnie looks around, trying to get his bearings.

“Guess Hurricane Frederick got it. Probably got Zeke Pardue's body, too.”

“I hope so.”

“Did we wrap him in anything? I don't remember.”

“You weren't but ten and you were pretty upset. Artie got a tarp from the garage.”

The brothers sit on a log and look up and down the creek.

“Does it still bother you, Donnie?”

“Always will.”

“I've often wondered what he was doing on the beach anyway. Like he knew we were coming and what we'd do.”

“You thought he was the Devil.”

“I'm still not sure he wasn't.”

“He fell off a boat, managed to make it to the beach.”

Both men see Artie running to the figure at the edge of the water. “Zeke Pardue,” she calls back to them.

“Is he dead?” The brothers rush forward.

Artie pokes the body with her foot. Zeke Pardue gives a strangled cough, opens his eyes.

“Remember how yellow his eyes were?” Hektor asks Donnie as they sit on the log.

“His liver. All that whiskey.”

“It was Artie's idea, wasn't it?”

“Yeah, but when she said, ‘Help me hold him under' we didn't argue.”

“I sat on him.”

“And I tried to hold his head under the water. He was still pretty strong. I remember blaming him for everything that had gone wrong with Mama and Papa and just thinking, ‘Die, you bastard.' ”

“Do you remember the sound his head made, Donnie?”

“Like dropping a ripe melon. God! Who would have thought Artie was that strong?”

“And where did she find that piece of pipe on the beach?”

“Lord knows. We had a mess on our hands, didn't we?”

“Did you ever confess it, Donnie?”

“No. And I'm sure Artie didn't.”

“I told Father Audubon that the three of us had committed a mortal sin when we were children. He said he'd say some extra prayers for Artie. But Donnie, maybe it's something we ought to start thinking about. We'd be forgiven, and it would stay in the confessional.”

“Hektor, do what you want. I know you've always thought there's some Supreme Being out there keeping tabs, and that you don't deserve the good things that happen to you, like May. Maybe it would be best for you.”

“What about you?”

“If Artie's in hell, Hektor, that's where I want to be.”

The log they are sitting on moves slightly. Beneath them, another bone breaks off the Devil's hand.

 

After Dolly hangs up the phone, she goes out the back door and sits under the pecan tree. Dave Horton finds her there in a few minutes.

“It's too hot out here for you,” he says. “Are you okay?”

Dolly surprises herself by bursting into tears. “I want to live here, Dave,” she sobs. “I want to live here and have a dozen children and make everything turn out right.”

Dave kneels and wipes her face. “All right.”

Reese, sitting in the shade of Hektor's truck, listening, thinks she just might do it.

AFTER HEKTOR, MAY, AND DELMORE RICKETTS DRIVE AWAY IN
the truck, the house seems empty. Mrs. Randolph finishes cleaning the kitchen and goes home, carrying supper to her husband. She has neglected him and her house long enough, she thinks. Tomorrow she will get him started on those bannisters on the front porch that he has been promising for weeks to repair. All he does when she isn't there is sit around and drink beer and watch TV.

But Mr. Randolph will enjoy the supper and not worry about the bannisters. Kelly Stuart has already called and left word for Mrs. Randolph to call her. He knows what she wants; he's heard old Mrs. Stuart's health is failing. He greets his wife and her offering of food happily.

 

Dolly drives Naomi home and then runs by the Harlow library. In her pocket is the scrap of blue paper that fell out of Artie's telephone book. The words may be just some casual jotting, but Donnie's name in pa
rentheses beside “Fruit-Gathering” seems important to Dolly.

It's a new library, not the old house that had been the library when Dolly was a child. The librarian is the same, though, Mrs. Tallulah Smith, who is curved with osteoporosis and who says, “Oh, honey, I'm so sorry about your Aunt Artie. Bless her heart. I wish I could have been at the funeral this morning. And how's your daddy doing?”

“He's doing pretty good, Miss Tallulah. Thank you.” Dolly takes out the note that had fallen from Artie's telephone book. “Miss Tallulah, I'm looking for something called ‘Fruit-Gathering.' I think the author is Tagore. I don't know if it's a poem or what.”

“Well, let's look in
Grangers Index
.”

Mrs. Smith leads Dolly across the shiny new floor to the small reference department. “Here you go.” She points to a large book from the shelf. “They're listed by author, title, first and last lines. If we don't have the book it's listed in, we can borrow it from Mobile.”

“Thanks.” Dolly takes the book down and sits at a table while Mrs. Smith returns to the circulation counter saying, “Holler if you need some help.”

