Mt. Moriah's Wake

by Melissa Norton Carro

  “After all, God created golf courses, right? So who’s to say you can’t be just as close to him on the twelfth tee?”

  Maddy was giving Doro directions to the First United Methodist Church in Mt. Moriah. With only two stoplights in the town, the directions seemed unnecessary. We had seen the spire soaring into the clouds. The tin roof made the church seem as if on fire.

  “Methodist’s all we’ve got here, but we’re not so different from Episcopalians—except no alcohol. You’ll be having Holy Communion with grape juice, not wine,” said Maddy.

  “Well, we’d be delighted to come, and thank you for thinking of us,” said Doro.

  With a squeeze of my nose, Maddy was off to his funeral, and we were back to our cleaning.

  The following Sunday, Doro and I were almost late to the eleven o’clock service. Doro wore a starched peach linen suit, a broad brimmed wicker hat and three inch white pumps that disguised her shortness.

  The rest of the week Mt. Moriah had seemed so small, so quiet, but at the First Methodist Church on Sunday there were cars parked in every direction on the sweeping lawn. The church was a white clapboard structure with a narrow, red front door that required harsh tugs. The choir was already processing when we slipped into the third row from the back. I was fumbling with my bulletin when I glimpsed the pastor’s robe sweeping past. And then his eyes. Unmistakably, unforgettably blue.

  Just as I heard the distinctive bass voice singing O for a Thousand Tongues to Sing, I felt the pastor reach out and tweak my nose.

  Pastor Madison Blair.

  He speaks, and, list’ning to His voice,

  New life the dead receive,

  The mournful, broken hearts rejoice,

  The humble poor believe.

  The notes bounced off the baby grand piano and seemed to mirror the light streaming in from the short stained glass windows.

  Later, as we knelt at the Communion rail, I watched Maddy move along. When he reached us, his eyes were upon mine as he whispered the grace. “Jesus’ bread, broken for you. The blood of our Savior, shed for you, Jo.”

  As he issued a small prayer releasing us from the Lord’s Table, he smiled at Doro.

  Afterwards, we gathered with the rest of the congregation on the lawn while Maddy—Brother Blair as we learned he was called—made the rounds, shaking hands and slapping backs. When he came up to us, Doro’s face still showed her surprise.

  “Why, Reverend Blair—”

  “Maddy.”

  “You are a man full of surprises. I just never …” Doro’s voice trailed off, speechless for once.

  Maddy chuckled. “Not accustomed to seeing a man of the cloth with dirty nails, eh? Well ma’am, I can assure you I scrubbed them before serving the Lord’s Supper,” said Maddy, holding up his huge calloused hands to show off the obviously clean nails. “I reckon those whiskey-palian priests might not have a hankering for gardening like I do,” he grinned.

  Doro’s face registered the surprise we both felt. We didn’t know what to think of the man who fixed up old houses and dug vegetable gardens and knew about elephant ears. And Jesus Christ.

  “Say, wait a minute. Let me introduce you to someone.”

  Excusing himself, he called over two men, somewhere in their twenties, obviously brothers and obviously a bit hung over from the night before.

  “Jack and George Russell. Two of the best workers you’ll ever know. They need some work, and you need some strong backs. A perfect match.”

  Doro shook their hands somewhat reluctantly. They offered to come by after church to look at the Lindsay House. After they said goodbye, Maddy offered an answer to the question Doro had not asked.

  “Hard times have hit a lot of families up here, Miss Doro. George there has a little boy he has to support and a wife that’s not around half the time. They both take care of their mother. They dip into the sauce a bit; I won’t lie to you. They just need some odd jobs—get ‘em caught up, get their minds onto a good honest project and away from the bar.”

  Gauging Doro’s hesitation, Maddy added what Doro was wanting to hear.

  “I’ve known that family since they were knee high to a grasshopper. Finally got them going to church somewhat regular. They won’t disappoint me.”

  About that time, a member of the congregation tapped Maddy on the shoulder, calling him back to the crowd on the steps.

