The Prince of Tides

by Pat Conroy

  As we passed the row of stunning white mansions along the Street of Tides, we walked by the house where the most threatening dream of our time was in the process of being born. We waved to Reese Newbury, who was standing on his porch, looking out toward the river. He was Colleton’s most powerful man. He was a brilliant attorney, owned the only bank and vast acreage throughout the county, and was chairman of the city council. In that salute, we were acknowledging our future, our town’s most amazing dreamer; we were waving guilelessly and smilingly at the fall of the House of Wingo.

  The undertaker, Winthrop Ogletree, was waiting in the foyer of the large, rambling Victorian house at the end of the Street of Tides where he practiced his trade. He was dressed in a dark suit and his hands were folded against his stomach in an attitude of enforced piety. He was tall and thin and had a complexion like goat cheese left on the table too long. The funeral parlor smelled like dead flowers and unanswered prayers. When he wished us a good day, his voice was reptilian and unctuous and you knew he was only truly comfortable in the presence of the dead. He looked as if he had died two or three times himself in order to appreciate better the subtleties of his vocation. Winthrop Ogletree had the face of an unlucky vampire who never received an adequate portion of blood.

  “I’ll get right to the point, Winthrop,” my grandmother said officiously. “I’ll be dying sometime after my sixtieth birthday and I don’t want to be a burden on my family. I’m going to pick out the cheapest coffin you carry in this boneyard and I don’t want no high-pressure salesmanship trying to get me to buy some million-dollar box.”

  Mr. Ogletree looked both hurt and offended but answered in a mollifying voice. “Oh, Tolitha, Tolitha, Tolitha. I’m here only to serve your best interests. It would never occur to me to try to talk anyone into anything. I am here only to answer your questions and to be of service. But Tolitha, I wasn’t aware that you were ill. You look like you could live to be a thousand.”

  “I can’t think of a more horrible fate,” she answered, peering into a room off to her right where a corpse was lid out in an open casket. “Is that Johnny Grindley?”

  “Yes, he passed to his reward yesterday morning.”

  “You work fast, Winthrop.”

  “I do my best, Tolitha,” Mr. Ogletree said humbly, bowing his head. “He lived a good Christian life and it’s a privilege to be able to give him a dignified sendoff.”

  “Johnny was the meanest son of a bitch that ever wore shoelaces, Winthrop,” my grandmother said, walking to the casket and peering down on Johnny Grindley’s waxen, inhuman face.

  The three of us crowded around the coffin, studying the features of the corpse.

  “He looks like he just nodded off for a nap, doesn’t he?” Mr. Ogletree said proudly.

  “Naw, he looks dead as a stump,” my grandmother answered.

  “On the contrary, Tolitha,” Mr. Ogletree said, offended. “I think he looks as though he could rise up and whistle a John Philip Sousa march. Notice the animation in his face. The slight hint of a smile. You have no idea how hard it is to put a smile on a cancer victim’s face. Oh, I mean, anyone can put a fake smile on a corpse’s face. But it’s an artist who can make that smile seem natural.”

  “I don’t want no smile on my face when I kick, Winthrop,” Tolitha ordered. “You better write that down. I don’t want to be grinning like a chessy cat while folks go peeking over the side. And I want you to use my own personal make-up. Not that cheap crap you use.”

  “I use the finest cosmetics that money can buy, Tolitha,” he said, straightening up to his full height.

  “I want to be lovely in death,” said Tolitha, ignoring him.

  “I shall make you splendid,” he said, bowing his head in modesty again.

  “Poor Johnny Grindley,” Tolitha said, staring with a strange tenderness at the body. “Do you know, kids, I remember the day that Johnny was born in his mama’s house over on Huger Street. I was eight years old and I remember it clear as if it happened fifteen minutes ago. That’s the only strange part of life. I still feel like an eight-year-old girl trapped in an old body. Johnny was as ugly as a muskrat from the day he was born.”

  “He had a full life,” Mr. Ogletree intoned, his voice as serious as D-flat major on an organ.

  “He didn’t do one interesting thing his whole life, Winthrop,” said Tolitha. “Now show me the room where you keep the models.”

