Comfort and Joy

by Jim Grimsley

  Roads, houses, even trees, alive in his memory, passed by him in a dull stream.

  "I have something to show you," Dan said, as the car crossed the bridge over the Eleanor River.

  Wooden frame buildings formed something called the Harvey Crossroads. Ford eyed Dan cautiously. "Where?"

  "Turn right on this road. Not far."

  The woods had been larger when he was a boy. But farther down the road little had changed; the same barns stood in the same fields he remembered, the same farmhouses hanging back half-hidden in the shade of sweet-gum trees. Beneath another bridge, the Eleanor River twisted back on herself, clotted water overhung with shadows; downriver from the bridge was the railroad trestle, and beyond opened the broad field of his memory, once littered with cornstalks but planted now with clover. In the center of the bleak field stood the house, sentinel in its plowed ground, guarded by huge old trees. When his family had lived there, the children named the place the Circle House. The yard consumed the house in weeds and grass, and the structure itself sagged, empty.

  Ford studied the tiny house in perfect silence. He slowed the car and parked on the shoulder.

  Dan stepped into December wind. The smell of the air entranced him, he studied the horizon in amazement. The line of pines encircled the flat plate of earth, ragged and gaunt. Hardly different at all. Beyond the broad ditch and yard, knee-deep in weed, stretched the flatness of the field. Beyond those trees ran the river, drifting within her shadowed banks, flowing silkily, darkly through the pilings of the bridge.

  Ford appeared at his side and studied him. "Here?"

  Dan nodded. He studied the weathered clapboard of the front, the sagging tin roof, the concrete porch with cracked steps, ivy covering one wall. The front door hung inward on its hinges. Paint flaked from gray wood. Whitewashed boards covered some of the windows. The house stared blindly forward.

  Do you recognize me? Did you think I would ever come back? His body rebelled when he reached the front porch steps. He took a deep breath, watching his feet, which refused to move until he reminded himself the house was empty and a foot lifted. Found the next step. Ford hung at his elbow, as if afraid he might fall.

  He climbed to the concrete porch. Stepping with squared shoulders to the open door, he peered inside.

  No image of the past remained, not the least flicker. The empty front room echoed with the sound of his breath. Dry leaves clacked on the floor when the wind slid through the crack in the door; Dan pushed the door open as the wind gusted, and the room shook with a rattling like bones.

  Ford's expression changed when he saw the shabby interior. Part of the floor had rotted away, in the corner where the long-ago couch had rested. An old tin chimney flue lay collapsed in one corner, fallen from the wreck of an oil furnace, installed after the Crells abandoned the place. The sight of the machine eased Dan, giving evidence of other inhabitants. He had pictured the house as eternally empty, abandoned since the last stick of Crell furniture rolled away in Papa's truck.

  Both men crept forward, careful of the weak floor. The kitchen offered hardly enough room for them, narrower than Dan recalled. Ford had to stoop in one place where the ceiling sagged. Yellow grocery flyers littered the empty gap where Mama's stove had nested. The sink tumbled brown with dead spiders and insect wings, a slight breeze stirring from the partly open window. Dry linoleum curled across the floor, cracking underfoot. The back door, incongruously locked, yielded to force and swung inward.

  Outside, a porch had run the length of the house, but now it plunged downward into weeds. Wooden steps hung at a precarious angle. Behind the house, the old block shed stood firmly behind the tangle of an overgrown quince. At the center of the yard the headlights of an old car reflected the swaying grass. Rust ate its metal skin and its cloth interior hung in rags.

  The door that had once led to the children's bedroom swayed wildly as wind rushed across the field. "That was our bedroom." Dan pointed.

  "You're not going to try to get out there."

  "No." Laughing softly. "This place is a mess."

  Turning abruptly.Sliding past Ford, who crowded him against the door. They looked at each other. Ford said, "This place has been empty for years."

  "I know. I think I'm glad." Speaking matter-of-factly. "I'm almost ready to go. There's just one more room I want to see."

