Things took a little different turn with the young folks having more money and working beyond the bridge. They started buying each other fancy gadgets from the catalogues, and you’d hear ignorant things like, “They ain’t gave me nothing last Candle Walk, so they getting the same from me this year.” Or you stop by their place, and taking no time to bake nothing they got a bowl of them hard gingersnaps come straight from a cookie box. A few in this latest bunch will even drive their cars instead of walking, flashing the headlights at folks they passed, yelling out the window, drunk sometimes, “Lead on, lead on!”
There’s a disagreement every winter about whether these young people spell the death of Candle Walk. You can’t keep ’em from going beyond the bridge, and like them candles out on the main road, time does march on. But Miranda, who is known to be far more wise than wicked, says there’s nothing to worry about. In her young days Candle Walk was different still. After going around and leaving what was needed, folks met in the main road and linked arms. They’d hum some lost and ancient song, and then there’d be a string of lights moving through the east woods out to the bluff over the ocean. They’d all raise them candles, facing east, and say, “Lead on with light, Great Mother. Lead on with light.” Say you’d hear talk then of a slave woman who came to Willow Springs, and when she left, she left in a ball of fire to journey back home east over the ocean. And Miranda says that her daddy, John-Paul, said that in his time Candle Walk was different still. Said people kinda worshipped his grandmother, a slave woman who took her freedom in 1823. Left behind seven sons and a dead master as she walked down the main road, candle held high to light her way to the east bluff over the ocean. Folks in John-Paul’s time would line the main road with candles, food, and slivers of ginger to help her spirit along. And Miranda says that her daddy said his daddy said Candle Walk was different still. But that’s where the recollections end—at least, in the front part of the mind. And even the youngsters who’ve begun complaining about having no Christmas instead of this “old 18 & 23 night” don’t upset Miranda. It’ll take generations, she says, for Willow Springs to stop doing it at all. And more generations again to stop talking about the time “when there used to be some kinda 18 & 23 going-on near December twenty-second.” By then, she figures, it won’t be the world as we know it no way—and so no need for the memory.
But looking at Willow Springs tonight, it’s impossible to imagine such a day coming. The roads are all aglow, filled with young and old, laughter ringing out into the chill evening air. Even them sanctimonious folks like Pearl got their candles and shopping bags of gifts and food. Pearl wouldn’t miss Candle Walk no matter what Reverend Hooper preached. With everybody out on the road, she’s sure to overhear something. She ain’t too pleased with some of the talk, folks marveling about the cakes that Bernice Duvall brought ’em: I’m gonna have to tell that daughter-in-law of yours to come my way again. Ain’t tasted gingerbread like that since Mama used to churn butter. Pearl, you teach her to do all that? Coulda sworn there was fresh ground nutmeg in it, and real blackstrap molasses. Kinda gives you hope for this new generation, don’t it?
She’d move on away from that crowd quick. The ones over by the pine stumps is more to her liking: they’d just been up past Ruby’s and she wasn’t gonna let Junior Lee come out for Candle Walk. Ruby hadn’t been doing it much herself since she’d gotten so big, but she’d manage a coupla steps across the road to a neighbor and she always brought something to Miranda. This year she’s sitting up there on her porch, a candle stuck between her knees, talking about Junior Lee don’t need to be traipsing up and down the roads with all them little fast gals waiting out there in the dark. A peculiar sort of behavior for a landlady, ain’t it? And Junior Lee’s most peculiar of all, ’cause since when he let a woman tell him what to do? And you didn’t hear a peep from him. Might be something to that rumor going around—and now they start to whisper—that Ruby’s working roots on him. She’s got stuff that can dance rings around Dr. Buzzard’s mess; some say she’s even as powerful as Mama Day. And it ain’t no secret what she done to Frances, no, ain’t no secret at all. Frances went clear out of her mind, wouldn’t wash or comb her hair. Her city folks had to come shut down her house and take her to one of them mental hospitals beyond the bridge. But Ruby had warned her—and Pearl was there when Ruby warned her—deacons or no deacons, come the next full moon she’d stop her from hanging them hogs’ heads on her peach tree. But ain’t it nice about Bernice, though, filling out and looking so good? Why, I do believe … Pearl wasn’t there for the tail end of that conversation.