  “I’ve got one that has ‘you’ written all over it, Tolitha,” said Mr. Ogletree as he led us up the winding staircase. We passed beside a nondenominational chapel to our right and entered a room filled with a variety of caskets of all shapes and sizes. Mr. Ogletree walked directly to a mahogany casket in the center of the room, tapped it affectionately with his hand, and declared, “There’s no use looking any further, Tolitha. This is the only proper casket for a lady of your stature in the community.”

  “Where’s a pine box?” Tolitha asked, her eyes sweeping the room. “I don’t want to be a burden on my family.”

  “That’s no problem. We have a generous time-payment plan. You just pay a few dollars a month and by the time you go for your final reward, it won’t cost your family a cent.”

  Tolitha studied the casket with a shrewd eye for a long minute. She ran her hand along the embroidered silk that lined the inside of the casket. I walked over to a casket that had a picture of Christ and the Apostles gathered for the Last Supper emblazoned in silk on the bottom of the lid.

  “That’s a mighty fine one you’re looking at, Tom,” Mr. Ogletree said. “You’ll notice that Judas is not pictured. It’s a fine thing to be buried with Jesus and his closest followers but the manufacturers wisely decided that Judas should have no place in a good Christian’s final home.”

  “It looks mighty nice to me,” I said.

  “Tacky,” Savannah whispered.

  “I like the ‘Praying Hands’ coffin better,” Luke said from across the room.

  “Methodists seem to prefer that one, Luke,” said a pleased Mr. Ogletree. “But it’s actually nondenominational. Those could be Buddhist or Moslem hands in prayer. Do you understand my point? But I don’t think Tolitha would care for a picture decorating her final resting place. She’s always had the elegance of simplicity, if you’ll permit me to offer a compliment, Tolitha.”

  “No compliment needed, Winthrop,” my grandmother said. “How much is this model you first showed me?”

  “Usually it runs for about a thousand dollars,” he said, his voice lowering as though in prayer. “But because you’re a friend of the family, I’ll let it go for eight hundred twenty-five dollars and sixteen cents plus tax.”

  “I’ll think about it, Winthrop,” she said. “Now, could you leave me with my grandchildren for a while and let us mull this over? This seems like an important decision and I want to discuss it with them privately.”

  “Of course, I understand perfectly. I was going to suggest it myself. I’ll be downstairs in my office, Tolitha. Just drop by there on your way out. If nothing satisfies you here, I’ve got a special mail-order catalogue that lists every resting place made in the United States.”

  “What’s the cheapest job you’ve got here on the floor?”

  Winthrop Ogletree snorted as though trying to blow something unclean from his nostrils and walked stiff-backed to an unlit corner of the room where he touched, with only a hint of repugnance, a small, unprepossessing casket the color of a gun barrel. “This pitiful thing goes for two hundred dollars, Tolitha, but I could never let a woman of your stature in the community be buried in such a thing. Only unidentified drifters and the lower sort of Negro are buried in these. No, you wouldn’t want to embarrass your family by being seen in this thing.”

  He looked at my grandmother as though she had suggested that he bury her up to her neck in chickenshit. Bowing deeply, he left us to confer in private.

  When we heard his footsteps on the stairway, my grandmother said, “It makes me sick to think that ghoul is goin
g to see me buck naked when I’m dead.”

  “How disgusting, Tolitha,” said Savannah. “We won’t allow it. We won’t even let him peek.”

  “He has to get you naked when he cuts open your veins to drain the blood. I guess it won’t make that much difference to me then. I just wish it could be someone besides Winthrop Ogletree. You could add a little vinegar to his voice and pour it on a Caesar salad. If you’re drawing a level breath, it depresses him for days. Here, someone hold this.”

  She pulled a small Brownie camera out of her purse and handed it to Luke. “What’s this for, Tolitha?” Luke asked.

  My grandmother moved a straight-backed chair over to the first casket Winthrop Ogletree had suggested. She carefully removed her shoes and climbed nimbly on top of it. We watched. I did not speak. Tolitha climbed into the casket as though she were installing herself in the berth of a first-class railroad car. Lying down, she adjusted herself by twisting her body back and forth. She wiggled her toes and tried to stretch out. Then she closed her eyes and lay perfectly still.