  In the living room he hesitated. Ford waited behind him. On the far wall, between the high bookshelves (which had made his mother proud, when she first saw the house), the closed doorway, perfectly preserved, stilled him. His parents' bedroom. He reached for the loose enameled doorknob and turned it. The door opened silently. The room, dappled with midday light, welcomed him.

  Cobwebbed windows admitted a landscape of the side yard, the field, the line of trees along the river. Part of this room had survived, but in the place where his parents bed had stood a great split had opened, as if lightning had slashed the wall like an ax. The room lay open to sky, the roof collapsed above it. Dan stared stupidly through the broken floor to the ground under the house. A plastic doll's foot lay half buried in the soft earth.

  "That floor's not going to hold you up, Danny."

  "I know. I'm not going any further." Searching the room, as if he might have left something here, those many years ago. Glancing at what remained of the bathroom, the steady drip, drip of water now silenced, the sink tumbled onto the floor, staining the floorboards with a stream of rust. Turning, Dan almost began the short walk to Ford, who waited in the doorway.

  But for a moment, as if beyond the window another time existed, he glimpsed his mother, young and slim, as real as if she were actually there, stepping across that snow-covered field, wearing the red dress Dan had loved. Arms wrapped in a thin sweater, she moved deliberately across the furrows, at last raising her head to scan the house....

  He moved to the window, heedless of the groaning floorboards; Ford said, "Danny, I swear, I'm coming in after you if you don't come out." But Dan had reached the window and lay his hand against the sill. Vision suddenly blurred and he could hardly see the field or the line of trees beyond. "I should have gone to the river," he said.

  "The river?"

  "Past those trees." He studied the ragged gray line beyond the field. "I used to walk out there."

  He forgot when and where he was, he became that right-year-old again, staring across the field at the pale walls of this house, low under the trees, stubby and nondescript on its cinderblock pilings. He could almost smell the river through the glass; and suddenly he was there, stepping along the bank tangled with honeysuckle, with husks of cattail, with thick beds of fern.

  "I would go to the river whenever I could. Unless it was dark, then I had to stay in the house. When I was at the river, I couldn't hear Mom and Dad anymore. It was peaceful." And I used to lie in the dead honeysuckle and dream of a cave beneath the river, a man like you in the cave, and one day a lion in a golden field. An arm circled Dan from behind. One day a lion in a gold field gashed my thigh, and I slept for a hundred days in your arms, and the two stood silently watching the distant line of the river through the trees.

  "I used to dream about you at the river," Dan said. "You lived under the water, and you took care of me."

  "Me?"

  "I didn't know it was you at the time. But it was."

  He turned to where Ford stood behind him. The shock on Ford's face confirmed for Dan that he himself was crying, though he could not feel his tears. Head resting against the now familiar roundness of Ford's shoulder, Dan found he could see the field again. Bare of any habitant. Clean of snow. The present reasserted itself. Today was Christmas Eve, and Dan had grown far past the eight-year-old who once wandered by that river. Now Mama lived an hour down the road, and she no longer owned the red dress. But as he and Ford traced their way across the weakened floor, he again felt his own ghost in the house, the small boy who still wandered in these rooms, searching for what he had lost.

  Early in the afternoon they entered
the Gardens of Calvary Perpetual Care Cemetery, and Ford stopped the car inside the gate.

  Flabbergasted, he scanned the field of graves, and Dan's heart sank as he studied the unfolding of surprise across his face.

  "You weren't kidding," Ford said. "They live in a graveyard."

  "They own it. It's how they make a living. I must have told you that a dozen times."

  The Gardens of Calvary occupied a low, rolling field, once farmland, surrounded by a sweep of pine for most of its perimeter, save one side, where a ditch and apple orchard separated the dead from the fallow field beyond. At the center of the burial spaces stood a marble Jesus, gleaming white, on a brick pedestal, arms spread downward in a gesture of blessing, face turned heavenward, as if announcing ownership of all these graves. At the base of the brick pedestal, rows of poinsettias lifted verdant and red leaves as a carpet for Jesus' feet.

