This One and Magic Life (7 page)

DOLLY, SECOND CUP OF COFFEE IN HER HAND, SITS AT THE TOP
of the steps and watches the cleanup crews on the beach with their rakes and shovels. How strange and exciting jubilees are, she thinks. All you have to do is stand there and hold out your bucket and the fish jump in. “Manna from the sea,” the Chamber of Commerce brochures describe the phenomenon. Well, even manna has to be cleaned up.

Light reflecting on the water is not good for her headache. She puts her head on her knees and watches a line of ants trying to move a dead June bug. What am I going to do? she thinks. What am I going to do?

Mrs. Randolph sticks her head out the door and asks Dolly if she wants a blueberry muffin, still hot.

Dolly shakes her head no. “I think I'm going to walk up to my grandmother's. But thank you.”

“Well, wait a minute and you can take her some.” Mrs. Randolph returns in a few minutes holding out a warm aluminum foil package. “Here. Mrs. Cates loves blueberry muffins. I'll take that cup if you're through
with your coffee. You feeling okay? You look a little peaked.”

“Got a headache this morning. Maybe I can run it off. Thanks for the muffins.” Dolly gets up, swaps the empty cup for the aluminum foil package, and goes around to the front of the house to the road. She remembers when this road wasn't paved, when it was a shell road; the shells are still there, their shapes discernible through black asphalt.

She has jogged about ten minutes when a car slows down beside her. “Hey. How's it going?” Kelly Stuart asks.

“I'm okay.” Dolly jogs in place. “Need to work off a headache. I didn't get much sleep last night.”

“Well, don't go too far in this heat. I'll talk to you later.”

After Kelly drives off, Dolly realizes she should have hitched a ride home or have Kelly take her to Nomie's. She feels dizzy and sick; she needs to rest a while in some shade.

Just ahead of her is the path that leads to the Confederate cemetery. Most people don't know it's back there in the woods, but the Daughters of the Confederacy keep the grass cut between the many small obelisks. It's cool and shady in there, and Dolly walks up the path and under the wrought iron archway that proclaims
OUR GLORIOUS CONFEDERATE DEAD
.

There is a concrete bench which seems to be a favorite roosting place of seagulls, with proof of their visits. Nothing recent, Dolly ascertains, stretching out on the bench, feeling the world reel around her.

The concrete is cool, and the Spanish moss on the gnarled live oaks moves gently in the breeze from the bay. Dolly turns on her side, her folded hands under her face, and thinks how peaceful this place is. And
how simple. These glorious Confederates went to war, got shot or bayoneted, died, and were buried in the ground. Not a single one of them asked to be cremated.

Dolly closes her eyes. She wishes she had a drink of water. And then she sleeps.

“Lord, child,” she hears her Nomie's voice saying. “Here you are on this bird-pooped concrete bench sound asleep. Are you all right?” Dolly feels Nomie's cool hand against her forehead, feels her bangs brushed back.

“I called down at Artie's and Mrs. Randolph said you were on the way to my house, but she didn't think you felt very good. So when you didn't show up, I came looking.”

Dolly sits up and feels dizzy. She grabs the bench with both hands to steady herself.

“Here,” Naomi says, taking her by the shoulders. “Lie back down and put your head in my lap.”

Dolly does what her grandmother says. As long as she holds her head perfectly still and her eyes closed, the world quits tilting. “Hey, Nomie,” she says.

“Hey, sweetheart. You think it's the heat getting to you?”

“Maybe. I haven't had much sleep in the last couple of nights.”

“It's no wonder.” Naomi rubs Dolly's head. “Think you could handle a drink of water?”

“Lord, yes!”

“Then raise your head just a little. I've got this fancy foam thermos your mama ordered for me from some catalog. Hooks on my belt in case of old age instant dehydration, I guess. But damned if it hasn't come in handy. Doesn't weigh an ounce.”

The water tastes wonderful to Dolly.

