Mt. Moriah's Wake

by Melissa Norton Carro

  Tidy rows of three foot square stones sat, some tilted at angles, wedged out of their upright position by time and weather. Looking closer, I saw on each stone a name and dates.

  This was a cemetery, not a garden!

  And then Doro’s voice broke the silence. “How simply breathtaking!”

  Before I could register my complaint that a cemetery was far from a garden, I followed Doro’s gaze. Tall, billowy plants encircled the tombstones. They looked like … yes, they looked much like ears.

  “You can see where they got their name, don’t ya, Jo?” Chuckling, Maddy patted one rather roughly, “These are my babies! Elephant ears they’re called.”

  I laughed out loud at the thought of those “ears” flapping in the breeze. Then I saw, below the large plants, an assortment of annuals displaying a circus of color: marigolds, petunias, impatiens, vincas. Looking around the circle of elephant ears, I counted thirty in all. And at each base was the same meticulous symmetry of design, the same juxtaposition of color.

  I was so intrigued that I stepped further in and walked up to the first row of stones. As Doro complimented Maddy on his gardening abilities, I shielded my eyes and leaned forward to read a stone. Donna. March 4, 1908 to January 12, 1919. Then another. Timothy. June 29, 1910 to January 23, 1919. And others: Marilyn. Joshua. Elizabeth.

  A cold chill ran down my spine. All were children. None had last names.

  Maddy and Doro were kneeling beside a row of impatiens, lost in horticulture.

  “Are you a gardener then, Mr., uh, Maddy?” asked Doro.

  He laughed. “Unpaid! Gardening is something I love—digging in the dirt. Just a pastime. I guess you could call me a Saturday gardener.”

  On the other hand, I was lost in the world of the dead. Weaving my way in and out of the stones, I read the inscriptions, names and dates screaming in my head. Dolores. Katherine. Buford. Fifteen stones in all. Ten children. Five adults. Two tombstones in the last row were the largest of all. Beloved father. John Buford Lindsay. July 15, 1868 to February 4, 1919. Devoted mother. Martha Dingham Lindsay. September 1, 1874 to March 5, 1919.

  Beloved father. Devoted mother.

  Maddy saw me reading the stones and stepped up beside me.

  “This was the Lindsays’ farm. They had ten children and, together with Martha’s mother, Sarah Dingham, they all lived in that grand old house together.” Maddy paused to smack a mosquito climbing his elbow. “Influenza must have got ‘em in the winter of nineteen nineteen.

  “If you look at the dates, the mother was the last to go. Sad to think of her taking care of all those sick children and then dying herself.”

  Doro nodded her head absently, the Lindsays’ tragedy the farthest thing from her mind.

  “The Lindsays were quite well off,” said Maddy, brushing off the remains of another mosquito victim. “Did you see that ballroom upstairs?”

  As Maddy began to reveal details about the Lindsays, one phrase rang in my head.

  The mother was the last to go.

  The ways of the human mind are strange indeed. Triggers poise like bees on our emotions, ready to inject pain, to break the dam and open the floodgates of suppressed feelings.

  At that moment, with Maddy and Doro seated on a decrepit bench facing out toward the house, my dam burst.

  “Can we go home now?” I stammered to Doro. Feeling tears forming in my eyes, I fought them back and announced, “I’m ready to go home.”

  Yet Doro was far from ready.

  “No, honey, I thought we could find the closest restaurant and get a bite to eat. I know you must be hungry after that sugary breakfast.” Turning to Maddy, she explained apologetically. “Just donuts. We had to get on the road.”

  “I’d be happy to treat you and your little girl,” said Maddy. “Let me take you to the Lunch Box—best meatloaf in the South.”

  “Why, that would be lovely, Mr.—Maddy, “said Doro, touching his arm lightly. Then, to me: “Let’s go, Jo.”

  The mother was the last to go. “I want to go home.”

  Doro’s look was one of disbelief. Nowhere in her parenting manual had the word no been mentioned. Truly, in the months we had been together, I had never questioned or disagreed. Perhaps I felt so vulnerable that I didn’t dare question the one person who stood between me and eternal loneness.