Abigail bangs on the door of Miranda’s trailer. Lights are flickering all up and down the main road. Miranda sticks her head out the door, red straw hat cocked on the side.
“You there, Sister?” Miranda says.
“Uh, huh.” Abigail’s bag of sweet orange rocks is bulging full. “Miranda, what’s keeping you so? Folks been out for ages.”
“Candle Walk ain’t going no place. They gonna be out there till dawn. Just let me get my Thermos of ginger toddy.”
“What? All you giving folks is a sip of toddy?”
“They better be glad for that this year. Three babies born in the last month alone, and everybody with a bad spell of the croup—I’m wore out. Had no time for baking and sewing.”
“Come on, then, but I’m ashamed to be seen with you. Lord, Miranda, it’s a little Thermos at that.”
“I ain’t being out here long—save my legs for better things.”
“We gotta get at least to the bridge road.” Abigail looks around, candlelight taking twenty years off her face. “How I love this night. Remember when Baby Girl could barely tip, she was out here with herself two candles. And we had to hold her by the scruff of the neck to keep her from falling over.”
“I do kinda miss her this time of year.” Miranda smiles. “But since she’s so far away. I guess it’s best she does make it back for mid-August.”
It takes them a good two hours to make it halfway to the bridge road. So many folks to exchange a word with, a new toddler to admire or hug. Off in the distance a round, bright spot is zigzagging along the road. When it gets a little closer, they see it’s Dr. Buzzard with a huge flashlight.
“Now, ain’t that nothing.” Miranda shakes her head.
Dr. Buzzard is dressed to kill for Candle Walk. He’s got a new pair of overalls, red flannel shirt, and even put strings in his sneakers. He’s surrounded by a horde of children, ’cause they know he keeps his pockets filled for them tonight with his special honey ginger drops.
“Lead on with light! Lead on with light!” Dr. Buzzard, face flushed, waves his Duracell at them.
“You’re lit up enough already.” Miranda sniffs.
“Lead on with light, Buzzard.” Abigail smiles and gives him one of her sweet orange rocks. “And you look right nice, too.”
“Why, thank you, Miss Abigail. So do you. And Mama Day, you is always beautiful.”
“You musta been Candle Walking since yesterday.” Miranda narrows her eyes.
“Naw, I ain’t. Just feeling good.” He reaches in his pocket and pulls out a handful of candy. “Here, give these to little Cocoa. She loves my ginger candy.”
“She ain’t little no more, Buzzard,” Abigail says. “Cocoa turned twenty-seven this year. And come April, she’ll—”
“Abigail, don’t bother. Buzzard’s so out of his head, he don’t—”
“I know what I’m saying, Mama Day.” He drops some candy into the tiny hands outstretched around him. “Don’t they always stay our babies?”
He starts on past them down the road. Miranda looks back for a minute and calls out to him. “Buzzard.”
“Yeah, Mama Day?”
“Lead on with light.”
When they’re making the turn to come back after reaching the cluster of stores at the junction to the bridge road, a truck’s headlights start flashing at them, coming from the south.
“It gets worse and w
orse each year,” Abigail says. “And if it’s some of them crazy teenagers, they gonna get a piece of my mind.”
They’re surprised to see it’s Bernice and Ambush, their truck all decorated with sprigs of winterberry and ginger cookies on red ribbons.
“Now, don’t be looking that way,” Ambush says. “We was out walking proper earlier. But we had a little something too heavy to carry we was bringing by your house. Bernice got your present, Miss Abigail. And I got one for Mama Day.”
Bernice had made Abigail a Sunday dress: lace that was tatted fine as spider webs over a silk chemise.
“I know you like pink,” Bernice says. “I hope it’s all right. Miss Pearl was saying it might not be proper for church service.”
“Don’t worry about that. Honey, this is so pretty, I wanna be buried in it. How did you get the time?”
“It’s so strange, Miss Abigail, with all that I been doing, I just seem to find it now.”