  Surrounding the standing Christ, on all sides, bronze markers lay flat in the dry winter grass. Graves reached to the foot of the apple trees on one side, but elsewhere the population of deceased had only partially filled the field, and grave markers were visible only as depressions in the grass. Here was a cemetery designed for the convenience of the lawn mower, lacking standing tombstones altogether.

  "What do you do when you own a graveyard?"

  "Sell graves. Dig graves. Keep the grass mowed. Bury people. Mom runs the office. That's it, back there in the trees. It's also their house."

  Far at the back of the field, beneath the enormous branches of a pecan tree, a small, neat trailer nested among well-tended shrubs and dark-leaved plum trees. Shadows of interwoven branches dappled the cream walls. An office had been added to the front of the trailer and that door opened now. A trim woman hesitated behind the aluminum storm door, glare obscuring her face. "That's Mom." Dan felt the hand in his stomach again, along with another feeling, the warm rush of her presence. "She's trying to figure out if it's us or if it's somebody who's come to visit a grave."

  Ford studied her. "I bet she knows it's us." Ford released the brake and eased the car along the loop road.

  She must have suspected, at least, for she continued to wait in the open doorway as the car slipped past rows of flowerpots, neat brass markers nestled in dry grass; past the mausoleum atop which another Christ, also bleached white as bone, knelt in .prayer. As the car neared the gravel parking area in front of the cemetery office, she waved and stepped free of the doorway.

  Seeing her again, all Dan's fear returned. Mother and son watched each other, exchanging code. Then Mother turned her eyes calmly to Ford, nodding hello.

  Even in her mid-fifties Ellen Crell Burley retained the dark curls of her youth, the graceful hands, slim figure, fine skin, and strong facial bones that characterized her and that she had passed to her children. Wrapping a sweater close around her, she inspected Ford's parking. The car stopped, and Dan opened the door.

  Detachment flooded him with the winter air. Distant, hovering above himself, he crossed the gravel to embrace her, cheeks touching, her kiss cool and dry. Hearing Ford's footsteps behind him.

  She turned to Ford, her face a calm mask. "Well, I guess I know who you are."

  "Yes, ma'am, I guess you do," Ford said. "I'm glad to meet you."

  Ford and Ellen studied each other. Dan stepped back, making room. Ford leaned over Dan's mother and embraced her gently.

  She endured the touch with a slight smile. She had an aversion to hugs; even her children only occasionally strayed close enough for contact, knowing not to linger. Pulling away from him, she said, "Danny told me you were tall, Ford, but I didn't know you were this tall."

  "Danny told me you were pretty, but he didn't tell me you were this pretty," Ford's voice edged with the social tone Dan expected. "Thank you for letting me come for Christmas."

  "We're glad to have you."

  Inside, she said, "You can both put your things in the bedroom. I made some room in the closet."

  The low ceiling of the office almost brushed the top of Ford's hair. Mom lifted her glasses to her eyes momentarily. "Well, Ford, you can almost stand up straight in here, can't you? My husband built this room onto the trailer, and he's right short. So he didn't think about how low he got the ceiling."

  Ford laughed. "I'm fine."

  The office contained a metal desk and side chairs, a typewriter, telephone, and answering machine. Two filing cabinets occupied one corner. Propped against one wall, a display of bronze and stone grave markers offered the customer a sample of the possible sizes and decorative borders of eternity. Over the display, framed behind glass, hung a neat drawing of the cemetery with the grave plots precisely laid out.

  Adjoining the office was a small den that Ellen had filled with Norfolk island pine, Chinese evergreen, areca palm, and wandering Jew, along with heavy wooden furniture of no particular type, and thick shag carpeting of many brown shades. This room had also been added and lay one step below the broad doorway to the original living area. The twinned rooms had always impressed Dan as pleasant in the past but with Ford standing at their center, illuminated in afternoon light, the furniture became awkward, the wood carving graceless and clumsy, the carpet garish.

  Mom waited on the steps, hands in the pockets of her sweater. "Danny. Bring the bags in here, son. Show Ford where to go." She met his gaze perfectly, with a slight smile. He stepped past Ford, and she received him again, embracing him briefly. "Did you boys have a good trip? I told you I would have picked you up at Raleigh."

