Mt. Moriah's Wake

by Melissa Norton Carro

  “You had a thing for Clifford.”

  “I did not.”

  But I did. Clifford Means rented the August room every June. September through May, he was a high school English teacher in New Jersey. In the summer he was an aspiring writer. I was fascinated. He was shy, almost reclusive, but in the early mornings he sat in one of the cane rockers on the front porch. Swaying back and forth, steaming cup of coffee in hand, he stared at the front lawn in front of him.

  The summer I was fourteen, I was writing a series of short stories about a girl named Nan. I made it a habit to set my alarm early and casually wander out onto the porch by seven. Gradually, over the course of several mornings, I was able to engage Clifford in conversation.

  “What is your book about?” I asked shyly.

  He put down his coffee, a brown earthenware mug with a chip on the corner. He insisted on having his coffee in his own mug every morning. Doro catered to peculiarities like that; those were the reasons people wanted to return to the Inn.

  “It’s about a boy in the South.”

  “Is that why you like it here? It inspires you?”

  He paused. “It reminds me of my grandfather’s farm when I was growing up.”

  I was poised to leave if Clifford showed signs of being annoyed. But I think perhaps he enjoyed the little bit of companionship I offered. The next summer he smiled when he saw me. “Still writing about Nan?”

  “No, I’m writing a new story, about a boy in college.”

  He chuckled. “Ever been to college?”

  I shook my head.

  “Ever been a boy?”

  “No.”

  “Hard to write about what you don’t know.”

  “Can I read your book?”

  “It’s not, eh, age appropriate for you.”

  I was indignant. “I read Erica Jong’s Fear of Flying.”

  He was obviously surprised. “The zipless whatever, eh?”

  I reddened. “Yes.”

  Clifford stretched his legs that morning and stood up. “Well, my book is not ready for reading. But I’ll keep you in mind.” He set a hand on my shoulder as he passed toward the doorway. “Keep writing, JoAnna. Practice is the only way.”

  Although I was inspired by Clifford, Grace was circumspect.

  “He’s creepy,” she said one night as we were stacking the dinner dishes. It was 1992, and we had a full crowd, with a group of Floridians taking up almost the entire Inn on their way to the Democratic Convention in New York.

  “He’s a writer, Gracie.” Sometimes Grace seemed so anti-intellectual.

  Tuck agreed with Grace. “Yeah, The Shining all the way.” Tuck was making a rare appearance on a Friday night, his t-shirt drenched in sweat. He was cutting off bites of uneaten key lime pie.

  Doro swatted him with a towel. “I can’t believe that you would eat off of someone else’s plate, nor would I ever have believed it’s possible to stink so much.”

  Maddy passed through the kitchen on the way to his study. He stole two rolls off a plate and wagged them in Doro’s face. To Tuck, he said, “Yep, you’re a bit ripe, son.”

  “So what is The Shining anyway?” asked Doro.

  “Oh that’s a scary movie, my dear. Too scary for you.”

  It was Tuck’s idea that we have movie night and watch The Shining. Doro alternated hiding her head on Maddy’s chest and behind a pillow. Grace and I sat on either sides of Tuck, ducking our heads under his armpits whenever Jack Nicholson appeared.

  “Gaggle of scaredy cat women we got here, boy,” Maddy said to Tuck.

  “Good times,” I said, resting my head back against the chaise.

  “You wrote to Clifford for a while, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah, but at some point he stopped responding, and he stopped coming to the Inn.”

  “Maybe his fake book got finished.” Tuck laughed.

  “Shut up. He let me read the first page, and it was beautiful.”

  “Well, I still say he was a weirdo. And I’m willing to bet you publish your book before he does!”

  My book about Jillsandra. The book about nothing.

  I sighed. “I seem to have permanent writer’s block.”

  Tuck leaned his head back so our heads were touching. “It’ll happen for you, Jo Jo.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. Everyone’s always known you’d be a writer.” He shifted his head so our eyes were close, so close that our mouths breathed in and out the same air.

  “I always knew.”

  The wine had once again worked its magic on me. As the stars danced above, I felt calm, peaceful. The relaxed way you can only feel with an old friend.

  “I like it here. It feels safe.”