  “I don’t like the way these box springs feel,” she said at last, her eyes still tightly closed.

  “It’s not a mattress, Tolitha,” Savannah said. “It’s not supposed to feel like a hotel bed.”

  “How in the hell do you know how it’s supposed to feel?” Tolitha asked. “Look, I’m paying quite a bit of money for this thing. At least they can make me comfortable. Besides, I’ll be in it for quite a spell.”

  “Hurry up and get out of there, Tolitha,” I begged, running to the window, “before someone spots you and we all get in trouble.”

  “How do I look?” my grandmother asked, nonplused.

  “What do you mean how do you look?” Savannah answered. “You look great.”

  “I mean how do I look in the coffin?” she said, her eyes still unopened. “Does this dress go with this color or shall I wear that purple one I wore in Hong Kong last Easter?”

  “We weren’t in Hong Kong last Easter,” Luke said.

  “That’s right. Well, I think this one is a lot more dignified. I hate for people to look frivolous when they’ve died. Take a few snapshots of me, Luke.”

  “I can’t do that, Tolitha. It’s not right.”

  “Look, I’m not going to buy this contraption until I see how I look in it. You wouldn’t expect me to buy a dress without trying it on, would you?”

  Luke took a few pictures, shrugging his shoulders at us as he advanced the film and shot from different angles.

  “Mrs. Blankenship’s coming up the walk, Tolitha,” I said in a half-scream. “Please get out of there.”

  “Who cares what that old bitch thinks. She and I were in school together. She wasn’t worth a damn then and she’s not worth a damn now. Now listen to me, children. I want my hair done up right when my time comes. I want Nellie Rae Baskins to do my hair and not, I repeat not, Wilma Hotchkiss, who should only be allowed to sweep up hair and not to touch it. Tell Nellie Rae I want my hair done up in one of those new highfalutin French styles I’ve been reading about lately. Something a little flashy. I want to give the gossips something to wag their tongues about even after I’m gone. And also . . . Is anyone taking notes? Someone should be taking this down. You kids will never remember all this . . . I’d like my hair dyed red.”

  “Red!” Savannah cried out, surprised. “You’ll look silly as a redhead, Tolitha. It won’t look natural.”

  Tolitha, her eyes still tightly shut, her head resting comfortably on the satin pillow, said calmly, “I was a redhead when I was a girl. I had beautiful red hair, not that sickening brassy color of that Tolliver girl who lives on Burnchurch Road. I saved a locket of my hair from when I was fifteen, so they can match it. Nellie Rae’s a good colorist. Wilma couldn’t color an Easter egg without messing it up. Besides, Savannah, who wants to be a natural-looking stiff? For godsakes, I’m just trying to put a little pizzazz in my funeral.”

  “A funeral is not supposed to have pizzazz,” Savannah argued. “Now please get out of there before Mr. Ogletree comes back.”

  “How is my mouth?” Tolitha asked. “I want my mouth just like this, I think. Take another snapshot with that, Luke. Remember, I don’t want that jackass Ogletree putting a big grin on my face. He’s famous for that. You know, happy to be up here with Jesus and all that crap. I want to look serious and dignified, like a dowager queen.”

  “What’s a dowager queen?” I asked.

  “I don’t know exactly, Tom, but it sounds like something I’d like to be. I’ll look it up in the Webster’s when I get home. Hand me my compact out of my purse, Savannah honey. I want to check my make-up.”

  Savannah reached into the giant purse and fished out a small gold compact, which she handed to our recumbent grandmother. Tolitha snapped it open and studied her face in the small round mirror. She dabbed some powder on her nose and cheeks, then, satisfied with the result, snapped the compact shut, handed it to Savannah, and closed her eyes again.

  “Perfect. My make-up is just perfect. This is exactly how I want it. Take another snapshot, Luke. This is exactly the shade of lipstick I want used. Ogletree uses stuff that they paint fire engines with. He should only be allowed to paint niggers . . . ”

  “Someone’s coming,” I howled, pointing toward the door. “Please, Tolitha. Please get out of the coffin.”