“Not too much,” Naomi cautions. “Our glorious Confederate dead just hate to be puked on.”

Dolly smiles and puts her head back on Naomi's lap. Naomi pours a little of the water onto her fingers and rubs them across Dolly's forehead and wrists.

“Your mama was out to the house earlier,” she says. “All worried about Artie's funeral. Or lack of one.”

“She called me and said she was going to have one.” Dolly is beginning to feel almost comfortable.

“Won't hurt a thing. Long as she can work it out. Donnie's still taking Artie to Birmingham, though, so I guess they'll be burying an empty casket.” Naomi resumed stroking Dolly's hair. “Did you know Artie wanted to be cremated?”

“No. And I don't know why Mama's so upset about it. Like it's something to be ashamed of.”

“Well, your mama's always been the only one of my children who thought everything should be done the same way all the time, that things should stay constant. And that's a burden. You know it, Dolly? Stockings are plain gonna get runs in them on your way to church.”

Dolly smiles. “Mama always carries an extra pair in her purse.”

“Hush. You know what I mean.”

They are quiet for a few minutes. Dolly is about to doze off again when Naomi says, “You reckon any of these boys thought they'd end up in a cemetery in Harlow, Alabama?”

The word “boys” startles Dolly. For the first time, she realizes that was what most of them were—boys, some of them probably no older than fifteen. And there was nothing glorious about their deaths.

“Some of them are Yankees, you know,” Naomi
continues. “The Grand Hotel was a hospital and they brought them here when they died.”

“It's peaceful here.”

“Yes, it is.”

“Nomie, can I have another drink of water?” Dolly sits up slowly. The world is not reeling as it had been. When she reaches for the thermos, she notices Naomi's tee shirt. “Hail Maui full of grass?”

“A present from your cousin Teddy.”

“It's a good one.” Dolly drinks slowly.

“Lie back down a few more minutes. You may have some fever.” Naomi is thinking, as she frequently does, how glad she is that Dolly has Thomas Sullivan's mouth and the cleft in his chin. She wishes she could tell this granddaughter they share how when Thomas Sullivan would walk into church, it was all the blessing she needed.

Instead she says, “The first time I kissed was in this cemetery.”

“Really, Nomie? Was it Grandpa Will?”

“Nope. A boy named Harvey Musgrove. I knew good and well what he was fixing to do, saying let's come in here, and I cooperated fully. I think I nearly scared him to death.”

“How old were you?”

“Fifteen, I guess. I married Will when I was eighteen.”

Dolly lies back down and puts her head on her grandmother's lap again.

“Nomie, Bobby and I aren't together anymore. We haven't been for months.” Dolly can't bring herself to say the word “divorced” to her grandmother.

“I know, honey. Your mama told me.”

“Did she tell you why?”

“She told me. You think you'll be able to work things out?”

“I don't think so.” Dolly closes her eyes. “And it's not that I don't love him, Nomie.” Tears roll down her cheeks.

“Lots of fish in the sea besides Bobby Hamrick, sugar.” Naomi says this quietly. She knows Dolly won't believe it.

“That's what Artie said. But you know, Nomie, things just aren't as complicated here in Harlow. You meet someone and you fall in love and marry and you make a life together.”

Dear God, Thomas, Naomi thinks. Our granddaughter hasn't got a lick of sense.

IT'S A LITTLE AFTER NOON, AND DONNIE IS GETTING READY TO
leave as Mariel walks in from the funeral parlor.

“It's all done,” she announces.

“You got everything settled?”

“I think so. I just explained it all to Mr. Griffin and he said he'd see to everything. They're taking Artie to the airport now.”

“Did he charge a bundle?”

“Hektor gave him some money. I don't know how much.” Mariel sits on the bed and watches Donnie tie his tie. He has on his new gray suit. “Are you angry?”

“Of course not. I told you it was fine.” Donnie reaches for his keys, his change.

“Your voice sounds angry.”

“Well, I'm not.”

“Have you had anything to eat?”

“I had some toast and coffee.”

