Mt. Moriah's Wake

by Melissa Norton Carro

  Indeed. To this day, I cannot hear beautiful music without thinking of Doro. Not a trained musician herself, Doro had a beautiful soprano voice, and music was her passion. It was how she relaxed, how she woke up, how she celebrated, and how she comforted herself. The Inn was full of music every day—sometimes Vivaldi on a bright spring morning, and Brahms in the evenings when the guests lingered around the parlor, perusing the bookshelves for a good read, or sipping sherry from Doro’s grandmother’s Waterford.

  Doro loved all kinds of music, but especially classical and church hymns. She rarely needed a hymnal to sing in church, for the lyrics were so ingrained in her head. And consequently in mine. Doro sang as she cleaned, sang as she cooked, and her working songs were mostly Methodist hymns from the dilapidated hymnal with pages 222 and 223 sliding out.

  Obviously, the music for Doro’s funeral warranted careful consideration.

  Behind the pulpit, nested in a hole, was the organ that Doro had helped raise money to buy. When we began going to First Methodist, Doro was incredulous that there was no organ, only a baby grand piano, and she set about fundraising for the cause.

  It was an uphill battle. Parishioners were content with the piano, with the old hymns and the second octave A that stuck. Doro was not one to be content with the status quo. Madeline Gifford, the twenty-three-year-old grad student in church music at the nearby college, was the temporary choir director and pianist. She also played the organ, thankfully, and was thrilled by Doro’s cause.

  “I love piano music. But you need an organ to play classical music, and classical belongs in church,” Doro told Maddy one summer evening as we ate dinner on the side porch. “Perhaps it’s the Episcopalian in me.”

  Thirteen months later, through ice cream festivals on the lawn of the Inn, Doro’s calls to the congregation asking for money, and through a generous donation from Doro herself, First Methodist was able to purchase an organ. To celebrate, Maddy asked Doro and Madeline to plan a concert, with Bach as the headliner. It was the beginning of a classical touch to First Methodist’s church services. Now, almost twenty years later, the white country church is known throughout the county for its music.

  Such was Doro’s impact.

  I fingered the plaque atop the organ’s mahogany cabinetry. “Dedicated to Dorothea Wilson, lover of music and child of God.”

  I looked at Maddy. “Well, Maddy, I think there needs to be Bach tomorrow.”

  Doro was about Bach the way some people are about Elvis. She adored the CD collection I sent her at Christmas recently. Maddy and I teased Doro about her fanaticism.

  “Bach is dead, you know, Doro,” I said, winking at Maddy. “You can’t go to any of his concerts this year!”

  In retribution, she would use Toccata and Fugue to blast me out of bed on teenage mornings, when I considered noon too early to rise.

  “Yes, I thought of that, but I don’t know which Bach,” Maddy said.

  It didn’t require much thought on my part. I knew exactly which one.

  One stifling August day, Grace and I were milling around Doro’s kitchen, stealing grapes and tapping our newly painted toes on the tile. We were probably ten at the time, and boredom came easily. Doro kept sidestepping us, rolling her eyes at our ennui.

  “Your brains are going to turn to mush if you girls don’t find something to do.”

  “We’re bored.”

  “That’s obvious. What about a game?”

  “Nah.” I slumped against the sink.

  “Don’t say naaaah, say no. And stand up straight.” Doro lifted her casseroles up into the cavernous oven, closed the door and set the timer. “Okay girls, come with me.”

  Our immediate thoughts were that we were going to be put to work. There was always something to do around the Inn—hundreds of things actually—and at that age Grace and I were Doro’s unpaid help.

  Instead, Doro led us to her bedroom where she commanded us to lie on the floor. It had been a stormy day, so there was only faint light outside. Doro drew her drapes, making the room almost pitch black. Most kids would have questioned if asked to get on the floor, but Grace and I knew better. This was Doro: Something exciting was about to happen.

  Doro flipped through her albums until she found the one she wanted. It began its spin on the turntable.

  Doro joined us on the floor. We faced up, staring at the cracked plaster ceiling.

  “Close your eyes and listen. We’re going to take turns telling the story of the music. Wait a minute; I’ll go first.”