Miranda and Abigail ain’t gotta look at each other to exchange a smile.
“And this is for you, Mama Day.” Ambush brings her to the back of the truck and pulls up the canvas. Miranda stands stock still for a minute and Abigail gasps when they see the rocking chair. Bernice and Ambush think they’re reacting that way from pleasure—and the chair is a beautiful thing. Handmade. Seasoned oak treated and rubbed with linseed oil so that the finish under candlelight almost hurts the eyes. The domed headpiece and slats have matching designs, carefully carved petals and vines of intertwined water lilies. The spindles on the seat back curved so well to fit the body, a pillow wouldn’t be needed. A comfortable chair. You could be content to sit all day and night in a rocker like that, doing nothing but twisting, twisting on pieces of thread.
“I did every bit of it myself.” Ambush beams.
“Mama Day, he worked so hard,” Bernice says, “getting it ready for Candle Walk.”
“I’m sure he did,” Miranda whispers.
The young people begin to sense something.
“Don’t you like it?” Ambush says.
“Of course she does.” Abigail takes his arm. He don’t notice her hands are trembling. “She’s just speechless, that’s all.”
“It’s not that I’m saying you’re old or nothing …” Ambush begins.
“If you did, you’d be telling the truth.” Miranda manages to laugh. “If eighty-five ain’t old, what is?” She strokes the chair. “And if this ain’t beautiful, child, nothing is.”
“Ambush, what made you decide on water lilies?” Abigail tries, but can’t bring herself to touch the design.
“I don’t know—just thought it’d look nice. And you really do like it, Mama Day?”
“Very much so. Here, let me give you a little sip of this so we can finish up Candle Walk.”
While Ambush is covering up the chair, Bernice takes Miranda off a bit to whisper, “My seeds are doing well, Mama Day. They already starting to make vines in the kitchen window. And I knew Miss Abigail would like my dress, ’cause when Miss Pearl said she wouldn’t, I stuck a black seed right in the dirt.”
“Good for you, child. Come spring, we’ll take ’em outside.”
Come spring, Miranda thinks. Spring seems so far away. A lifetime away. Now, what was she gonna do with that chair? So much work, so much caring—could she bear to sit in it? It belonged in the other place, no use lying about that. She looks into Bernice’s eager and hopeful eyes. What kinda destiny is happening here, between you and me? I asked you to churn butter and you did it. Walk two miles a day, you walked four. Never thinking that something might be asked of me before we meet this spring. Now, I’m not so sure about myself, but I ain’t gotta worry about you. You’re gonna make it over that line. And maybe, you’ll just have to drag this tired old lady with you.
The rocking chair is waiting outside her trailer when Miranda and Abigail make it back from the junction. Some folks have thinned out, but the diehards will keep strolling till dawn. They stand there for a good while, just looking at it resting under the canvas.
Abigail sighs. “Water lilies, of all things.”
“You know, Abigail, we say it over and over again—life is strange. Still, something like this happens and it kinda knocks you for a loop.”
“You think he coulda heard …”
“From who? Mother died before his grandfather was out of diapers. And we ain’t even told Baby Girl about … And we should, you know, Abigail. It ain’t nothing to be ashamed of, it’s her family and her history. And she’ll have children one day.”
“There’s time before you saddle her with all that mess. Let the child live her life without having to think on them things. Baby Girl—”
“That’s just it, Abigail—she ain’t a baby. She’s a grown woman and her real name is Ophelia. We don’t like to think on it, but that’s her name. Not Baby Girl, not Cocoa—Ophelia.”
“I regret the day she got it.”
“No, Sister, please. Don’t ever say that. She fought to stay here—remember, Abigail?”
“I could forget to breathe, easier than I could forget those months. Sitting up with her night after night, trembling every time she choked. Oh, that child …”
“And she’s the child of Grace, Abigail.”
“Ophelia.” Angry tears are in Abigail’s eyes as she looks at the rocking chair.
“I’m gonna take that thing out to the other place. It’s where it belongs.”
“Tonight?”
“No, not tonight. But I might take a last Candle Walk over that way.” Miranda continues gently, “Is it too much to ask for you to go with me?”
