This One and Magic Life Page 7

  “Her faithful retainer.”

  The man smiles and Reese narrows his eyes.

  “It’s just that I haven’t heard that expression in a long time.” The man reaches over and turns on the tape. “Is that what she called you?”

  “She called me Reese.”

  “And what did you call her?”

  “Artie. Her real name was Artemis but nobody called her that.” Reese leans forward on the Queen Anne chair and looks at the recorder. “Is that thing getting everything I say?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Well, she was a fine lady and a great painter and the world is a fairer place for her having been here.”

  “A fairer place?”

  “Yes.”

  The reporter clears his throat. “Mr. Whitley, are you sure there is no member of the family I can talk to?”

  “I’m sure. They too bereaved anyway. Would you like a Coca-Cola?”

  “No. Thank you.”

  “Well, I’m going to get me one. I don’t feel good this morning.” Reese groans as he gets out of the chair and goes toward the kitchen.

  The reporter looks around. What he had been hoping for was to talk to Hektor Sullivan. That would have been the story. One of the richest men in the world talking about his famous, beautiful sister.

  Reese comes back in, rubbing his knuckle against the coldness and wetness of a Coke bottle. “You sure you don’t want one?”

  “No, thank you.” The reporter reaches over and turns the tape on again. “Now, Mr. Whitley, about Mrs. Sullivan’s husband.”

  “He was Greek. Killed in Korea.”

  The reporter checks his notes. “Carl Jenkins was Greek?”

  Reese takes a long drink of Coke and hiccups. “Sure he was Greek. Dived for sponges in the bay.”

  “I didn’t know there were sponges in Mobile Bay,” says the reporter.

  “I didn’t either,” says Reese. Both men are silent for a moment. May walks by, looks in, and waves. “Hey, May,” Reese says. “That’s May,” he tells the reporter.

  “A niece?”

  “Probably.”

  The reporter turns off the recorder and stands up. “Thank you, Mr. Whitley, for your time.”

  “You welcome.” Reese walks to the door with the man and stands there smiling. “You write a good story now.”

  Hektor, on his way to Bay Chapel East, swerves to avoid an armadillo. He has already seen three squashed ones. Where had they all come from?

  He thinks he really should go to Birmingham with Donnie. They could talk on the plane. It would be good for both of them. There’s something he needs to do for Artie, though. Something important.

  As he turns into the Bay Chapel East driveway, he realizes he has forgotten the money Mariel requested. She is sitting on a concrete bench on a green canopied walk looking old, anxious. She gets up and comes across the parking lot.

  “What’s going on? Reckon they’ll take Visa?” he asks, getting out of the pickup stiffly. Every muscle in his body seems to have tightened up during the short drive.

  “We’re going to have the funeral.”

  “But Donnie is going to Birmingham.”

  “I know he is.” They reach the bench and sit down. “And tomorrow we’re going to have a closed casket funeral.”

  Hektor understands instantly. He sees ancient Father Carroll wafting incense over an empty casket. He hears Father Carroll’s shaky voice petitioning that Artie’s soul be allowed into heaven. Interesting. “Does Donnie know what you’re doing?” he asks.

  Mariel nods yes. She is not the frantic woman Hektor had expected from her earlier phone call. She seems quiet, thoughtful.

  “And the money?”

  “Another casket. Generous tips.”

  Hektor rubs his stiff neck and stretches. It is hot under the canopy. “I’ve got to go to the bank unless they’ll take Visa. I don’t even have a check with me.”

  “Okay. You want to see Artie first?”

  “Yes,” he lies.

  The funeral parlor doors are wooden, massive. Hektor opens them for Mariel and follows her into the darkness and coolness of the lobby; it’s like diving into the bay. Hektor feels he is swimming toward the man seated at the desk who rises, smiling.

  Mariel introduces them. “Mr. Griffin, my brother-in-law, Hektor Sullivan.”

  The undertaker has an unexpectedly warm smile and hearty handshake. “Mr. Sullivan. My father buried your parents.”

  “Oh?” Hektor remembers little of his parents’ funeral. And right now he is having to remember to breathe.

  “Yes. I remember it because it happened the very first week I worked here and, of course, it was unusual, too. I looked it up so we could have comparable arrangements for your sister. For instance, they were buried in our number two hundred metal caskets, gray, both of them. They still make that same casket so that’s the one Mrs. Sullivan selected. I think you’ll be pleased.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Now, if you’ll come this way.”

  Hektor and Mariel follow Mr. Griffin down the hall.

  “In here. I’ll leave you two alone. My sympathies, Mr. Sullivan.”

  Hektor nods. He steps into a small sitting room decorated in blues and mauves. To his left is an alcove and a casket almost hidden by flowers.

  “We asked for no flowers, but people are sending them anyway.” Mariel puts her purse in a chair and walks around looking at the cards on the floral arrangements. Hektor sits in the chair nearest the door.

  “Here’s one from Carl’s sister. I forgot to call her, too. I need to do that.”

  “Mariel,” Hektor asks, “why are we doing this?”

  “Hektor, the least we can do is bury the dead decently. And I’ll tell you this, it’s what your mother would have wanted.”

  His mother would have wanted them to bury an empty casket? It occurs to Hektor that Mariel may be as unhinged as his mother had been. It occurs to Hektor that all of them are.

  “I’m going to see if Mr. Griffin has finished all the arrangements.” Mariel picks up her purse and searches through the compartments. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  “Ask him about the credit card.”

  Hektor sits in the chair. He smells carnations and lilies and formaldehyde. He does not get up and go into the alcove where Artie is lying in her yellow linen dress, a smile on her face. Hektor has seen death in the jungles of Central America, on the streets of New Orleans, and on Mobile Bay. And now he has a small epiphany.

  “Artie, we’re all armadillos,” he whispers toward the alcove.

  FIFTEEN

  Our Glorious Dead

  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 dis
cernible 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.

  SIXTEEN

  A Circle Humming

  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.