  The music was Copeland, and Doro described the square dance she was seeing in her mind. “Lots of bright skirts, swishing together. Everyone’s happy. Now wait. The door’s opening. Do you hear this part? A tall girl has entered the room. She’s alone. She’s lonely.”

  And so we played Doro’s game. On her turn, Grace imagined a bird’s flight across cloudless skies to Saint-Saëns. The third song on Doro’s Classical Collection was Chopin’s Prelude, and it was my turn. The writer in me depicted a sultry argument between two lovers. They were leaning against a high balcony, stormy waters below.

  “Wow. I just saw a bird. You saw a whole soap opera,” Grace giggled.

  The next song was Doro’s: a Bach piece. Doro listened to almost the whole thing without speaking. We actually suspected she had fallen asleep, so we leaned up on our elbows to look at her. The look on her face was an indescribable marriage of joy and pain.

  When the violins began their ascent, Doro raised her finger. “There. This is the part I love. I see a spiral staircase rising into clouds. Everything’s lovely and happy. You can see the brightest sun peaking around and through the clouds.”

  She was quiet for a minute, as a sole violin took us away on a high G. Doro’s voice was hushed when she finally spoke.

  “I love that song. I hear it, and I see heaven. It’s almost as if, when the song’s highest note comes, I can see God.”

  “I know the one, Maddy. Can David Smiley play the violin? It’s called ‘Bist du bei mir.’ Do you know it?”

  He smiled. “I do, little one. It means God is with me.”

  We looked through the hymnal together and chose two of Doro’s favorites. Outside, dusk was setting and the stained glass parables of Jesus were transitioning from day to night.

  Maddy’s arm was around me as we headed outside. I had been so lost in my own thoughts, my grief, my confusion, that for the first time I thought about the fact that Maddy was not just officiating at Doro’s funeral.

  He was her widower.

  The last vestiges of summer light slipped away as Maddy and I turned between the stone pillars marking the driveway to the Inn. I sat still, taking in the shiny magnolias and Bartlett pears lining the way. Driving into the Inn was truly like retreating from life; perhaps that is why the B&B’s regular vacationers loved it.

  Although I had been away for years, I could still close my eyes and envision key landmarks on the ten acres. A forty foot oak anchored the center of the lawn, broad limbs twisted and mangled enough to form a perfect platform for the treehouse Maddy built for me and Grace. As a child, I would peer out the sidelights flanking the front door and watch thunderstorms rolling across the lawn; those convoluted limbs became ominous outlines against the flashing white sky—making me tremble with every bolt. As the new morning dawned, however, the oak’s leaves would beckon me to the top branches, and I thought them invincible.

  A row of forsythia bushes close to the stone wall were glorious flashes of yellow that, in the springtime, would tempt highway passersby. The broad front porch spanned the house, rocking chairs lined up, their wicker backs home to numerous spider webs. On the eastern end hung a white swing—paint peeling and metal chains squeaking. I knew by heart the magnificent vista glimpsed from that swing seat: It had been mine for so many years.

  Maddy grabbed my suitcase, and I mounted the back steps. “I’ll get the door, Maddy.” The Inn’s key still hung from my keychain, and I remembered how to pull the door toward
me just enough so the key would connect.

  And then inside the smell was of Doro: disinfectant peppered with lavender. A smell that spoke of her age, that told you it—and she—would never change.

  At age seventy-six, Doro had begun to let some of the upstairs rooms collect dust. She didn’t run the B&B full-time anymore; rather she rented the rooms to house friends who came to visit. Many were former customers—people who through the years had stayed at the B&B regularly en route to a real vacation elsewhere. Now the Inn was their final destination.

  But the downstairs was still pristine. I moved through the kitchen, lightly touching the counters, noticing how the plants in the greenhouse window were thriving, the basket of spices, little bottles all thrown together. “Anyone who has their spices neatly lined up doesn’t really use them!” Doro would say, as she tossed the bottle of thyme into the basket where it nudged the nutmeg out of its place. Doro’s “Kiss the Cook” apron was hanging on the back of the pantry door, which I knew, if opened, would reveal a shelf of cookbooks rarely touched. All of Doro’s recipes she knew by heart; many had come from my grandmother.