  Tuck was quiet. I knew we were both thinking about Grace.

  “You’re safe here with me.”

  “I know that.”

  And I did. I felt secure with this boy who had known me through acne and heartbreak and braces and loss. I nuzzled my head against his and, once again, Tom’s face pierced my thoughts. You left me, Tom.

  “Tuck,” I began. Could I trust myself? Could I trust Tuck who had known me most of my life? Could I share with him the secret Dr. Weisz said I needed to let go.

  But to those searching eyes I could say nothing.

  We lingered like that, our mouths dangerously close. The Woodbury High quarterback who had alternately invaded my adolescent fantasies and driven me crazy was a man now, and although in my heart I knew he was Grace’s, Debra’s, for a few hours he was mine. Filling my wine glass. Not judging.

  The door opened and Debra stepped out in an open weave white robe. Her hair swept up and no makeup, she was stunning. She looked warily from me to Tuck. Her eyes on Tuck, she said, “JoAnna, your, uh, Mr. Blair called. He was concerned because it’s so late. He wanted to make sure you’re okay.” Debra’s eyes never moved from Tuck’s.

  I pushed myself up to a standing position and steadied myself on the nearby table. The effects of the wine had worn off, yet I still felt a bit lightheaded and my stomach churned.

  “I better go.”

  “You okay to drive?” Tuck was on his feet, slipping his flip flops back on. “Need me to run you home?’ In my mind I saw images of Tuck running me home, running Grace home, running us both home, the windows rolled down in his Jeep, Bon Jovi blaring. Yes, take me home, I thought.

  “No, I’m fine,” I said. Debra smiled weakly at me, her face registering the empty bottle of wine on the deck. “Thank you for dinner, Debra. I really did enjoy meeting you.” My tongue felt heavy, but I enunciated the words carefully.

  “Anytime,” she said, which I doubted she meant.

  And then I was back in my Corolla, driving away from the couple standing in the doorway, arms around each other. Away from the shaky deck and the sturdy oak. Away from the memories of a Mt. Moriah that were, for better or worse, part of me. Away from the dreaming child and the cozy bed.

  Back toward home. Wherever home was.

  25

  STILL SMALL VOICE

  TAPED TO THE APRIL DOOR WAS A NOTE, scratched in Maddy’s almost illegible script. Tom called again. The last word was underlined.

  But my mind was miles away from Tom and Chicago. Bouncing in my mind were a million memories stirred up by my evening with Tuck. My eyes glanced at the stairs leading to the attic at the end of the hall: my room. I almost climbed up, but I couldn’t. For it wasn’t just my room: It felt like Grace’s room too. I was not ready to open the door to those memories.

  My stomach was doing flip flops, and I rushed to the bathroom. In my panties was the smallest spot of blood. I wiped myself, finding another trace on the toilet paper.

  “Well, is that it then?” I asked to no one in particular. I washed myself and searched the cabinets for a maxi pad. Doro usually kept the bathrooms well equipped for guests. I found a small package and inserted a liner into my panties. Tossing my clothes on the floor, I pulled a t-shirt over my head, and climbed into bed.
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  I pulled the sheet and comforter up, smoothing them around my chin so that only my face was visible. My heart and mind were racing: What did the blood mean? I found myself whispering, “Please. Please.”

  But I didn’t know what I was asking for, nor did I know whom I was asking.

  Outside my window the sound of mewing, the scornful cat’s outline punctuating the moonlight.

  I was awakened at seven by Maddy’s booming voice.

  “Church, little thing. Wake up.”

  I was drifting through those last layers of sleep—the moments before you realize you’re worried about something, before you remember where you are and even who you are. I floated to the top and opened my eyes. Tom was in Chicago. I was in Mt. Moriah. Doro was dead. And I didn’t know what I wanted for the rest of my life.

  “I think I’ll sleep in today.”

  “Are you sick?” Maddy leaned against the doorframe, a cup of coffee in one hand. He suddenly looked old to me. Grey. Tired.

  “No, I could just use the sleep.”

  “God doesn’t sleep. Get up.”

  Maddy’s “God doesn’t sleep” adage, articulated in just the right tenor, worked when I was a teen. But I was an adult now and said as much.