  Doro and I were left under the shade of a low hanging magnolia, approached by first one and then another person. The hellos, the how-do-you-dos, the names, all faded into background noise as I breathed in the freshly cut grass, saw sunshine bursting through the colorful glass windows, and felt my skin baking under a cloudless sky.

  I could remember my parents’ occasional church in Atlanta. The smell of Sunday School. The Sunday morning waffles. The newspaper spread across the sofa between my parents. The sound of dishes clinking in the kitchen as I played Barbies on my bed.

  Home.

  I closed my eyes and picked Maddy’s and Doro’s voices out over the hum of unfamiliar noises. In my mind, bright eyelet gingham curtains hung at a window shaded by a willow. Was that home too?

  I cannot say I felt either sad or happy. What I felt was calm and secure. And aren’t those the first steps toward happiness? Toward home?

  8

  APRIL THROUGH NOVEMBER

  WORD OF DORO’S IMPENDING RENOVATION of the old Lindsay home spread and, at various times in our second week in the house, five neighbors showed up on the doorstep with bowls and dishes and pans—each brimming with a Southern delicacy. To each new face she met, Doro explained her plan for the B&B, the colors she envisioned and her thematic idea for the whole house.

  “I love the changing of seasons and months, so I thought I could have one bedroom representing each month. When visitors come, I’ll just ask, ‘Oh, would you prefer to be in the June room or the November room?’”

  Doro was speaking to Libby McAlister, whose look of confusion arose from her knowledge that there were not enough bedrooms.

  “We’re going to have to throw up some walls,” Doro explained, unrolling blueprints onto the dining room table. Also, I’m going to omit December through March. Those are cold, drab months, don’t you think? Then, the former maid’s quarters, off the kitchen will be mine.” Doro smiled brightly. “What do you think?”

  Universally, Doro was met with optimism.

  “Why it’s just what this town needs!”

  “I’m going to tell my sister, Miss Wilson. She and her family are always cramped when they stay with us. She’ll be thrilled there’s somewhere new to stay.”

  Before long, Doro ceased being Miss Wilson and became simply Doro. That was her way—to meet Doro was to get the feeling that you had known her for years, or rather, that you wished you had. Her happy laugh, her bright red smile disappearing over lipstick smeared teeth, her handshake which utilized both of her hands—all of these endeared Doro to Mt. Moriah. Before long, people were imagining that Doro had been born in Mt. Moriah, that she had gone to high school with them, that she had been in Vacation Bible School with them. She simply wove herself into the enduring fabric of their memories.

  In the days before wallpaper steamers, Doro and I—with the Russell brothers’ assistance—dampened, peeled, and scraped wallpaper that seemed to have a life of its own. Maddy often dropped by unexpectedly, doling out advice.

  “Consider me your contractor,” he’d chuckle, slapping George or Jack on the back. “You do the work; I’ll be the contractor!”

  Gradually, with Doro at the design helm, the rooms began to take shape. Downstairs, the library along the back porch was divided into April and May rooms, with a small bath joining them. April had a spring theme—periwinkle drapes, a white chenille coverlet, and tulip wallpaper. May’s walls were painted a pale lavender and the large window facing the backyard draped in silver voile sheers: evoking the feeling of standing in a rainstorm. Upstairs, June—on the home’s southwest corner—was the only room wi
th a private bath. It became the bridal suite, with organza drapes, and a crystal vase of orchids and lilies on the dresser. The July and August bedrooms spanned the south wing of the house. July had a patriotic theme, with a Wedgewood blue ceiling and red and white star patterned quilt.

  To create more bedrooms, walls went up to divide the fifty-foot ballroom spanning the northern side of the house, converting the space to autumn. The September room was painted a pale russet, with a wreath of autumn flowers. A letterman’s jacket from the local high school team was framed on the wall. October’s room had a wallpaper border of autumn leaves and November a wintry look—with a Tartan plaid down comforter and overstuffed navy chair pulled next to the window. With a fireplace and wall of bookshelves, which Doro kept stocked, November was the room most often requested. Visitors would pass through during a hot, humid summer, and request the “winter room.”

  For weeks, the only room that lacked an identity was the home’s third original bedroom, August.

