Part 25 (1/2)
Her mother had died on October 26, 1931. As she sat with Dainty on the bench outside the notary's office, a feeling came over her. She had finished something important, and something else had begun. Finally, she could hold on to autumn no matter what the season was, and have the perfect memorial to Carrie. She could have the perfect way to separate herself from her namesake forever-the perfectly unique name for a girl with a dramatic blight on the brown of her cheek, October.
On the fifth day after Aunt Frances had suffered the stroke, Gene brought Vergie to relieve October at the hospital. Reverend Carter had prayed his ardent prayer, and as they all stood around the bed, a nurse came in with a needle and syringe.
”We need to check her catheter,” the nurse said. ”You-all won't mind stepping out into the hall for a minute, would you?”
Out in the hall, October tried to sound like she knew what she was talking about and at the same time not scare Vergie.
”Vergie, I know that miracles can happen,” she told her, ”but remember, we have to be realistic, too.”
It seemed to October that until she had entered Aunt Frances's hospital room that day, her own life had not been pinned down. As if at any moment she might be able to put her life in reverse and move into the life she wanted. Redeemable, she thought. But now she was beginning to see that Aunt Frances's death would nail things down. Up until then she had seemed to have a ”real life” waiting somewhere, and one day she would wake up and be in her real life. One where Franklin Brown had not killed Carrie. Carrie was not in the cold ground. Franklin had not died in jail. She and Vergie had not been orphans. In a sense, up until then, Aunt Frances and Aunt Maude had been aunts, not parents. And in some part of her, October had always held out for the possibility of ”real” parents. All of it, even the David chapter, could have been a dream, and there was time for it all to be corrected.
But now Aunt Frances would be the real mother who would be dead and buried, gone forever. Nothing could be changed. October's messed-up life would be the only one she would ever have.
Vergie said, ”The doctor said that it may take a long time for her to pull through.” October knew Vergie dared not think she might die.
October thought she ought to make it clear to Vergie. ”And, Vergie,” she told her, ”it's possible that she might not be able to pull through-I mean, she might not make it. We don't know.”
Fear blazed in Vergie's eyes. ”How can you say that?” She stepped closer to Gene and grabbed his hand.
”I'm just saying might, Vergie. We have to be prepared for the worst. If there's anything you want to say to her, you shouldn't wait. That's all I'm saying.”
”Darn it, October, you never look on the bright side. The doctor never said that, and he ought to know.” She wiped a tear with her thumb. Gene put his arm around her, and they went back inside the room.
On October's watch the next morning, she had the sense to take her own advice. Say what needs to be said.
Auntie's eyes were closed, and October took her time forming the right words. Auntie's eyes opened and October gave her a chip of ice from a spoon. Auntie stared, and after a few minutes, October could see recognition in her eyes.
October went into how well she remembered the years, the sacrifices, the fevers soothed, the battles Auntie had mounted against the world for her and Vergie, whether they were wrong or right. As well as she could, she said how bad she felt about bringing a child into the world without a father, and giving him away, and fighting with Vergie. And still she couldn't find the words to say what needed to be said.
Auntie never relaxed her gaze.
October tried again. ”There is one thing I want to tell you . . .”
Auntie's eyes burned.
”. . . something I said to you once, a long time ago. And I never apologized, I never took it back. I know you know I didn't mean it, but I want to take it back now, anyway.”
Auntie pressed her fingers lightly into October's palm. She could hear.
Looking into her mute face, October said, ”I just want to thank you.”
Auntie then made her little humming sound, but kept her eyes fixed on October's face.
”Thank you for being my mother.” The tears came then, but October refused to lose the one chance to have it said. ”You were a better mother than I ever gave you credit for-better than you ever knew,” she said.
Auntie pressed her palm, and October knew a smile was in there.
October wasn't at the hospital that evening to see Vergie reading the Bible to Auntie, or to see the pain in her sister's eyes when Auntie had another stroke. She stood next to Vergie, though, all through the next day, as Auntie's heart marched weakly on.
It was then that I stood by and held for Frances, my sister. She never opened her eyes or pressed their palms again.
Like Trees, Walking.
BY RAVI HOWARD.