  I continued my tour of the house, my prescient eyes leading me by memory. I knew the rosewood glasses would be arranged from tea to wine to water on the top shelf of the cherry corner cabinet. I knew my great-grandmother’s cut glass punch bowl would be in the middle of the dining room table, and that the Bavarian plate on the far right of the collection hanging on the side wall had a chip that I had put there.

  The parlor’s Duncan Fyfe sofa showed no more wear than on the day it was brought to the Inn, and the same burgundy fringed pillows sat on the wing back chairs in the exact spots they had occupied for years and years. The antique card table in the bay window was set with the glass chess set one of the Inn’s long-time visitors, turned long-time friend, had brought Doro ten years ago. Above the mantel my grandmother’s Bulova Anniversary clock revealed a fictitious time—10:32—just as it had for the fifty years since it had stopped.

  Off the kitchen was a short hallway to two doors: one leading to Doro’s and Maddy’s bedroom and another with knobby pine paneling, that served as the private den. The small television set, the stereo, the comfortable recliners—these were Maddy and Doro’s creature comforts at the end of a day’s cooking and hosting. The clay piano I made when I was thirteen and taking a summer pottery class sat on top of the television, and the built-in bookshelves were crammed full of paperbacks, some vertical, some sideways. My school pictures—each one from third grade through high school—lined the top shelf, and the small trophy I had won as “most talented writer” in high school was front and center.

  I sank onto the worn loveseat and wrapped the cream afghan around my shoulders. Again, the smell of Doro, the smell of home. Years and miles had passed, and yet no time at all. It seemed that home was ever lingering behind my nose, my ears and eyes, patiently waiting to be sensed again.

  Exhausted from the day of travel, I nodded off and awoke groggy and confused. Looking around, I spotted a framed photograph of my husband and me, both sporting red “I Love Chicago” t-shirts and standing on the Michigan Avenue Bridge. I had sent it to Doro two years ago.

  My eyes focused on the heart that represented the word love in the center of my chest. I remembered the day the photograph was taken. Happiness was beating in that Jo’s heart. As I sat on Doro’s sofa and stared at my smiling face, I sensed I was on the precipice between two worlds: Mt. Moriah on the one hand, Chicago and my husband on the other.

  10

  BLUE SKY

  THE DAY MY NEW BLACK PUMPS squeaked onto the slate lobby of Sandalwood & Harris Advertising, homesickness and insecurity overtook me. Inside awaited a host of unfamiliar faces, a job I didn’t know how to do, and a little less than two thousand dollars a month, which sounded like the lottery.

  I spend my first weeks at S&H oscillating between the thrill of the city and the desire for something, someone, familiar. I called Doro only twice on her command.

  “Try not to call too much. It’ll make you more homesick. Be a writer.”

  I knew she said this while perched on a stool in her cobalt blue and white kitchen. I did not know that she hung up brushing away tears and longing for me to call as soon as possible.

  When I got the job offer at S&H, Doro was convinced that the position of copy editor was synonymous with writer. I made myself believe that I was fulfilling my dream of writing. In actuality, though, editing copy meant checking for typographical errors, suggesting stylistic changes, and then being ignored for the most part. I was always invited to Happy Hour though, a Thursday ritual for those of us on the twelfth floor. I explored the world of syrupy umbrella-ed drinks and cold bottles of wine. All of this was new to me, a Methodist girl from the South, and I dove head-first into the godless world of booze and partying.

  People speak of drinking to drown your sorrows, but I was drinking to drown my past.

  When I wasn’t drinking, I was running along the shores of Lake Michigan or shopping. I purchased four suits that could be mixed and matched. New credit cards came, and I celebrated each arrival with another lunch out, another happy hour.

  In the long-term hotel on Wooster, I was cocooned. My room had two beds, a small refrigerator and microwave. At night I would leave the television and lights on, as the traffic outside my window and the noisy corridors made me feel safer.

  “How are you sleeping, Jo?”

  “Fine, Doro. I’m fine.”