  And so, as much as I wanted to be away from those stones, from the stillness that haunted the air around them, I bit my lip and joined Doro and Maddy as they walked back through the garden gate.

  “That’s a girl.” To Maddy, Doro explained, “She’s my niece. Her parents passed away rather recently, and she came to live with me. Joy of my life.” Her hand rested on the nape of my neck.

  “Well, goodness, I’m sure sorry about your folks, Jo.” Maddy patted his hip for Rip to follow. “So you’re going to be our neighbors?”

  “Yes, there’s so much potential in the house; I want to turn it into a B&B.” Seeing my same blank look echoed on Maddy’s face, Doro explained: “Bed and breakfast. A country inn.

  “But I had never ventured this far in my other visits here. The garden is just delightful, the way you have designed it.”

  Just delightful. The mother was the last to go. Just delightful.

  I quickened my steps, eager to be away from those stones, those inscriptions—from the mother who must have worked so hard to save her children and then lost herself.

  Suddenly, in front of me, beside me and all around me, was my mother’s face. And the voice inside my head spoke to her.

  It should have been that way with you, Mommy. You should have stayed with me. You should have been the last to go.

  We left Rip with a bone on the front porch and rode in Doro’s Taurus, Maddy in the back seat, his lanky legs folded sideways to avoid the cooler on the floorboard. The Lunch Box was less than fifteen minutes away, on a side street in downtown Mt. Moriah. It had obviously once been a modest white frame residence. The front door was open, a screen door policing the hungry horseflies.

  I was shocked to see the crowd seated at the tables. At the abandoned house and remote cemetery, it had felt as if no one else lived in Mt. Moriah, yet here they were. Grandmothers taking their grandchildren to lunch. Couples eating with cranky toddlers. Teenagers sharing a banana split.

  The three of us slid into a red vinyl booth and ordered quickly. I sat silently, watching the people, wondering where they all lived. When the food arrived, I ate quietly, savoring each bite of my grilled cheese, surprised at my hunger.

  Doro and Maddy ate the same thing: barbeque on cornbread, with sweetened iced tea. Maddy and Doro discussed her plans for the house, and I was happy to be forgotten. I wanted no part of the conversation and no part of Doro and her optimism. Just delightful!

  I pushed thoughts of that cemetery out of my head, and six weeks later a moving van came and packed us up. To my surprise, the van was not empty when it bumped to a halt against the curb in front of my parents’ cottage, where a sold sign swayed in the wind. The moving van was already two-thirds full.

  “I’ve had furniture in storage for seven years now, Jo,” Doro explained. “Ever since your grandparents died and I inherited the furniture. Your dad didn’t want it; guess it was all a bit too old-fashioned for your mama.

  “It’ll give us a good start on the B&B.”

  The trip up the mountain took three hours, with us following the truck. We arrived in the early August afternoon sun and finished unloading the truck at dusk. Doro, her massive hair piled on top of her head and her Thriller t-shirt soaked, called me periodically to get water from the thermos.

  “Hydrate, child! You need to drink!”

  My face was red and drenched with sweat, for I had been closeted in my attic room, carefully placing my stuffed animals and dolls. The window air conditioner moaned like a hurt animal and rained little droplets of condensation onto the floor below. Doro had bought me a hot pink bean bag chair for under the windows, and I curled up there, extending my
hand in anticipation of those gifts of cold relief.

  That day, the excitement I felt when I first saw the house had been reduced to a tight pit in my stomach. Perhaps it was fatigue or loneliness or exhaustion. Or maybe it was walking through our house on Magnolia Drive one final time. Probably it was five months of pretending that I didn’t miss my parents and knowing that I did.

  Hearing an engine start up, I looked out the window to see the moving truck lumbering slowly down the long driveway, passing Madison Blair’s work truck. The sky hinted that dusk was coming in the next hour. Soon the front door opened and that unmistakable bass voice bellowed.

  “Good evening! Brought you ladies some dinner,” Maddy boomed.

  Suddenly I was back at home at 145 Magnolia Drive. I was playing Barbies on my bed, and the clock had just turned to six o’clock, and my dad’s voice called out from the back door.

  “Where are my girls? Daddy’s home with pizza!”

  It was a memory so strong, so palpable, that I slipped off the bean bag and sat down hard against my tailbone.