Those of us already gathered along the beach check the wind. With matches cupped in our hands, we watch the smoke rise into the breeze that comes off the water. The conditions have to be right. The wind has to be blowing east. Rising tide and an overcast sky. Nights like this, when conditions are right along the eastern sh.o.r.e of Mobile Bay, the salt water from the Gulf mixes with the fresh water from the rivers. The fish and blue crabs stop swimming then. Why it happens, I'm not exactly certain-something about the oxygen and the water temperature and the currents no longer running true-but the fish and blue crabs are stunned, traumatized. At the place where the waters meet, they just float on the surface as if they're dead.
When the tide rises in the early morning hours, the silver sides of the flounder s.h.i.+ne as they wash up on the sh.o.r.e. The crabs collect in the soft sand just below the surface of the water. We wait for them here. Some gather them with scoop nets and stakes. Others just pick them up in their bare hands and carry them home in washtubs and baskets. Nights like these are called ”Jubilee.”
I unfold our blankets at the place we like to claim while my son wades ankle-deep in the surf. He s.h.i.+nes his flashlight on the wet sand, looking. But it's too early. We have time. My daughter holds my hand and taps my thigh with her plastic shovel.
”Daddy, may I go to the water with Reggie?”
”For a little while. Then I want you to come back so you can take a nap before the Jubilee.”
”First graders don't take naps.”
”You're not a first grader until September. You know what that means? You're still a Daddy grader. Daddy graders take naps so they're awake when the tide comes in. Is that a deal?”
”Deal,” she says, shaking off her flip-flops. She points to the glowing hands on her watch. ”When the big hand and the little hand are on the twelve, it's your birthday. I'm gonna sing 'Happy Birthday.' Happy Birthday to you-”
”Make sure you stay with your brother.”
”Okay. Happy birthday to you-” She beats time with the shovel against my leg before she runs down to the water to where her brother stands.
It's 11:45 P.M. In fifteen minutes I'll be forty. Forty is supposed to be a milestone, a ”big one” as they say. A party has been planned in my honor. My wife, my kids, and my parents have been up to something. They have that obvious silence about them of people trying too hard to keep a secret. So I'm sure they've gone to a lot of trouble to get everyone together. I'll act surprised.
I'll have a good time as I always do. July means family reunions, the Fourth, fireworks and picnics. July for me means celebrating one more year, and sharing some time with my brother, Paul. I don't see him like I used to.
He was born 362 days before me. We were, as my father would sometime call us, ”the d.a.m.n-near twins.” For three days every July, I catch up with him.
Jubilee nights only happen in the summer months, twice, maybe three times a season. Every few years one would fall somewhere between our birthdays and we would celebrate here. There was a Jubilee the night after I turned eighteen, in July 1981. Eighteen was a milestone for me, not so much because of the age, but because of all that happened. That spring I finished high school. That summer I started working full-time with my father at our funeral home before I started college that fall. That July was four months after my brother found Michael Donald's body hanging from a tree on Carlisle Street. Michael Donald was a friend of ours.
My mother saves the newspapers from our birthdays. Tomorrow's early edition will come off the press soon. In the morning she'll add it to the stacks of the Mobile Press Register, neatly arranged in blue wooden RC Cola crates that she keeps in the closet under the staircase, stored away from the sunlight. Next to the crates she has a small filing cabinet where she stores her important papers. There she kept the news clippings about Michael Donald, neatly trimmed and filed in order. On the manila folder, in her impeccable schoolteacher handwriting, a simple label: ”Michael.”
The first clip in the stack was from the evening edition of the March 8, 1981: Local man found slain on Carlisle
Police follow leads as investigation moves forward MOBILE-Michael Donald, 19, of Mobile was found dead shortly after 6:00 a.m. on the 1400 block of West Carlisle Street. The body of the deceased had been hanged from a tree. Police officials report that the victim had been severely beaten prior to the hanging.
Paul Deacon, 19, of Mobile, a pulp processor at International Paper, discovered the body and notified police.
The lights are on tonight at the paper mill. At the north end of the bay, the smoke stacks made their own white clouds. The mill operates three s.h.i.+fts a day, every day of the year, Christmas and Easter included.