This One and Magic Life Read online

  “Won’t do any good. But I sure would like to call my wife and tell her why I’m late.”

  “Sure. It’s that blue pickup.”

  “How does it work?”

  “I’ll come get it for you.” Hektor turns to May. “Move an inch and I’ll send what’s left of you to the reform school.”

  “What’s the reform school?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  “You’re not going to send me to the zoo to shovel elephant doo?”

  “Same thing.” Hektor leaves a grinning May and accompanies the man to the pickup. While the phone is doing its roaming bit, he thinks this is a perfect example of irony, space age technology to inform someone an alligator has the road blocked.

  “Honey?” the man says when the satellite cooperates. “I’m down by Big Swamp. Ben’s got the road blocked again.” He listens a moment and hangs up.

  “She says I’m lying.” He looks sadly at the phone in his hand. “Can I call somebody else?”

  “Sure.” Hektor shows the man how and goes back to join the crowd gathered around Big Ben. The crocheting woman is sitting in a frayed aluminum chair in a patch of shade.

  “Hot,” she says, but to Hektor she looks cool and peaceful, her fingers moving like little flashes of light. He thinks of his mother and Artie and Dolly, none of whom he has ever seen crochet.

  “Could you show my daughter how to do that?” he asks.

  “She can come watch me if she wants.”

  “Why?” May asks when Hektor tells her the lady is going to teach her to crochet.

  “Because it’s a good thing to know how to do if you get stopped on the road by an alligator.”

  May shakes her head no.

  “Or waiting at an airport, or watching TV. It’s something every lady should know how to do. You could make us a tablecloth.”

  “Why?”

  “Because they’re pretty. And idle hands are the devil’s workshop. Take my word for it.” He turns her around. “Now get over there.”

  May looks at Big Ben who has not moved an inch and decides to go see what the lady is doing.

  An hour later, when the sheriff arrives, she is asleep, her head against the woman’s thigh. The man in Hektor’s pickup, still using the phone, spots the flashing lights first. “Here they come,” he calls.

  The group, which has grown much larger, parts for two uniformed men, one of whom carries an electric cattle prod.

  “Y’all move way back,” he says. The crowd obeys. “Sorry, Ben,” he says, “but you gotta nap somewhere else.” He lightly touches the alligator’s tail with the prod and Ben comes to life, swishing his tail toward the running sheriff and then waddling slowly to the side of the road, down the bank, and into the swamp.

  Everyone claps and laughs. The sheriff grins and holds up the prod. “These things are illegal, you know. Just for emergencies. I’d say that’s what we had here.”

  Hektor wonders if it would take them over an hour to answer a real emergency but he thinks he already knows. He goes over to the sheriff, however, and thanks him and introduces himself. “I’m looking for Father Audubon,” he says. “Do you know where I can find him?”

  “Probably fishing. You know where Hurricane Lake is?”

  “No.”

  “Well, it’s a right big lake. You won’t have any trouble finding it. Turn left up the road at Bouchet’s store. When you get there somebody will know where he is.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Sure.” The sheriff points the cattle prod at a small boy who screeches delightedly and runs.

  May, groggy with sleep, is waiting in the truck. “He didn’t hurt Ben, did he, Papa?”

  “No, honey. Just startled him and woke him up. It got him out of the road, didn’t it?”

  May yawns. “He was so big.”

  Hektor yawns, too. “Did you learn how to crochet?”

  “No, but the lady was real nice. Her name is Annie Dolores. Isn’t that a pretty name? Mrs. Dolores. She’s sixty-six and her daughter who’s getting married’s name is Delnora. She was a change-of-life baby. Do you like that name, Papa? Delnora Dolores? She works for Gulf Power and she’s gonna have six bridesmaids. They’re gonna wear blue dotted swiss. Mrs. Dolores says she’s so glad dotted swiss has come back. Delnora’s dress is peau de soie, though. Do you know what that is, Papa? And her veil is the same one Mrs. Dolores and her other two daughters wore. She’s been married forty-eight years and says that’s why she has high blood pressure. She has to take eight pills a day. That’s a lot, isn’t it, Papa?”

