Under the Mercy Trees (27 page)

37

Ivy

We are first out of the church after the funeral because we sat in the back, feeling unwelcome. I stand in the churchyard with Trina and Steven. Pine knots swirl under the church's thin white paint. Steven's suit is too small. He has split a seam where sleeve meets coat. I paw around in my purse for a safety pin and fix it for him. I watch my relatives file out of the sanctuary. They use different doors, don't even talk to each other. Martin stands with Liza Barnard under a tree. Hodge makes the rounds, says the right thing to whoever. Eugenia bosses the undertaker, orchestrates the drive to the family plot. James stands under a tree, fiddling with his hearing aid. Bertie holds her new grandbaby. The little girl's red hair curls all over her head, and Bertie can't keep her hands off her.

Steven is about to explode. He can't take another second with these people. “You want me to go with you to the burial, Mama?”

“No, I'll be ready to go home in a minute.” We have driven separate cars. Ghosts mill about, the women stern, the men sniffing for a free meal. Leon is not among them.

The funeral director escapes from Eugenia and comes up with a clipboard to assign us a place in the car line. He is relieved when we tell him we aren't going. He shoos other people to their cars, tells them to put their headlights on. Steps out into the street in front of the church and starts to direct traffic.

“You ready to go, Trina?” Steven says.

“Yeah. Hey, Mama, I'll call you later on.” Trina kisses my cheek. They walk to Steven's truck as the line of cars pulls out of the parking lot.

I go to my car and leave by a back way. I have never been one for burials. Other people see them as an ending, but I know better. I drive up the developer's road that runs along the back of my family's property, up to my special place. I park near enough that my knees won't have far to go. I walk down to the creek and knock pine needles and a curled dead spider out of my jelly jar, get me a drink, and walk up to my spot.

It's been six months since I was here.

The last time, I brought a towel to sit on. I heard somebody walking around the old sawmill down below and got up to see Leon down there, sorting through a pile of lumber scraps, stacking what he wanted under a juniper bush. I sat back down. He couldn't see my car from where he was, and I didn't have any particular need to tell him hello that day. I listened to the pleasant sound of wood tossed on wood, hollow and springy, like a baseball bat thrown down as a man heads to first base. Each toss sent an echo knocking between hill and creek.

Somebody hollered for Leon. I recognized James's voice. I could hear all that they said, the fall air was that clear.

“Whatcha looking for?” James said.

“Wormy chestnut.” Wood slid down the pile as Leon picked through it.

“Ain't much of that around. Remember that big tree Pop had over by the barn that died? You could make some money off that if you had it today.”

“I'm hoping they's some pieces of it under here, to finish a cradle I'm making for Bobby and Cherise.” Leon's breath came fast from his efforts.

There was a silence. I stretched up on my knees so I could see. James stood a few feet from Leon while Leon worked. He held a pair of tin snips in his right hand, and he looked a little puzzled. “Cradle? You know something I don't?”

Leon straightened up and faced James. From above I could see the top of Leon's balding head, count the strands of the hair he had combed over. He looked like he was thinking hard on something. “Look here, I got something to say.” He dropped a last board on the stack he had salvaged and ground the toe of his shoe into the dirt. “I got to make it right. When Bertie left you that time—”

“We don't talk about that,” James said.

“It was me.”

James adjusted his hearing aid, like he wanted to be sure what he'd heard. “What was you, Leon?”

“I'm the one ran off with her. If Bobby ain't yours, he's mine.”

Leon was always the bigger, meaner brother, but James got in a lucky hit. The arm with the tin snips came up fast, crashed into the side of Leon's head, sent him down into wood chips and sawdust. A single cry tore from James's throat, the length of half a breath. He turned and stalked away toward the house.

I saw Leon get up. I think I did. Saw him rise from where he fell, his legs bending too far at first when he tried to walk, then steadying up. Saw him stop and wipe his shoes one at a time on the back of his pants legs. Heard the soles crack dry leaves as he walked into the brush away from me. Smelled the drift of a cigar he'd lit. But that's not all I saw, and it's the also-sawed I'm never sure of. Did I see him keep lying there, still as a sleeping child while James raged up the hill? Did I see October wind flick back wisps of his hair, like a mother tickling him to wake up? Did deep leaves really gossip in a whisper, quilting him a cover, burying him with his wood scraps? I told myself I would tell the sheriff if he came to me and asked, tell him both tales and let him sort out which was real.