“You want me to fix you something?”

“No, thanks.” He leans toward the mirror and straightens his tie. Mariel looks in the mirror. She
thinks if she looks hard enough she will see the twenty-eight-year-old Donnie that she married. She knows he is encapsulated inside her husband. Sometimes she catches a glimpse of him and catches her breath.

“Hektor liked the idea of a funeral.”

“Good.”

“Don't we need to talk about this, Donnie?”

“Nothing to say.” Donnie leans over and kisses her cheek. “I'll see you tonight.”

Mariel watches him leave the room. She goes to the window and watches his car drive away, even waves, but he doesn't see her. She remembers a dream she had last night that woke her up. She and Donnie and Artie were in a small boat and a huge wave came and hovered over them. Looking up, she could see shadows coursing through the water. Screaming, she threw herself toward Donnie, but he and Artie were laughing and pointing at the wave. Mariel woke up drenched with sweat and wrote the dream down immediately for her analyst. After all these years, she knows how her analyst will interpret it, but Mariel still likes to recount her dreams. She likes the way her analyst makes sense of them. The shadows in the water looked like porpoises, but of course they had more meaning. Mariel is a good dreamer. Her analyst is always pleased with what she brings her.

Now she thinks she'd better get her clothes together for the rosary and head back to Harlow. How simple Artie could have made things. But she never did.

 

Donnie sees Mariel in the window but doesn't wave back. He knows he should have, but somehow he feels too distant, too uninvolved. He drives carefully down the familiar tree-lined streets and thinks if it doesn't rain today he'll have to turn the sprinklers on in his
yard tonight. He thinks if he went all over the world that he would instantly know Mobile. The air is a blanket that smells like the bay, and the treefrogs sing even at the airport. He could hear them when he was getting off a plane and would know he was in Mobile because of that buzzing, moaning sound.

“Listen to those tree frogs,” his mother would say. “Y'all go touch the trees and make them hush.” And he and Artie and Hektor would run around the yard touching the pines and live oaks, and the noise would stop instantly. But in a few minutes, the tree frogs would begin again. First one place, then another, until a circle of humming rose and fell like waves. It said summer and home.

Now he enters the interstate politely and stays in the right lane. Sunlight glints on the bay and on a long barge heading toward the river. A few sailboats glide across the water. Once again, Donnie is glad this is home. His father was fond of saying, “Everything is here.” Now everything is not here, and Donnie feels stiff with grief, wounded.

He turns on his right turn signal and exits to the airport. The Sullivan-Threadaway jet is in the area where large companies keep their planes. Donnie circles behind the hangars and finds a parking place. Heat shimmers in waves about the black asphalt and hits him as he opens the door.

“Uncle Donnie!” May waves to him from the door of the small waiting room for private plane owners. “We're in here.”

Donnie had half-expected Hektor to show up. But to bring May! He can't believe Hektor would subject her to this.

“He's talking to the pilot,” May says. Donnie brushes by her. He sees Hektor behind the counter
with a tall man, a man so bald his head looks shaved. The two are bent over a map spread out on a table; the man is marking something on it with a pen.

“Hektor,” Donnie says, “I told you I wanted to do this by myself. I don't want you to go, and I certainly don't think May should go.”

Hektor looks up in surprise. He hadn't heard Donnie come in. The man with the pen turns away, not wanting to get involved.

“We're not going with you, Donnie,” Hektor says. “We're going to Mississippi. I just came by to see that everything's okay.”

Donnie's anger rushes away and for a moment nothing takes its place. He stands there silently, waiting for an emotion which eventually turns out to be emptiness.

“Wait, Jimmy,” Hektor says to the bald man who is leaving. “This is Jimmy Tucker, your pilot, Donnie.”

Jimmy turns and the two men shake hands. “Donnie and I've met before, Hektor,” Jimmy reminds him. “I flew him and your sister to Rochester last year.” He turns back to Donnie. “I was so sorry to hear she had passed away.”