  Hektor marvels at his girl child. He feels her words flowing over him like warm rain. Women, he thinks, picking up her small hand and kissing it. Bless their hearts.

  The road to Hurricane Lake is not paved. There are deep mud holes that people have gone around so much they have worn down a new roadbed. Spanish moss brushes the windshield.

  “I think Spanish moss is pretty,” May says.

  “One time Artie and Donnie and I decided we would pick it and sell it to florists to put in hanging baskets.”

  “Did you make any money?”

  “We got red bugs. That stuff is covered in them. I had them the worst because they made me go up the trees. Mama soaked all of us in salty water. Didn’t do a bit of good. They were all up under my arms. My legs.”

  “But did you make any money?”

  “We wouldn’t go near the stuff. We left it out in the backyard. I think maybe mama used some of it after it dried.”

  “I would have used a rake and not climbed up the tree,” May says.

  “Good thinking.” They come around a curve and see the lake before them. The road ends at a boat dock; the water is unusually blue.

  “Hey, neat.” May jumps out as soon as the truck stops and runs out onto a small pier.

  “Wait, May!” Hektor scrambles from the pickup and hurries after her. If she fell in, he would panic; they would both drown while he was trying to get her out. Things happen. He knows.

  “You wouldn’t panic, Hektor.” It’s Artie’s voice, clear as if she were walking beside him.

  “Yes, I would. I know what drowned people look like.”

  “What, Papa?” May is smiling at him.

  “I said you could drown in this lake. It looks deep.”

  May looks back at the water. “There’s lots of boats. Reckon which one is Father Audubon’s?”

  “I have no idea. I guess we’ll just have to wait for him to come in.”

  “But that could take all day and I’m starving.”

  “There are some boiled peanuts in the truck.”

  “They make me thirsty.”

  “There’s some water in the thermos.”

  But May shrugs and sits down on the pier. A tiny lizard darts across the piling in front of her. The sky is bright blue, not hazy like it will be later in the fall, and the dark green of the pines is punctuated with the lighter green of willows. For the first time, Hektor wishes he could paint what he sees, the child, the lake, the day. He wants Artie to see this and put it on canvas so he can keep it. But he wants even the light breeze that stirs the water, and the earthy, fishy smell that rises from the bank. Not even Artie could do that. He sighs and sits down beside May.

  “Aunt Artie would like it here,” she says.

  “That’s just what I was thinking.”

  “I guess she’s in heaven.”

  “I guess so.”

  “Reckon what it’s like?”

  “Nice. Peaceful.”

  May nods. “That’s what they say.”

  Hektor thinks of all the things he was taught in Sunday school about heaven. Artie and Donnie had said it sounded boring. Well, maybe she could get something going. Or come back as somebody terrific if that’s an alternative. Who knows? Hektor isn’t sure what he believes about the afterlife except you shouldn’t take chances.

  A small boat is coming toward the pier. A man waves at them.

  “Are you Father Audubon
?” Hektor calls.

  “He’s over there.” The man points in a general direction toward several boats. “You want me to get him for you?”

  “I’d appreciate it.”

  “They’re not biting anyway.” He turns the boat around and chugs toward the other fisherman. Tiny waves slap against the pilings of the pier. Hektor and May hear him shout, “Hey, Audubon!” They hear an answering “What?” and in a few minutes the man Hektor assumes is the priest is pulling his boat up beside the pier.

  “You want me?” he asks, throwing the rope to Hektor and cutting his motor.

  “Hektor Sullivan, and this is my daughter May.”

  “May,” the man says, shaking hands with her, too. “Yep, I’m Father Audubon. Beats hell out of Delmore Ricketts, doesn’t it?” He pulls off his straw fishing hat and runs his fingers through thinning red hair. In his late forties he is a small man with the freckles that go with his hair. He has on a stained blue many-pocketed mechanic’s outfit that seems to be two sizes too large with the cuffs turned up several times. “Bye, Bud. Thanks,” he calls to the man who had gone to get him and who is pulling out of the parking area, boat attached to an old Buick.