But nobody ever asked me anything.

WILLOBY NEWS & RECORD
, April 9, 1987

Leon Owenby of Solace Fork died on an undetermined date in October, at age 65. Mr. Owenby was an army veteran of the Second World War, during which he fought in the European theater. He worked many years for Oakley Mills and also farmed. He is survived by his sister Eugenia Nash and husband, Zebulon; sister Ivy Owenby; brother James Owenby and wife, Bertie; brother Martin Owenby; and numerous nieces and nephews. Arrangements are by Ferris Funeral Home.

38

Bertie

They buried Leon in the family graveyard, lowering the casket into a rectangular hole in the hard red clay. Woods and kudzu surrounded the graveyard on three sides. Bertie and James stood up front with the rest of the family and close friends, Eugenia and Zeb, Hodge and Claudie, Bobby and Cherise with the baby, Martin standing with Liza Barnard. The other thirty or so people who had come had to find a place as best they could. The graveyard was old enough that the family couldn't remember the names of everybody buried there. Round rocks marked the graves of babies who'd died too fast to claim a name. The older markers were split by time and weather, the carved names long worn off. Bertie looked at the other grave markers and imagined future years, when the words would be worn off Leon's stone and whatever family came up here would have to remember him by story.

Eugenia stood to Bertie's right, tearful. “I know it's the Lord's will, but I just wish we had an answer.”

Hodge put his arm around her. “It's a shame the autopsy came back inconclusive.”

Bertie looked over at Bobby and Cherise, standing to her left with the baby. For Bertie the autopsy was a prayer answered. She would have to live the rest of her life knowing what Bobby and Cherise had done to Leon, but at least her son wasn't going to prison and Haylee would have a father. The baby started to fuss. Cherise shifted her from one arm to the other. Bertie reached for Haylee, and for once Cherise handed the baby to her without arguing. Bertie put Haylee over her shoulder, patting her back, enjoying the feel of the little head against her cheek.

They finished lowering the coffin and that was that. People started to move, coming up to the family to say one more time that they were sorry before picking their way down the dirt road to where they'd parked.

Bertie touched Martin's arm. “I'd like to get those family papers back from you, if you're done with them.”

“I am. Your folder's in my briefcase, in the truck.” Martin started to go get it.

“We'll get it. We're going now anyway,” James said.

Bertie gave Haylee back to Cherise and followed James out of the graveyard to where Martin's green truck was parked, taking up half the road. James reached in the open passenger side window and fished Bertie's folder out of Martin's briefcase, and they went to their own truck. James was quiet, had been since they'd found the body. Bertie wondered when he would start to talk to her again.

At the house she went in the bedroom to change into comfortable clothes, pants and a sweater and shoes that didn't pinch. “Do you want me to make you a sandwich?” she called. James didn't answer. She finished getting dressed and went into the kitchen.

James was standing by the kitchen table with his head bowed. His face was stricken. She thought the day had just caught up with him, but then she looked down. The folder of family papers lay open on the table. A stack of little square black-and-white photos were spread out in a crooked fan on top of the other papers. She reached to straighten them, then saw what they were. Her. Her and Leon.

She looked up. James turned without saying a word and pushed through the door, out to his truck. His engine started up. She ran out of the trailer after him.

It was too bright outside. She banged on the truck hood as James drove past her, but he didn't stop. She ran back in the house and dragged her fingers through the kitchen drawer looking for the extra keys to her parents' car, a rusting brown Buick that sat under the sweet gum tree across the road. She found the key and ran outside. She drove only when she had to. The Buick's pedals felt strange under her feet. She prayed the car into starting and it did. She backed out of her parents' driveway, then put the car in drive and sped off after James, honking her horn. He ignored her. He headed out into the country, in the direction of the home place. She followed him up the winding road, the car bouncing hard in the ruts. James parked in the yard of the home place and got out.

She stumbled out after him. “James!”

He swung around. “Go home, Bertie.”

“Let me explain.”

“You don't have to explain.”