  “What is August to you?” Doro would ask in the grocery, at the post office. Indeed, it seemed a month without definition. One day the Mt. Moriah Journal, the town’s weekly paper, ran a contest to design a room for August. We ended up with 125 submissions—not a bad rate of return given that Mt. Moriah’s population was 2,420, and the paper’s circulation was half that.

  It was Rhonda Peters’ entry that won. A kindergarten teacher, Rhonda said August reminded her of notebook paper and the sand from her family’s annual beach trip before school.

  “I’ll decorate it totally in white!” said Doro. And so it was, with thick white carpet, a coverlet of ivory matelassé on a white iron bed, with white eyelet curtains framing eggshell walls. It became my favorite room. A few years later, Doro added a white ceiling fan, and sometimes, when August was vacant, I would retreat there and read on the tall bed, the whirring fan casting patterns of light on the plaster ceiling.

  We had to wait four weeks for the sign—the Inn at Mt. Moriah—to be made. It was cast in concrete at the base of the driveway off Birkham Road. The day the sign went up, Doro made homemade ice cream on the lawn. The Inn officially began taking guests in the spring of 1984.

  It was the early ’80s and everyone’s minds were on Reagan-omics, Sally Ride, and the US Embassy bombing in Beirut. But for a few weeks that summer, Doro brought Mt. Moriah together, and for years to come she would be credited with defining August.

  That first summer in Mt. Moriah, when I wasn’t helping Maddy, Doro, and the Russells with the renovations, I was in my attic sanctuary. Maddy built shelves on each side of my windows, and I lined my books along them. I had always liked to read, but since my parents’ death, I escaped more and more often into the pages of a good story. While hammers and paintbrushes did their work downstairs, I lay on my beanbag and read. The breeze in the willow outside my room flung sunlight bubbles across my page.

  One evening when Doro had invited Maddy to stay for dinner as thanks for all his hard work, she broached the subject of my reading.

  “You need to get outside and play more, doll. You keep your nose stuck in a book all the time.”

  Something flip-flopped in my chest. I suddenly remembered Jenny Webber and Monopoly and all the games we used to play: Those days seemed like a lifetime ago. The truth was that there were few children in Mt. Moriah, and I knew no one. The loneliness that I had hidden in the pages of my beloved books hit me all at once.

  Maddy seemed to sense what I was feeling.

  “Well, you know, it’s not really a child’s yard, is it? How about I build you a treehouse?” And then, with his voice lowered, “I love nothing better than reading up in a tree.” And, with his voice louder, “Reading will make her even smarter, Doro.”

  Doro straightened a bit in her chair, perhaps feeling her parenting questioned.

  “I guess I never was a big reader. I remember playing outside as a child. We would play from early morning until our parents called us in for dinner, my brother and …”

  She caught herself. Not only did I not have a brother to play with, but I also didn’t have her brother as a father anymore. Doro squeezed my hand.

  “I’d just like to see you get some fresh air every day, doll. The treehouse is a lovely idea. Maybe I’ll even take up reading!

  “Besides, it’s only one more week until school starts. You’ll have lots of friends and be doing plenty of playing then.”

  My stomach churned again. The prospect of starting in a new school was terrifying to me. I loved Doro, the Inn, and the life we were building. But it wasn’t mine. My life was back in an elementary classroom four blocks away from 145 Magnolia Drive. My life was lying in a bed with the whispered voices of my parents drifting around me.

  The first day of school at the Woodbury Street Elementary, I threw up my breakfast. Doro had carefully tamed my curls into submission and made me a new dress to wear. It was red gingham with apple patches as pockets. Those apples were drenched with vomit.

  “I’m sorry, Aunt Doro.” The tears wouldn’t stop; they were tears of utter terror. I saw the paint can sitting in the corner of the foyer, ready for the final touch-up of the June room. I wanted to peel wallpaper—with my nails if I had to—pull weeds from the garden, anything to keep from going to school.

  I could tell Doro was upset over the dress by the way she said, “It’s only a dress.” I could tell by the way she gingerly wiped at those apples with soda water after she had taken the dress from my shivering body. “Go find something else to put on, Jo.”