  It was a lie—to Doro and myself. I discovered airplane bottles to keep in the room, and it took several drinks to sink into fitful sleep. Around one in the morning, I would finally close my heavy eyes—only to be plagued by nightmares. I wasn’t thinking, much less writing. Walking became an obsession. On weekdays, I relished my route from the el station to work. At one intersection, I walked through a tunnel under the street. At a certain point, halfway down, I could look up and see the Tribune Tower looming above me. On Saturdays, I took long strolls to the Michigan Avenue Bridge, lingering around the Tribune building, resting finally on the steps of the Wrigley. I never tired of watching the bridge rise and the barges pass underneath. I waved below, but they never saw me. I was invisible. Emotionally, intellectually, spiritually.

  Happy hours led to dancing. It seemed there were a million men in Chicago who were just my age. Tall. Short. Handsome. Intellectual. With all the walking, I dropped fifteen pounds and found myself being constantly asked to the dance floor. The faster the music, the better. But inevitably the band would start a slow song, and I’d feel an arm around my waist. That’s when I would excuse myself to the bathroom—and from there slip into the windy Chicago night. And then home, to my hotel room where I would lie, fully dressed, on top of my bed, the walls spinning in alcoholic splendor.

  I would stare at the TV until I drifted into a few hours of fitful sleep. Then my alarm would startle me and up I would be, ready to walk again. Alcohol was my nighttime friend, but caffeine was the gift of the dawn.

  During those first few months in Chicago, the days segued into nights, and the chardonnays to coffee, and one barge became another. Being faithless and faceless was exhilarating.

  One Wednesday morning, I was almost late to my first creative team meeting. Standing at the Xerox machine, toner smudging my ivory sleeve, a wad of paper tucked under my armpit, I had been digging my nails into the long yellow machine wand marked “B” for fifteen minutes.

  “You have to kick it.”

  The unexpected voice made me lose my grasp on the paper shreds and sit down hard on the floor. He laughed, extending a hand.

  “The copy machine is beating you at its own sick game. You have to show it who’s boss.” Helping me to my feet, the man pushed tortoise wire rims up on his nose, where they promptly slid again.

  “And you kick it to show it who’s boss?”

  “Of course, not. We call Dunn’s to come service it.” He reached around me for the wall phone.

  “Just b
ecause of wadded up paper?”

  “Want to violate our service contract?” He took a quick glance at my smudged blouse. “You’re new; that’s why you try to do everything yourself. You haven’t yet surrendered to the system … oh, yes, hello, client number is 00576. Sandalwood & Harris. Yes, twelfth floor. Uh-huh. Thanks.”

  He re-cradled the receiver, smiled and extended a hand. “Tom Rivers.”

  I shook it. “JoAnna Wilson—people call me Jo—and you’re right, I’m so new I didn’t even know there is a system.”

  “There is a system for everything.” He glanced at his watch. “Gotta scoot. My creative team meeting starts in five minutes, and my photos are still down on six. Good to meet you.”

  “Oh, you’re a photographer …” my voice trailed off. He was gone. I, too was due at a team meeting. The black wall clock ticked loudly. Just enough time to try to lighten this smudge.

  He jolted me when he flung the heavy paneled door open into my chair.

  “Jeez! I’m sorry, JoAnna, was it?”

  I moved around and smiled nervously. “Jo. It’s okay.”

  He took a seat next to me, unloading three binders of stock photos on the table. Each held dozens of little Post-it Notes, torn in half to be markers. Feeling my eyes upon him, Tom smiled at me again. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

  “No, that’s okay.” I paused.

  His grin revealed the deepest dimples I had ever seen. “Is this your first team meeting with our illustrious creative director?”

  I nodded. “Candace is my boss.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Well, sit back and enjoy the show.”

  “The show?” Before he could answer, Candace was in the room.

  My pulse raced—not only at the thought of the friendly photographer beside me, but at the sight of Candace, in a short salmon suit, the flip chart at the front of the room, the apples in the middle of the table. A creative team meeting! My creative team!

  I sat up straight in my chair, ready.

  Soon I was slumping, as the director of sales gave a five-minute speech that lasted thirty. Beside me, Tom stifled a yawn and scribbled some words on the margin of a legal pad. Coyly leaning his elbows on the table, he pushed the pad toward me. I bet the notes he passed in fourth grade English were never discovered.