Dolly turns to “Tagore.” Nothing. “Fruit-Gathering.” Nothing. Then she looks up “What I keep of you, or you rob from me.” And it's listed as the last line of a poem by George Santayana entitled “To W.P.” She goes to the computer and clicks on “Author—Search.” The Harlow library doesn't have a copy of Santayana's poetry, but Mobile does. She writes the title down. Next she looks up Tagore and finds a long list by Rabindranath Tagore. No “Fruit-Gathering” is listed. It must be a smaller piece in one of the many books. And how would that be indexed?

None of his books are in the Harlow library. She is listing the ones that Mobile has when Mrs. Smith comes over with a thin dark blue book.

“Artie checked this book out and renewed it and then had Reese check it out on his card and renew it. I think she got a lot of comfort from it. You might, too, Dolly.”

Dolly takes the book. Its title is
A Humanist Funeral Service
. The author is Corliss Lamont.

“I know your family's Catholic and Artie had a regular Catholic service, but I thought you might like to see what she was reading.” Mrs. Smith shakes her head. “The title scares a lot of people off, but it's a nice book.”

Dolly knows what she will find when she opens the pages. She thanks Mrs. Smith and takes it to a table. And there it is on page twenty-four, a reading from “Fruit-Gathering” by Sir Rabindranath Tagore.

On the next page is the poem “To W.P.” by Santayana.

Dolly wipes her eyes with the back of her hands, then goes to the counter to check the book out. She thinks the book smells like almonds.

 

With the shades drawn against the August sun, Mariel and Donnie lie in Donnie's old room after making love quietly and unhurriedly. Mariel is dreaming she is walking through a field of daylilies. Suddenly she sees a
blue one. At first she is excited, but when she gets closer, she sees it's a silk flower. She jerks it from the ground. Someone is playing a trick on her. She turns on her side away from Donnie.

He has closed his eyes to a slide show. Artie on the pier as they brought their parents' bodies in. Artie at eighteen marrying Carl. Artie in the front hall with her suitcases packed. “I have to leave. I have to. You and Hektor take care of things.” “Where are you going?” “I'm not sure. I'll call you, though.” Watching her drive away, running toward the road to catch a last glimpse of her '50 Ford. Be safe, Artie. Be safe, sister.

“Why did you let her go?” Hektor is standing inside the screen door. He looks as if he will cry. “Where is she?”

“This is something Artie had to do, Hektor. She said for us to take care of things while she was gone. Okay?”

“But where's she going?”

“To slay some dragons, Hektor. She'll call us.”

Artie showing them around New York. Her first opening at a gallery. A silver outfit, the skirt so tight she has to lie on the bed while he and Hektor zip her up. “This can't be comfortable. You can't breathe.”

“I'm holding my breath tonight anyway, Donnie.”

“You're going to be a smash.”

“I'm going to be okay, Donnie.” Hugging him, the material of the dress rough, like fish scales.

“Yes.”

The calls. “I'm going to Europe, Donnie.” To Japan. San Francisco.

Be happy, Artie.

“I'm happy, Donnie.” It's Christmas and they are putting up the tree in Harlow. He looks at her and sees it's true. She smiles and hands him a string of lights she has just tested.

“Good. Dragons slayed?”

“Sleeping quietly. What about yours?”

“Sleeping.”

“Merry Christmas, Donnie.”

“Merry Christmas, Artie.”

“And to all a good night.” She plugs another string of lights into the socket. It shines brightly. “Hey, how about that! You're paying the preacher.”

Walking down the beach. “I have lymphoma, Donnie.” The sun is warm and sandpipers scurry away from small waves, rush back to scoop up minnows. And the twins sit on the sand holding each other, their arms and legs entwined as they had been in Sarah's womb, their tears the same.

Donnie gets up quietly and dresses.

“You okay?” Mariel mumbles.

“Fine.” He goes downstairs and gets the plastic container out of the desk drawer where it has been kept during the funeral. My brother Adonis. The day he deems perfect. Bullshit, Artie. You'd be sitting around in this drawer for a long time.

He puts the container on the coffee table and sits on the sofa looking at it. It's as inanimate as it was yesterday.

“What are you doing?” Dolly stands in the doorway. She has on the wrinkled khaki shorts and yellow shirt she changed into after the company had left.

“Trying to decide what to do.” Donnie looks at his child. “How are you feeling?”

“Better than I look.” She comes into the room and sees the ashes. “You decide when to sprinkle them?”

“What do you think she meant by the ‘day I deemed perfect'?”

“I don't know.” Dolly sits down on the sofa beside Donnie. “What do you think?”

“I'm thinking she was trying to tell me something. Something she understood and that I don't know.”

“What?”

“Something about living. About each day. I don't know. I'll have to think about it.”

“She enjoyed living, I know that.”

“Yes, she did.”

They are both quiet for a few moments.

“Where's Mama?” Dolly asks.

“Asleep.”

“You two are getting along splendidly.”