  “You’re not a bit attractive when you’re hysterical, Tom.”

  “You shouldn’t use the word nigger, Tolitha,” Savannah scolded. “It’s not kind.”

  “You’re right, princess. I won’t do it again.”

  “Someone is coming, Tolitha,” Luke said, whispering into Tolitha’s ear. “Please get out.”

  “Hee hee hee,” my grandmother giggled. “This’ll be great. A trial run.”

  Ruby Blankenship swept into the room, regal and inquisitive, her gray hair brushed severely back on her head, her eyes set like raisins in the sagging pastry of her flesh. She was a huge, grandly proportioned woman who struck immediate terror in the hearts of children. In Colleton she was thought of as “a presence,” and she stood in the doorway eyeing us with that peculiar overpowering intensity that older people who loathe children have developed to the point of art. Part of her fame in town was her insatiable curiosity about the health of her fellow citizens. She was a ubiquitous denizen of both the hospital and the funeral home. She had to be physically restrained at fires. She had a police radio in both her home and her car and could be found probing the wreckage at even the most grisly of accidents.

  “What are you Wingo children doing here?” she demanded, sweeping into the room. “Nothing has happened in your family for years.”

  Before we could answer, she spotted Tolitha lying peacefully with her hands folded across her stomach.

  “It must have been sudden. I haven’t heard a word about it,” Mrs. Blankenship said.

  Ignoring us, she briskly crossed the room and stood beside the casket, scrutinizing my grandmother.

  “Look at that stupid grin poor Ogletree put on her face,” she said, motioning to Luke with a bony, discolored index finger. “This whole town goes down grinning. He did a good job otherwise. Don’t she look natural, kids? She almost looks alive.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Luke said.

  “What did she die of?”

  “I’m not rightly sure, ma’am,” Luke answered, and there was real misery in his voice as he looked to us for assistance. Savannah and I both shook our heads, indicating that we were not touching this one. Savannah walked to the window and looked out toward the river. Her shoulders were shaking and she was approaching hysteria. I was far too mortified to appreciate the hilariousness of the situation.

  “What do you mean you don’t know?” Mrs. Blankenship demanded. “Was it her heart? Or some kind of cancer she picked up in Africa? Or her liver. I bet it was her liver. She was a very heavy drinker. I bet none of you know that. She left your grandfather in the middle of the Depression. I remember the very day she took
off. I took a casserole over to your granddaddy’s house. I reckon she’s got some explaining to do to God Almighty. When’s the funeral?”

  “I don’t rightly know, ma’am,” Luke said.

  “You don’t know when your own grandmother’s being buried?” Mrs. Blankenship asked.

  “No, ma’am,” Luke said.

  “When did it happen?”

  “Please, ma’am, I’m too upset to talk about it,” Luke said, suddenly putting his hands over his face and his shoulders, which were shaking with suppressed laughter.

  “Don’t be upset, young man,” Mrs. Blankenship said kindly. “Death is natural and the black horseman is going to come for all of us one day to ride us back up to the Judgment seat. The best thing we can do is be ready when the summons comes. I know you’re upset because you probably think your grandmother’s smoking in hell this very second. But that was her choice. She chose to live a life of sin and this can be an example to all of us to try to live better lives here on earth. Here’s a piece of Juicy Fruit for all of you,” she said, removing an open package of gum from her pocketbook and expertly sliding out three yellow-wrapped pieces.

  “Chewing gum helps you not to cry and it freshens your breath. I’ve noticed today that young children have hideous breath. Do you know why? Because their mothers don’t teach them to brush their tongues. I know, you think I’m crazy. But my mother taught me it was necessary to brush my tongue as strenuously as I brushed my teeth.”

  As she handed a stick of gum to Luke, my grandmother stopped her by reaching out and grabbing hold of her wrist. Tolitha, sitting erect out of the casket, then took the piece of gum, unwrapped it, put it in her mouth, and lay back down in her casket, slowly chewing the gum.