  “Y’all wanted me?”

  “We need a priest,” Hektor says. “I heard about you.”

  “Where abouts?”

  “Mobile.”

  “Lots of priests in Mobile.”

  “My sister died, Father.” Hektor isn’t sure that’s the proper way to address him, but he decides it won’t hurt. “We need someone to say mass for us.”

  “Like I said, there’s lots of priests in Mobile.”

  “She’s cremated, Father.”

  “Oh.” Delmore Ricketts concentrates on sticking the toe of his shoes between two boards on the pier.

  “She wants her ashes scattered on the bay.”

  “Is that legal?”

  Hektor is losing his patience. “I don’t know whether it is or not. All we want you to do is whatever you do when you put people in the ground. Can you do that? There’s money in it for you.”

  “I figured there was. You know I’m out of favor with the Church, though, don’t you, Mr. Sullivan?”

  “Yes.”

  “You want to know why?”

  “No.”

  “Good.” Delmore Ricketts looks out over the lake. “There’s not a damn thing biting today.”

  “Well, will you do it?”

  “Sure. I was just wondering why you wanted me to.”

  “I don’t know.” It was the truth. Why did he need this man to say some words and waft incense around over Artie’s ashes? And yet he did. Artie did.

  “Okay. When do you want me?”

  “I’m not sure. My brother’s in Birmingham now at the crematorium. Probably in the morning. You could go back with us now if you’d like. I can bring you back or you can follow us.”

  “I’ll follow you. Tell you what. I need to go by the house and get cleaned up and get my priest stuff.”

  “Priest stuff?”

  “Priest stuff.” Delmore Ricketts looks at Hektor with narrowed eyes. “You sure you want me to do this? You know you could easily find a priest to hold a special service.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Then wait for me at Bouchet’s. I’ll be there in a little while. Help me get this boat out, too.”

  An hour later they leave Bouchet’s, the back of the truck loaded with daylilies they have bought from Mrs. Bouchet while they were waiting, three dollars a shovelful. They are followed by Father Audubon Ricketts in a 1957 Chevrolet, red fins flaring defiantly.

  “He doesn’t act a bit like a priest,” May says, looking back. “You reckon he really is?”

  Hektor sighs. “I don’t think it really matters, honey.”

  EIGHTEEN

  Northern Lights

  IN BIRMINGHAM, IN THE MEN’S ROOM OF THE MORTUARY, DONNIE runs hot water over his hands. He is still freezing. The skinny kid who met them at the airport with the hearse had the goddamn air conditioner as low as he could get it.

  “Stuck,” he said when Donnie complained. But Donnie knew he was lying, pissed because the casket wasn’t what he’d expected and he hadn’t brought the right kind of rig to get it off the plane.

  “Thought this was a cremation,” the kid had said, eyeing the gray metal that took up the center aisle of the plane. “This is a burial casket.”

  “What’s the difference?” Donnie never should have asked.

  “Cremation casket’s made out of wood usually and the bottom drops out.”

  “What?”

  Patty James stepped up and took Donnie’s arm. “Come on, Mr. Sullivan. Sit in the cockpit. Jimmy and I’ll take care of this.

  “Asshole,” she mouthed to the mortuary guy. He shrugged.

  Donnie hadn’t seen that, nor did he know how the casket was finally put into the hearse. He sat in the cockpit, studied the instrument panel, and tried not to think until Patty came, patted his shoulder, and told him everything was ready. Then there was the freezing ride across town.

  “Bear Bryant’s buried over there.” The kid pointed to a large cemetery across the street as they turned into the mortuary driveway and circled around the back. “You ought to go over and check it out. Just follow the red line. Something to do while you’re waiting.”

  “How long will I be waiting?”

  “Depends.”

  “Two, two and a half hours,” a middle-aged man in an office told Donnie. This man was dressed in a dark suit and was sitting behind an elegant desk on which were spread the papers Donnie had to sign. “I think you’ll find our waiting room very comfortable, Mr. Sullivan. And if there’s anything we can get for you or do for you…Or is there somewhere you’d like to go? We can call you a cab.”