“It’s too much, Sister.”
Miranda lifts her candle in parting. “Then, lead on with light, Abby.”
“Lead on with light, Little Mama.”
Miranda watches the slump in her sister’s back as she crosses the road to her house. For some reason, in many a month, she feels like she wants to cry.
There’s three sets of big woods in Willow Springs. The ones on the south end near the Duvalls’ where Dr. Buzzard keeps his still. The set running east toward the high ocean bluff, through Chevy’s Pass where you can find the gravestone of Bascombe Wade. And there’s the west woods, where Miranda’s walking now, that’s part of the forty-nine-hundred acres belonging to the Days. These start right out back Miranda’s trailer and move on toward the smaller bluff over The Sound. About midways in is the family plot, a lovely stretch of land within a circle of live oaks. Got Miranda’s daddy and his six brothers buried there. Got her daddy’s daddy and his six brothers. Got Peace, Grace, Hope, and Peace again. They never found her mama’s body, although John-Paul and three of his brothers dragged the bottom of The Sound for a week. Mother flew off that bluff screaming Peace. And she coulda been put to rest with Peace—and later on, Peace again.
Ophelia. No comfort in that graveyard for Miranda tonight. She heads on toward the other place, but her steps are slow and halting. Miranda could walk those west woods stone blind. She knows every crook and bend, every tree that falls and those that are about to sprout. But the light from her candle is playing tricks with the dark, making branches seem longer and bringing up shadows to look like rocks. She’ll go to step over and find she’s only stepping on air. Ophelia. Miranda stops and leans her back against an oak. She wasn’t meant to get to the other place tonight. A twig snaps near her right side, but she ain’t gotta turn around. A squirrel, maybe, or a gray fox. Nobody, drunk or sober, would come this far into the west woods at night. It’s too near the other place. And even in broad daylight, they not gonna make it much past the graveyard. Where do folks get things in their head? It’s an old house with a big garden, that’s all. Me and Abigail and Peace was born there. My daddy and his brothers as well. And it’s where my mama sat, rocking herself to death. Folks can get the craziest things in their head. But then again there was the other place, where she was gonna bring Bernice in the spring. Will she see just an old house with a big garden? She remembers the hope
shining in Bernice’s eyes. No, she won’t. But the important thing is, will I? Let me finish this Candle Walk, thinks Miranda, ’cause there’s something waiting for me to know.
Suddenly, she’s afraid. An icy ball cramps the middle of her gut. Ophelia. “I’m gonna finish this Candle Walk.” Her voice echoes through the empty woods, bouncing off the naked tree branches. And when it bounces back it carries a light breeze, and her candle flickers out. There’s a book of matches in her coat pocket, but she leans back against a tree in the comforting darkness as the woods she knows begin to take shape. The old pine stump around the bend from the other place, the Mayapple bushes near the clump of dogwoods, the rock pile under the scarred and bare hickory. The chill breeze picks up, coming around the bend from the other place. A wet breeze that’s rolling in from The Sound. It don’t take long to turn to a wind that starts whipping the dry weeds and bushes.
She tries to listen under the wind. The sound of a long wool skirt passing. Then the tread of heavy leather boots, heading straight for the main road, heading on toward the east bluff over the ocean. It couldn’t be Mother, she died in The Sound. Miranda’s head feels like it’s gonna burst. The candles, food, and slivers of ginger, lining the main road. A long wool skirt passing. Heavy leather boots. And the humming—humming of some lost and ancient song. Quiet tears start rolling down Miranda’s face. Oh, precious Jesus, the light wasn’t for her—it was for him. The tombstone out by Chevy’s Pass. How long did he search for her? Up and down this path. What had daddy said his daddy said about Candle Walk? She was trying too hard, she couldn’t remember. But she’d bring out the rocking chair. Maybe move back here herself after spring. Lord knows, she’d be back in that garden enough come then. And summer, it’d be real pleasant. Listen to the wind from The Sound. Maybe it would come to her. Yes—it just might come to her. Up and down this path, somehow, a man dies from a broken heart.
Mama Day Page 14