  The old man slurped his coffee. “Doesn’t matter. You’re home. House rules.”

  He rubbed his chest and continued. “I made bacon and eggs. They’re waiting on you.”

  Starting to head downstairs, Maddy turned back. “By the way, I need you to read scripture today. My liturgist is sick.”

  “Maddy!” I cried out, just before a wave of bacon aroma-induced nausea hit me. I rushed to the bathroom but only had dry heaves.

  And the pad was clean.

  “I’m doing this under protest,” I said, strapping my seat belt in Maddy’s Ford Ranger.

  Maddy smiled. “Hush. You’re just doing an old reverend a favor.”

  Leaning my head against the car window, I counted the streetlights as we passed. I had a vague memory of doing this as a child from the middle seat of our family Oldsmobile, my head in my mother’s lap. She smelled like Ivory soap and ran a soft palm across the top of my head, back and forth, back and forth. From my vantage point, I could see only the tops of the street lights and the greenest parts of the trees as the sun danced in and out of the foliage, playing hide and seek with me. Where was that girl?

  Maddy hummed softly as he bounced us along, over the potholes that he either didn’t see or care about. The banana I had eaten was salve to my stomach, and for the first time in many days I didn’t feel sick. I didn’t feel anything. I was drifting, sheltered by the forest canopy that had protected me as a child.

  When we reached the church, Maddy pulled around back. It was almost eight o’clock, and Ronny Glaser was already there, opening the church as he did fifty-one Sundays of the year.

  Before we got out, Maddy lay his hand on my arm. “I’m glad you’re here with me, little thing.”

  And then I considered what I had been too self-absorbed to realize. This was Maddy’s first Sunday without Doro. I leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.

  “I wish I could believe, Maddy. I wish my faith hadn’t left me.”

  “Did it leave you or did you leave it?” Reaching into his coat pocket, Maddy pulled out the day’s scripture reading. “Don’t just read it, Jo. Hear it.”

  Maddy stepped out of his truck, reaching inside for his Bible, torn, frayed, and stuffed full of notes.

  I climbed the few steps into the chancel and took my seat on one of the ornate chairs, sheathed in red velvet. I unfolded the page Maddy had given me. 1 Kings.

  As Lucie Leffler played the prelude, I watched the congregation trickle in. Someone had freshened the flowers from Doro’s funeral. The gladiolas had sprung to life, the Asiatic lilies opening. I remembered the choir director complaining about the smell of lilies and what it does to the vocal chords. And I remember Doro rolling her eyes.

  “God gave us beautiful flowers and beautiful music. Everyone just get along!” she scoffed. The thought brought a smile to my lips.

  Although I had only been away for four years, the congregation seemed to have aged a decade. Mr. Willis now walked with a cane. The Anderson twins, once pudgy fourth graders, were on the cusp of being beautiful teens. The Drummonds, married the summer I moved to Chicago, were toting two toddlers. Eugenia Page, a member of Doro’s bridge club for years, had lost thirty pounds.

  The choir processed, singing the opening hymn, “Just as I Am.” Many nodded to me as they took their place.

  Throughout the service, I was swept up in memories. Looking toward the second row, I spotted Genia Collins. She smiled at me—a weak, sorrowful smile. As surely as if it was real, I could see myself and Grace sitting on her right, stealing offertory envelopes and passing Gra-Jo notes—kicking my white patent leather heels together under the seat, until Genia, her eyes not leaving the pulpit, placed a firm hand on my knee. Her head still focused on the altar, Genia extending her hand for Grace to spit her bubble gum into. Grace and I punting a ladybug back and forth on the cushioned pew between us. Grace leaning up to take the flame from her mother’s “Silent Night” candle on Christmas Eve. Turning, those luminous cocoa eyes sparkling in the candlelight, Grace passing her light to me.

  Closing my eyes, my throat knotted as scenes from my childhood played out in my head. Kelly Abernathy throwing the baby into the manger and stomping off stage during the Christmas Pageant when she was four. (She was now twenty and a religion major). Wilson Hobart, overheated, fainting in the choir and knocking out the baritones domino-style. The Furnesses, whose nasty divorce kept them at opposite sides of the church, their poor children divided, casting looks at each other. The Remrods, who on the Sunday after their house burned, assumed their usual stance as ushers.