  I climbed the steps to my attic, wondering if I could fake a fall, break my leg, wondering if having a broken leg for weeks wouldn’t be better than going to school.

  In my room, I changed clothes, blew my nose and sat on the edge of my bed, staring into the willow. Then there was a knock at the door.

  “I came to escort you lovely ladies to Woodbury Elementary,” said Maddy, his sunburnt face smelling of Old Spice and his double chins jiggling as he smiled.

  He didn’t ask why my eyes were red or mention my sniffling. That was the way with Maddy: He knew people, could see beneath their expressions.

  “Hey, little thing, I’ve got something for you. My mother gave it to me the day I was confirmed. It always brought me courage. I thought maybe today you could use some courage—going to a new school and all.”

  Maddy unfolded his hand and, inside, lay a small silver cross attached to a thin chain.

  “God loves you, little thing. You wear this and be brave, and you go learn what He wants you to learn.” Maddy’s clear blue eyes were level with mine as he knelt in front of me, fastening the chain around my neck with his big clumsy hands. “Today when you need some courage, you just rub that cross.”

  At that moment Doro appeared in my door, purse in hand. Buoyed by those two, I got in the car, traveled the three miles to school, and got out without crying. I didn’t cry at all until we reached the classroom, Doro and I. Then I turned and buried my head in her thick stomach. It was the first time we had been separated since my parents’ death. I felt the bile rise in my throat.

  “You can do this, Jo. You’re going to make friends and your teacher looks so nice and look at all those books. You can do this, sweetie. I’ll see you at three o’clock sharp.”

  A kiss and then she was gone. I was standing in front of Miss Patterson, who looked so young and so beautiful that my tears stopped mid-stream. She took my hand and led me to my table where two tow-headed boys took turns flicking their erasers at each other. In the third seat was a girl with long legs and two blonde braids hanging below her shoulders.

  She smiled brightly, revealing no front teeth and big dimples. It was a smile that spoke of friendship to come, a smile that told me I was going to want to get up and come to school every day.

  “Hi,” she said. “My name is Grace.”

  Inside my poplin blouse, dangling against my rapidly beating heart, hung Maddy’s cross.

  9

  BIST DU BEI MIR

/>   “JO, YOU READY TO GO, LITTLE THING?”

  Maddy’s hand was on my sleeve. How much time had passed for me, lost in my memories? I had seen the familiar faces at Woodbury, shaken hands, exchanged hugs, been properly appreciative of the guests at the visitation. And yet I felt I had moved through the afternoon as if in a dream.

  “Gosh, Maddy, I just haven’t been here since, well, since …”

  “I know, little thing, I know. I was thinking about that sweet Grace too.”

  Suddenly very tired, I was anxious to be in bed. I was disappointed, then, when Maddy asked me to stop by the church with him.

  “I just need to check on things for tomorrow, Jo. We’ll just be a minute, then we can go have some dinner together. You can leave your rental car here.”

  We had not been riding for many miles before Maddy asked the question I knew he had been waiting to ask.

  “I didn’t think you’d be coming alone, little thing. How is that husband of yours?”

  I considered my words carefully and then told a boldface lie.

  “He’s fine, Maddy. He had to work. He wishes he could have come.”

  I wanted to say more; I needed to say more. I needed to sit with my head resting on Maddy’s shoulder and tell him everything—about my marriage, about me. But what I needed more was to sit on Doro’s porch and let the tears come. For Doro, for Grace, and for the childhood that had shadowed me all day. To close my eyes and think and remember.

  “Jo, I have some ideas about the music—I know some of Doro’s favorite hymns, but I’d appreciate your helping me.” Holding my hand, Maddy was navigating me up the Chancel stairs of First Methodist Church.

  I had not been in this church in four years—since I left Mt. Moriah. It seemed smaller somehow, the stained glass windows narrower. The burgundy carpet had not been changed, I saw, and the kneeling pads at the front had the same telltale juice spots from toddlers trying to take Communion.

  “You know Doro and music,” Maddy was saying. “I need some help.”