“I didn't love him, James. I never did. I had gone invisible, is all.”

His head hung down. His voice was a whisper. “I should have done better by you.”

James the martyr. Suddenly she was so angry at him she could have killed him.

“Jesus Christ, James, will you just go ahead and get mad at me for it? I slept with your brother. Don't you care enough about me to get mad?”

James turned away and looked at the sky, then turned toward her again and let out a breath that he seemed to have been holding forever. “How could you go and do it?” he hollered. “Leave me with those sweet little girls and just walk off! With
him
!” He turned around and kicked at the porch's rotting post, making the whole house shake. He kicked it again and again, then turned back around to Bertie. “I had to tuck the girls in those nights and explain away why their mama didn't love them enough to stay, didn't love me enough to stay. Dacey cried the whole time. You put us through hell, woman.” He commenced kicking again. Hornets whose nests held the post together came out to see what the commotion was about. “I was a good husband to you, Bertie Owenby,” he yelled, kicking slower now and breathing harder. “I am a good husband to you, and you are just a woman who will never be happy with what you've got.” The porch post gave way, and James backed into her as part of the porch roof fell down in a splintering of wood and a buzz of surprised insects. She caught him in her arms, and they both sat back hard on the ground. The house stood stunned by James's assault.

The air seemed clear, cleansed by James's fire. Bertie breathed it in, laid her cheek on the top of James's head and breathed him in. “I am happy with what I've got.”

They watched hornets circle the house in confusion. Finally, James moved. He got up and walked over to the end of the porch and picked something up, a baby cradle, partly finished. He held it up, running his hands over the unsanded parts, examining the dovetails that held the sides together. “I need to do the rest.”

Bertie got to her feet and came to look. “I'll help. A little mattress and coverlet and something around the sides so she won't bump her head.” She fingered the smooth curve of one of the rockers, imagining Haylee in the cradle she and James had made together, the baby's little hands exploring what was hard and what was soft. James set it down, and it started to rock, just a little, even though there was no wind.

39

Liza

Liza sat with Martin at the table in Hodge's kitchen, where he'd invited them after the funeral. Hodge poured coffee from a battered aluminum coffeepot. The veined white Formica of the tabletop had separated from its base. Martin flicked it with his thumb, making rubber band music. Liza gave him her schoolteacher look, indulgent but suggesting that perhaps he should quit damaging property. He stopped. The kitchen was painted 1960s avocado green, the walls marked by the scuffs and accidents of Hodge's children. Stove burners had branded oven mitts. Papers and photos rippled down the yellow refrigerator. Liza could feel Martin wishing the kitchen were his. Claudie had told them good night and gone to bed.

Hodge set the coffeepot on the counter and sat down. They all looked at each other.

“The three musketeers,” Martin said.

“The three stooges,” Hodge said.

“The three wise men,” Liza offered. “Wise people.”

“I like that one,” said Martin.

“We're not that wise,” Hodge said. “Or you aren't, anyway. I'm pretty wise.”

Martin snorted.

“Reverend Davis did a nice job with Leon's eulogy,” Hodge said.

“Considering he never met him,” Martin said.

“Got his name right, anyway,” Hodge said. “I went to one last month where the preacher got the poor man's name wrong the whole service.” He grinned at Martin. “That's what happens when you don't attend church regular.”

“I don't want anybody yapping at my funeral. Especially not you, Hodge,” Martin said.

“Too late. I've already got my sermon written. The wages of sin is death and all that.” Hodge blew across his coffee to cool it. “By the way, Martin, the developer that owns that property back of yours called me yesterday, to see which one of y'all he needed to talk to about buying your place. He's going to give you a call.”

“Did he mention a price?” Martin said.

“He floated two hundred thousand.”

“You're kidding me,” Martin said.

“You can probably get more than that,” Liza said. The bigger cities nearby were expanding, rising like a slow tide, their waves beginning to lap at properties in surrounding rural counties.

“That would be nice,” Martin said.

“Of course, you could buy out your brother and sisters and live up there yourself,” Hodge said.

“Like I said, the money would be nice, seeing as I'm currently out of a job. I may be moving on soon,” Martin said.