  As the Doxology concluded, I took my place at the pulpit and, clearing my throat, began to read. I was sixteen again and looking out at Grace.

  “A reading from First Kings:

  The Lord said, ‘Go out and stand on the mountain in the presence of the Lord, for the Lord is about to pass by.’ Then a great and powerful wind tore the mountains apart and shattered the rocks before the Lord, but the Lord was not in the wind. After the wind there was an earthquake, but the Lord was not in the earthquake. After the earthquake came a fire, but the Lord was not in the fire. And after the fire came a still small voice. When Elijah heard it, he pulled his cloak over his face and went out and stood at the mouth of the cave.”

  I paused, looking at the congregation before me: people who, through seconds or minutes or years of interaction, had formed me, loved me. Looking into the face of Genia Collins, I noticed her fighting back tears, the weight of time and grief bearing down upon her. Suddenly she was not the dominating, controlling figure of my childhood. She was an old woman who had lost too much.

  She was a mother.

  I look over to Maddy. I know, his eyes said as he nodded.

  I put the paper aside and stepped down from the chancel, taking my place next to Genia. Maddy rose and, as was his habit, took his glasses off and prayed silently for a moment.

  “Amen,” he said. And then, looking directly at me, “Thank you for reading the Scripture, JoAnna.”

  Clearing his throat, Maddy launched into a story about a little boy hiding from his parents. As was Maddy’s style, the story was riddled with punch lines and funny anecdotes. It was a simple story, the moral being that the boy’s parents knew where he was all along.

  “Now you’ll notice there’s no Gospel reading this week. I thought this verse from 1 Kings was an important one for us to hear—perhaps this week of all weeks.” Maddy held his hand to his mouth for a moment before continuing. “Next Sunday we’ll move on to the Good News. This week I want to speak from the heart, and share my favorite scripture.

  “It’s important to know the context here. At this point, Elijah had been speaking out about false prophets. He was fighting with the prophets of Baal and
challenging the king’s theology. This verse takes place after Elijah fled and took refuge in a cave.

  “Earlier in the passage, God asks Elijah what he is doing there. We see an Elijah who is weary in the way that so many of us are. He feels alone, isolated, and discouraged.

  “And God tells Elijah to go stand on the mountain, ‘for the Lord is about to pass by.’ And when Elijah does, what do you think he expects? He expects to find God in the powerful wind, in the earthquake, in the fire.”

  Maddy looked directly at me, those piercing blue eyes not leaving my face.

  “My friends, how often do we seek God in the wind and the fire? On the mountain top? How often do we expect our faith to rumble in our heart and make our hair stand on end?”

  Maddy patted down the few white strands that remained on the top of his head. “Of course, for some of us, that would take quite a miracle.” The congregation laughed; I smiled. The buttery lilt in Maddy’s voice was that of a Southern gentleman, a modern prophet. A calming force to the raucous questions ringing in my ears—and in my heart.

  “But those many thousands of years ago, God instead spoke to Elijah through a still small voice. Just as today he speaks to us in the quiet of our hearts. Often that still small voice is hard to discern.

  “Remember the father of Methodism, John Wesley, who describes his heart as strangely warmed. He didn’t say he was bowled over. He didn’t describe being swept away. Subtly and unexpectedly, his heart was touched, and he was changed.

  “God still seeks to warm our hearts, to speak to us.” Leaning his arms on the lectern, Maddy’s voice softened, the threat of tears apparent. “Someone recently said to me that her faith had left her. Does it leave us? Or do we not know how to listen for that still small voice.

  “Do we forget how to listen?”

  Maddy continued with a story from Vietnam, a reading from Henry Nouwen, but I stopped hearing. I gazed up at the kaleidoscopic windows, at the brass plaques commemorating the people who had given them: people who died decades before I existed. Whose voice had they listened to? And had they heard?

  Leaning back ever so slightly, I positioned myself in a beam of sunlight, tumbling through the olives and turquoises and auburns and ochres of the window panes. Was it possible that if I sat perfectly still, I could quiet my mind to the clamorous change overtaking my body? Quell my anger at Tom and allay my fear and my grief. Was it possible, at all possible, that there was a still, small voice inside me?