  Donnie shook his head. “I guess I’ll stay here.”

  The man pushed a brochure across the desk. “You’ll want to look at this, Mr. Sullivan. We have most of these urns in stock, but we can order anything you select, of course. Takes just a few days. Free delivery, of course.”

  Donnie took the brochure simply because it was in the air between him and—he looked at the sign on the desk—Mr. Powell.

  “And of course,” Mr. Powell continued, “there’ll be some refund on the casket. But we’ll work that out with the gentleman at Bay Chapel. Okay?”

  “Where’s the men’s room?” Donnie asked.

  When he enters the waiting room, a young couple is sitting on a sofa holding hands. Donnie walks past them and outside where he sits on the steps in the sun. Across the busy street, the cemetery looks cool and peaceful with its large oaks and magnolias. No live oaks or Spanish moss like Myrtlewood. Was it his mother who had told him that Spanish moss didn’t grow north of Montgomery?

  The hearse comes from behind the building and enters the traffic. He knows where it’s going, and he begins to cry. Damn it, Artie. We could at least have talked about this. He reaches into his pocket for a tissue and pulls out a wet paper towel which is such a ludicrous thing to find in his pocket that he smiles.

  We should have talked more, Artie. Talked more about things that mattered. And things that happened. And Hektor, too, Artie. We all should have forgiven ourselves, forgiven each other.

  Donnie wipes his face with the paper towel which he then wads up along with the brochure advertising urns. He’s getting a cramp in his leg sitting on this short step. Hell. Mariel keeps telling him he ought to take calcium. “Just chew up a couple of Tums at bedtime, Donnie, or drink a glass of milk and you won’t wake up with those leg cramps.”

  He walks up and down the sidewalk and then remembers what the hearse driver had said about Bear Bryant. Follow the yellow brick road? He goes to the corner where there is a streetlight which provides a chance for him to survive crossing six lanes of heavy traffic, and darts across into the open cemetery gates and blessed coolness. At some point his chill has vanished; now he’s sweating.

  He sees instantly what the driver had b
een talking about. Yellow, red, and blue lines are painted on the roads that lead from the gate where an old black man holding a broom is sitting on the step of a round guardhouse.

  “Hey,” he says to Donnie. “You looking for the Bear?”

  Donnie nods yes.

  “Down the red line.”

  “Thanks.” Donnie turns left onto the road with the red stripe. In the distance, he sees cars and a group gathered for a funeral. Some of these mourners will stop by to give the Bear their regards on their way out of the cemetery, but right now, Donnie has the grave to himself. It was easy to find. At the end of the red line were two large arrows pointing to the grave. Plus, it was the only one with red and white shakers stuck in the ground and a football balloon anchored by a plush red elephant sitting above the marker. The marker itself said simply PAUL WILLIAM BRYANT, SR., SEPT. 11, 1913. JAN. 26, 1983.

  There should have been more. “Bear” should be on the marker and the number 323 for his football victories. Those sweet, sweet Saturday afternoons.

  Donnie picks up what he thinks is a piece of trash and sees that it’s a note that says “I love you, Bear.” When he bends to replace it, he realizes he is crying again. His tears fall on the thick green grass.

  An elderly couple coming down the red line see Donnie crying. They understand. The man tiptoes over and places a pack of Chesterfield Kings on the grave, and then they leave. Donnie wipes his eyes and follows them back down the red stripe.

  Too late, he realizes. Too late. There was so much he should have told Artie. He should have told her that when he studied Our Town at the university, he had decided that if he could be like Emily and come back, that he would choose the summer of 1943 when they were fourteen and Hektor was ten. Mama had spent the spring in a hospital in Georgia and was staying a few weeks with Grandmama in Montgomery. Because there were so few students at the college, Papa was off for the summer. He went to see Mama and then came back to work on his book, a textbook on Greek mythology he had been working on as long as Donnie could remember. Some of the neighbors got together and planted a big Victory garden. But mostly, they had hung around, the three children pretty much on their own.