“Now, don't go and say that,” Hodge said. “We'll find you another job. The community college wasn't a good fit for you anyway. The headmaster at Wakefield Academy told me they're looking for an English teacher. I told him about you. Private schools don't pay much, but you'd make more than at the community college, and I bet the students are better.” Wakefield was where wealthier Willoby County families sent their daughters to high school.

Martin pushed hair out of his eyes and flashed a wicked grin. “Is Willoby County ready for a flaming homo from the city to teach its impressionable young ladies?”

It was the first time Liza had ever heard him put words to his homosexuality. She giggled. “This county could only benefit from a little flamboyance.”

“It really could,” Hodge said.

“Then maybe I will stay,” Martin said.

Liza got up, rinsed out her coffee cup in the sink, and set it upside down on the drain board. She put a hand on Hodge's back. “I'm heading home. You two stay out of trouble.”

Martin walked her outside. At her truck, he pulled something out of his pocket. “This is for you.” He handed it to her, a palm-size package, store-wrapped by expert female fingers.

She raised her eyebrows. “Shall I open it now?”

He nodded.

She slipped a fingernail under the tape and unwrapped it. In an antique silver frame, her younger self leaned in to kiss Martin Owenby's cheek. It wasn't her own image that made her throat catch, but Martin's, the happy, confident look on his smooth face. She wanted to weep for him. “Where did you get this? Did you find it at Leon's?”

“I've had it,” he said. “I've always had it.”

The photo was worn, the pigment faded from handling. He had loved it. He had thought of her.

“I may need to borrow it back from time to time,” he said. “The girl in that picture has seen me through a lot.”

She ran her thumb over the frame's patterned surface. “I'll share it. You know where to find it.”

Martin hugged her. For once he felt solid in her arms. Liza realized that she was ready to go. That she was freed from the what-ifs that had tugged at her for thirty years. She knew that even though there would be other nights at Hodge's table or her own, the hemorrhage of feeling, of regret for things unfinished, was stanched. She wanted to laugh and cry with relief.

She touched Martin's face and said out loud what she had always counted on him to read in her mind. “I love you, sweetie. I hope you stay here. You know you're welcome at our place anytime.”

He put his hand over hers. “I love you, too, Liza.” He squeezed her fingers and then let go. She climbed in her truck. Martin walked back to the house and stood in the doorway, keeping the porch light on until she pulled out, then turning it off and disappearing back into the house. Liza headed home.

*  *  *

For years after Martin broke it off with her, they hadn't seen each other or spoken. Then, on the evening after another funeral, Shane's, something made her get in the Sunliner and drive over to Eugenia's, where she had heard Martin was staying. When she got there he was sitting on the porch by himself, smoking a cigarette. His sideburns were long, but otherwise he looked the same. When he saw the car he crushed out his cigarette and stood up. She got out and leaned against the car, crossing her arms.

“Nice wheels,” he said. “An old friend of mine had a car like that.”

“She still does,” she said.

He took a few steps toward her and stopped, then held his arms open. She stepped into his hug, finding a place in it that was hers. Their skin was warm against the moist chill of the night air. Their fit was perfect.

They separated and Martin helped her put down the convertible's white top. Curtains fluttered as his sister Eugenia peered through the front window at them. They got in the car and went for a drive, as if nothing had ever interrupted their friendship.

*  *  *

When she got home from having coffee with Martin and Hodge after Leon's funeral, she saw Raby through the window, his reading glasses down on his nose. Raby of the strong face and sly wit, who had coaxed her into marrying him, who checked the oil every time his wife or daughters started out on a trip. Raby, as solid as the mountain that rose beyond the fields on their farm. She pushed through the screen door, and he looked up at her with a little grin. “I was about to send out a posse.”

“Hodge had us over after the funeral.”

“How's your Martin?”

“Fine. What are you doing?”

He held up the bridle Sandra used for horse shows. “I am sewing tiny pink ribbons on our daughter's bridle so that she will not die of embarrassment at her horse show Saturday. I feel like a sissy.”

Liza unwrapped the photograph Martin had given her and set it on the mantel, then walked over to Raby and put her arms around his neck, rubbing her smooth cheek against his rough one. He put down the bridle and slid his hands along her arms, then nodded at the photograph. “I remember her,” he said.