Donnie remembers a pilot with hair, not someone with light glinting from his head. “Thank you,” he says.

“I'll just go and check everything out. You come on whenever you're ready.”

“Thanks, Jimmy,” Hektor says. The tall man nods, picks up the map they had been studying, and leaves. Hektor takes Donnie's arm and leads him to a row of connected orange fiberglass chairs. “Sit down a minute and I'll tell you what May and I are going to do. Let me go check on her, though.”

“She's okay. She's right outside,” Donnie says. The
two large men fold their bodies into the uncomfortable chairs.

Hektor clears his throat. “Well, what I said about May and me going to Mississippi. We're going for a priest.”

“For what? I thought you and Mariel had it all arranged. Did Father Carroll find out the casket's empty?” Donnie doesn't know where the sarcasm came from. God, he's tired.

Hektor ignores the sarcasm. “We need a priest for Artie, even if she is cremated. I've been thinking about it. You know as well as I do that she has to have a funeral mass, just like you and I'll have to have one.”

“Look, Hektor. If you think you can find a priest to say a mass over Artie's ashes after another priest thinks he's buried her body, forget it. It doesn't matter anyway.”

“It matters to me, Donnie.”

Donnie suddenly sees a fourteen-year-old altar boy holding the chalice for the priest's blessing. He remembers the expression on Hektor's face, rapt, nourished by the mysteries, believing in redemption.

“Why Mississippi?” he asks.

“There's a group of people who live up the bayou not far from Pascagoula. One of them's a priest.”

Donnie knows what's coming. “And this group of people. Do they speak English?”

“Not much.”

There is so much Donnie wants to say. What he says is, “Don't get yourself in a passel of trouble with the feds, little brother.

Hektor grins. “You sound like Mama,” he says. “ ‘You boys are going to get in a passel of trouble.' ”

“We did, too.”

“All of us.” The brothers sit quietly for a moment.

“But we had a hell of a lot of fun part of the time.”

“That's for sure.” Hektor looks at his watch. “How did we get on this, anyway? Listen, the plane's ready. Artie's already on it. And Patty James will be helping Jimmy out. I asked for her especially. Married and three kids, but just looking at her gets the old juices going. You can do a little daydreaming. Anyway,” Hektor stands, “we both need to get going if we're going to get back tonight. You're sure you're okay?”

Donnie gets up slowly. “I'm fine.” They come together in an embrace so hard it hurts their ribs and startles them both.

“God, Donnie!” Hektor says and rushes out the door calling for May. By the time Donnie gets outside, Hektor and May are almost to the pickup. May turns, sees him, and waves.

Jimmy Tucker sticks his head in the door. “We're ready, Mr. Sullivan, when you are.” Donnie follows him to the plane. He has been wondering where they would put the casket. Now he sees it's in the aisle in what Artie called the living room when they had gone to Mayo last year on this same plane. Donnie eases by it and sits in a blue leather chair. It's hard for him to realize that such luxury as this plane belongs to Hektor who drives pickups that junkyards would refuse.

“Buckle up, Mr. Sullivan,” says a female voice. Donnie snaps his seat belt and places his hands on Artie's casket. The engines whine and the plane vibrates. “Here we go, Mr. Sullivan,” says the voice. Donnie leans back and waits for the thrust of the jets.

Five minutes later, they are over the bay and he can see Harlow. He should have called Dolly this morning. He wonders what she will do about the house and everything else. At twenty-seven, she's not going to make it as a dancer. Not much of a future choreograph
ing for kids. Artie had lucked into a good deal with her painting. She could work when she wanted to.

He smiles a little. He had made the mistake once of telling Artie he thought she was lucky; it made her furious.

“Screw you, Donnie Sullivan,” she said. “I work like hell and I'm a goddamned good artist.”

Patty James comes in from the cockpit. Instead of the uniform Donnie had expected, she's wearing jeans and a beige silk shirt. In her thirties and redheaded, she is, as Hektor had said, decidedly attractive.