  “Jo! Come to dinner, honey!”

  Although it was Doro’s voice echoing up the stairs, it was my mother’s voice I heard. Closing my eyes, I saw Mom’s airy blouse, white with cherries and a starched Peter Pan collar. I could hear her squeaky sandals and knew, as Mom called for me, that she was pushing silver wire-rimmed frames against the bridge of her nose. I knew the eyes beyond the frames were a deep brown, and that there was a mole on the bottom of her chin that I rubbed as a child as she read me nursery rhymes. I knew the greasy pizza had coated through the bottom of the box and against my dad’s tie.

  “You’re a mess, Joe.” My mother would roll her eyes and slip away from my dad as he slapped her backside and kissed her neck. “Do you just dream up laundry for me?”

  “Ah, Annie, that spot will never show with all the wild stripes on that tie.”

  “It’s paisley, silly, not stripes.” My mom would try not to smile, feigning aggravation. I knew she would take the tie directly to the washer, and I knew that the Spray ‘n Wash would be too high for her to reach and she would call for him to help. Like a movie I had watched many times, I saw my parents sitting on the patio after dinner, drinking coffee and smoking Marlboro Lights. I knew he could blow smoke rings and she could not. I knew they didn’t think I knew they smoked.

  My eyes closed, I basked in the safety of normal, clinging to a memory that would dissipate in an instant.

  “Jo! Come down please. Mr. Blair—Maddy has brought us a delicious dinner!”

  Faintly wet, my eyes opened and took in the fading light outside, the massive willow swaying in the wind, storm clouds threatening.

  “Thank goodness we got everything inside when we did,” Doro was saying to Maddy. “JoANNA!”

  When the willow shifted, I saw them. Head stones, mere specks from my vantage points, with the elephant ears dancing rhythmically around them. I saw not only the elephant ears, but also my dad’s paisley tie, and smelled the pizza. All at once, the knot in my stomach unraveled, and the tears came.

  She was the last to go.

  I ran down the stairs two at a time, gasping as tears filled my throat. Darting past Doro and Maddy, I tripped over a box and hurled myself against the screen door. Their voices were behind me, but those elephant ears were calling me.

  The last to go. Mommy!

  I don’t know where I thought I was going—only that being in the evening breeze, as the thunder rustled around me, was all I wanted. It was where I thought I could find the voices of my parents, where I thought I could be their little girl again.

  Heat lightning flashed against the tombstones, and the waving elephant ears obscured the names. Ridiculous in their pageantry and height, the plants seemed to taunt me. To mock the dead.

  And that’s when I saw the clippers.

  Abandoned by Maddy the day before, alongside his work gloves, the clippers were heavy. There was a soft creaking as I cut the ears, one after the other, down to the ground. My eyes were stinging from hot tears, my lips were covered in snot, and my arms ached with the weight of the blades.

  “Jo! JoAnna!” Maddy and Doro were behind me.

  When the last elephant ear was down, over six feet of dead stems lying amongst the stones, I dropped both the shears and myself to the ground. No one moved, not me, not Doro, not Maddy.

  “Maddy, I just don’t know what got into her head. JoAnna!”

  Doro’s tone was not one I had heard before. It was angry, shaking, and it scared me. Then came Maddy’s voice: gentle, strong.

  “It’s about to storm. We need to get inside. JoAnna, take my hand.” Maddy extended a calloused palm.

  Years later, that voice is still so soothing to me. On Mt. Moriah it is said that Maddy’s voice is Solomon and God and Charlton Heston all wrapped in one.

  On that day in the garden, that voice led me inside. It sat me at the table, where with trembling hands Doro unwrapped the casserole dish. Maddy’s voice led me upstairs to my bed, because I was too upset to eat. And it told me the story of the elephant ears.

  “What did you have against those elephant ears, Jo?” Maddy’s eyes were upon me as he kneeled next to my bed. I could not look at him.

  “Did you know I’ve been growing them close to ten years? I reckon that’s as much as you’ve been alive, eh?”

  Silence from me. Silence from Doro, poised just inside the door.

  “I planted them because my great granddaddy’s farm was always full of flowers. My brother and me, we used to play hide and seek in his garden.”