“We always have.”

“Don't hand me that.”

“And don't you be sassy, young lady.”

They grin at each other. “Let's take Artie to the bay,” Donnie says.

“Now?”

“Right now. I think that's what she intended for us to do.”

“Okay. But first, I've got something I think she wanted you to read.” Dolly hands her father the book. She has marked the place with the scrap of blue paper.

“What is it?” he asks.

“The note was in her telephone directory. I found the book at the library. Miss Tallulah said Artie checked it out several times.” Dolly stands up. “Tell you what. I'll go get me something to drink while you're reading it.”

It's a half hour before Donnie comes to the kitchen door. He has been crying, but he smiles at Dolly. “Like I said, let's take her to the bay.”

“You okay?”

“I'm okay.”

“Do you want to get the boat or just walk out or what?”

“We'll get the boat.”

Mariel hears the car start. She gets up and goes to the window just as they pull out of the driveway. She knows where they are going. Good. Be careful, my darlings.

 

Because of the bluffs, most of the residents of Harlow keep their boats at a communal dock. The slips hold boats that range from small fishing boats with trolling motors attached to sleek cigar boats used (to the annoyance of the natives) for skimming across the surface of the bay at incredible speeds. Artie's boat is one she has had for as long as Dolly can remember, a blue and white outboard with
GRAVY
on the side. It is kept in the same slip that had once wintered Thomas and Sarah's sailboat.

“Old
Gravy Boat
,” Dolly says affectionately.

“I don't remember when it's been out.” Donnie puts the plastic bowl on the pier and unhooks the cover. “Hope it starts.”

“We can always row.”

“Old
Gravy
's made me do that quite a few times.” Donnie jumps into the boat and unhooks the cover from the other side. “Come on,” he tells Dolly.

She hands him Artie's ashes which he puts on the floor of the boat. Then he holds her hand while she steps onto the seat. The boat rocks gently as they settle in.

“Keep your fingers crossed,” Donnie says. He turns the key in the switch.
Gravy
coughs and sputters before settling into a steady rhythm.

“Good girl,” Dolly says.

“This is no girl,” her father says. “This is an old lady.”

“Well, she's still got some get-up-and-go.”

“Old folks will surprise you every now and then.”

They back out of the slip and start slowly toward the open bay. “You need any gas?” Jeff Crenshaw shouts as they round the end of the pier. Donnie waves no. The tank is almost full.

He points
Gravy
toward the middle of the bay, toward the channel. The air, though warm, feels good blowing against them. Then sun is getting low in the sky.

“I love this place,” Dolly says.

Donnie nods.

“I see Mama.” Dolly points toward the houses on the bluff. Mariel is visible sitting at the top of the steps. Dolly waves to her but Mariel apparently doesn't see them and doesn't wave back. “Daydreaming,” Dolly says. “I see Cousin Bo, too. Down on the beach.” She waves at him, but he doesn't see them. He has what looks like a stick in his hand, and he's writing in the sand. “Where are we going, Papa?”

“To the center.”

There is very little traffic on the bay today, not like there will be tomorrow and Sunday when the sailors and fishermen are out from Mobile. Even the Grand Hotel at Point Clear seems somnolent. No one is on the grounds and the beach seems deserted. Tomorrow it will be a different story.

“How will we know we are in the middle?” Dolly asks.

“I'll deem it.” They smile at each other. Dolly leans back and closes her eyes. The heat and the sound of
Gravy
's motor are making her drowsy again. “Almond cream pie,” she says to Artie who has taken her to Sunday dinner at the Grand Hotel. “Almond cream pie.”

“What did you say?” her father asks.

“I said ‘Almond cream pie.' I was thinking about the Grand Hotel.”

“I used to dream about it when I was away from here. I swear I think that's why Artie liked the smell of almonds so.”

“I never thought of that. I can remember her laying away a couple of pieces at a time, though.”

“And never gaining an ounce. It killed your mama.”

“Artie as a sister-in-law must have been pretty formidable. Do you know, I don't think I really thought about that much until this week.”

“Your mama can be pretty formidable in her own way.”

“I've been thinking about that, too. It must have made your life complicated at times.”

“Certainly interesting. What drove me the craziest, though, was how much they were alike, deep down. And I seemed to be the only one who could see it.”

“I can't see it,” Dolly says.

“Nobody else can, honey. But they are. They're both strong women; take my word for it. That's why they never could get along with each other.”

“Do you think if Carl had lived, Artie would have stayed here?”

“Harlow was always her security.”

“You were her security.”

“And she was mine.” Which, of course, Dolly knows has always been the contention between Artie and Mariel.

Dolly holds her hand out and catches some spray. “Do you think Artie ever had another great love? I've been thinking about that, too. Besides Carl, I mean.”