“Let me make you a drink, Mr. Sullivan,” she says. “Almost anything you want. And we have some sandwich fixings. I'm going to make Jimmy and me one. Have you had any lunch?”

Donnie shakes his head. “Nothing to eat, thanks. I'd like a vodka tonic, though.”

“Sure.” Patty eases around the casket and goes to what Donnie knows is a complete kitchen and bar. He hears bottles opening and ice rattling. In a moment she's back with his drink. “Here you go.” The drink comes in a glass with the Sullivan-Threadaway Imports logo on it. The napkin has the same logo, a tree that appears to be an apple tree with a bunch of bananas hanging from it. Artie had declared it a wonderful logo the first time she saw it, the ultimate of artistic license.

“You're sure you don't want anything to eat?” Patty James asks. “Some snacks?”

“I'm positive.”

Patty sits on the arm of the chair across from Donnie. The fabric of her jeans presses against her thigh and makes a wonderfully curved line. Donnie admires this as he would any finely crafted work of art. No juices. God, he is tired. He takes a large swallow of his drink.

“Mr. Sullivan, I just want you to know how sorry I am about your sister. I've admired her work for a long time, and I was on several flights with her. She was a wonderful lady.”

“Thank you.”

“I kept that article that was in
Time
a couple of years ago that had all the pictures of her paintings, and she signed it for me and did a little pencil sketch around the edges. I have it framed in my bedroom.” Patty stands up and pats the casket self-consciously. “Anyway, I just wanted you to know. She touched a lot of lives.”

“Yes, she did. Thank you.”

Patty nods and goes back to the kitchen again. In a few minutes she comes by with some sandwiches and disappears into the cockpit. Donnie nurses his drink and looks out at the green that is South Alabama. Farm ponds reflect the sun; a school bus sits motionless on the interstate.

Donnie wants to open the casket and talk to Artie, hold her hand. He needs to tell her that he, Donnie, is not sophisticated enough for cremation. He needs to ask her why she wanted this when all he wants is to put her in her yellow dress by Mama and Papa or by Carl's marker and take her flowers on their birthday and be buried beside her someday. He places two fingers against the cold gray metal. That wouldn't be bad, up there in Myrtlewood, Artie. Maybe Hektor would come, too, and Mariel, of course, and eventually Dolly and her children. Surely she'll have some kids. Maybe May and her family, too.

He leans over close to the casket. “Artie,” he whispers, “why in hell are you making me do this? Is there something here I'm supposed to understand that I'm missing? Is it Mama? Zeke Pardue?”

The air conditioner is too low; Donnie is freezing. He gets up and goes to fix another vodka tonic. On the counter in the little galley is a jar of beer nuts. He takes a handful with his drink and goes back to his seat. He is shaking so hard the ice cubes in his drink rattle against the banana tree on the glass.

 

On
One Life to Live
, Vicky Buchanan is having brain surgery to rid her of the evil Nicky Smith who is her alter ego and who pops out at crucial times in Vicky's life to go to bars and pick up men and generally cavort in a manner unseemly for the ladylike Victoria.

“Goodbye, Vicky. You'll miss me,” says Nicky, rising from the body on the operating table and wafting across the room. A last toss of her rakish red wig and she is out the door.

“I'm gonna miss her,” says Reese. “She got Vicky in a lot of trouble.” He, Dolly, and Mrs. Randolph are sitting at the kitchen table eating lunch and watching TV. Reese and Mrs. Randolph are glad to have Dolly in the chair that has been empty for weeks. They were just sitting down as Dolly came in, and they insisted that she join them. “Just drink some iced tea, anyway,” Mrs. Randolph said when Dolly hesitated. “Make you feel better,” Reese added, pushing the chair out.

“That Nicky was no good.” Mrs. Randolph points a fork toward the TV. “You watch this?” she asks Dolly.

Dolly shakes her head no. “Well, when I was down here, I'd watch it sometimes with Artie.”