  Silence.

  “I wanted to make a garden like my great granddaddy Lindsay’s. This is my house, JoAnna. My great granddaddy’s house.”

  “Maddy, I didn’t know.” Doro’s voice was hushed. “You’re the seller?”

  I stopped sobbing and looked at Maddy. “They’re your family? The children? The mother?” Then the tears started again. “It’s so sad. It’s not beautiful.”

  “Is that what’s bothered you? Those graves? When I inherited this house ‘bout ten years ago, that land was so overgrown you couldn’t even see the tombstones.

  “I never did anything inside here, didn’t have the time and didn’t want to live here, but Rip and I love to be outdoors, and I just couldn’t stand those graves being lost in the weeds.

  “I just figured something beautiful should live next to something so sad. I planted that garden as a memorial. I kinda think that mother and her children would appreciate that. A sign of respect.”

  Maddy pulled a handkerchief, surprisingly starched and bright white, out of his back pocket and wiped my eyes and nose.

  “What you did was disrespectful.”

  My voice was quiet and wavering. “I’m sorry. Sir.”

  “Don’t apologize to me. Be sorry for those plants. Be sorry to God Almighty, because I reckon it’s his nature you ruined.”

  Looking into Maddy’s ocean blue eyes, I felt both sorry and strangely comforted. “Sorry,” I whispered faintly again.

  Doro spoke. “Maddy, I am sorry for JoAnna. I don’t know—”

  Maddy held his hand up to silence her as he continued to hold me in his gaze. “Guess we don’t need to know. Guess she knows what was on her heart.

  “I accept your apology, JoAnna. And now I’m going to go eat some chicken casserole that the best cook in First Methodist Church made. And you need to come eat some too. Because tomorrow you’re going to need your strength.

  “Tomorrow you and I are going to replant those ears.”

  The next day we did. And every year after, we weeded the garden together, spending hours bent over the soil, grimy paths of sweat streaked across our cheeks.

  Today the elephant ears reign eight feet high over the Lindsay graves and over a little girl’s rage.

  7

  PREACHER MAN

  SO BEGAN MY LIFE ON MT. MORIAH—much like the life of anyone who has lived in a small town. A cleaning crew had come befo
re us, and by the time we had been in the house for four days, there was some semblance of order. I spent the morning hours playing in my room, setting up my stuffed animals and books and lounging on the bean bag beneath the dripping air conditioner. Whether she was giving me space to adjust or just needed time on her own, Doro never intruded my morning solitude. After lunch, however, I was hers. We placed and rearranged and dusted and swept. Maddy and Rip stopped by regularly—the flatulent canine and the fastidious old maid exchanging grimaces.

  On the Friday that ended our first week in Mt. Moriah, Maddy’s truck sputtered to a stop in front of the porch. Doro was sweeping—her wide sundress providing both airflow and a peep show to anyone bold enough to glance.

  “Why, Maddy, look at you. Why the coat and tie?”

  We were accustomed to seeing Maddy in his jeans and work shirt, thick boots caked with mud, and his bald spot covered by a Braves cap. But Maddy was sporting a black suit, cufflinks, and thinning hair that had been dippy-dooed into submission back across his steep brow.

  “I clean up real good sometimes. When I have to,” Maddy grinned, handing Doro a basket of squash and tomatoes he had harvested the day before. “I’m on my way to a funeral, actually, but I wanted to stop by and invite you lovely ladies to church this Sunday.”

  “Well, my goodness, I guess we do need to find a church to go to here. Jo’s father and I were raised Episcopalian.”

  On my parents’ cherry dresser was a silver framed photograph of Doro and Joseph Wilson as little children standing under a gothic portico. Grinning for the camera, Doro was wearing a smocked white eyelet dress with starched petticoat, and my dad looked as somber as his black suit. One glimpse at the photograph told you that little boy was itching to be back in his jeans.

  The truth was that I didn’t feel Episcopalian. My parents and I were devout “Chr-Easters,” attending only at Christmas and Easter.

  “Oh, it’s not that I don’t believe, Jo,” said my dad one Christmas Eve as he struggled with his tie. “It’s just that I have never felt comfortable in stuffy sanctuaries.