  "Yes, ma'am, we knew you would have, but I like to drive. I don't get to do a whole lot of it, I'm at the hospital so much."

  "You're a pediatrician, is that right?" Mom liked doctors.

  "Yes, ma'am."

  Dan stood with the hanging bag in the small bedroom that occupied the end of the trailer. This room had been assigned to Dan whenever he came home to the Gardens of Calvary over the last years, and he had grown familiar with its cramped spaces. While Ellen Burley, since her second marriage, had adapted to life in a mobile home, she bore only contempt for what she called trailer furniture. She had stocked each of her small rooms with sturdy stuff from a real furniture store. The bedroom held a large, cherry bed, a matching dresser with a broad mirror and attendant bric-a-brac, and a chest of drawers, equally burly, which projected inches beyond its alcove, past the doors of the closet. The one window, at the end of the trailer, opened onto a view of the silver propane gas tank outside, supported on legs of spider steel.

  "Smells good in here," Ford said.

  "That's my pies," Mom answered, and Dan inhaled the floodtide of vanilla, the unmistakable odor of coconut cream and warm meringue. "I was so busy cooking I didn't even notice what time it was till you drove up."

  "We took our time. We drove down through some towns where you folks used to live. Somersville and Potter's Lake."

  Mom turned to Dan in surprise. "Why did you come through Potter's Lake? You know that's not the fastest way."

  "I asked him to," Ford said. "I wanted to see what the country was like."

  Mom laughed hesitantly, eyeing them both. An edge of fear crossed her face, then smoothed away. "Well, now you know. Do you want to unpack right now, or do you want something to eat?"

  "I want to unpack these clothes." Dan found himself shy of meeting her gaze. "We ate at Bob and Jean's."

  "You can't get anything fit to eat at that place. Too greasy. And me with a refrigerator full of food. I could have made you a sandwich."

  Ford chuckled and lifted white boxes of Dan's blood medicine from the suitcase and Mom said, "I need to put those in the refrigerator, don't I?"

  "Yes, ma'am." Ford handed her the boxes. "I'd do it myself but I don't want to be poking around in your kitchen."

  "Lord, you better not be." She studied the boxes. Turning to Dan. "I think I'll put this out in Ray's shed. I got an old refrigerator out there. Hang everything in the closet, Danny. I got my stuff shoved out of the way, I made some room."

  In the silen
ce, after she vanished, they each took a breath. Ford studied the room. "This is tiny."

  "I told you it was."

  Beyond the window, Mom slipped into the shed with the boxes of Dan's medicine.

  The two men wedged themselves into the space between the bed and the closet. Standing close. Aware of the open bedroom door. Ford said, "I think I like tiny. I've never stayed in a trailer before."

  "She still hasn't said where we're going to sleep."

  "You look like your mother. Did you know that?"

  "Nobody else says so." Dan lowered his eyes, hearing her footsteps.

  She stood in the doorway a moment, watching. The two men no longer touched but still stood close. She inspected them both, first Ford, then Dan. Who met her gaze.

  She sensed a closeness that made her uncomfortable. At least, Dan thought she did. "You boys take your time. Come in the kitchen when you're unpacked." Vanishing.

  Ford said, after a moment, "Why don't you go on out there and let me finish this. I bet she'd like to talk to you."

  In the kitchen, Mom peeled cooking apples over a stainless-steel bowl. When Dan entered, she merely glanced up, focusing on her work. "Ray doesn't like his apple pie with peelings in it. Otherwise I wouldn't even bother with this. I don't mind the peelings myself."

  Dan stood next to her, one arm around her shoulders. "It's good to be here." A pause of slight awkwardness. "We have to wrap some presents. I have to, I mean."

  She smiled, not looking at him. "I got ribbons all ready for you. And some pretty paper." She continued, all the while, peeling apples, her concentration fixed on the spiral of peel drooping into the pot. From the bedroom came the echo of Ford, whistling. Mother laughed softly, and shook her head.

  Dan said, "This is sort of funny, isn't it?"

  "It's right unusual, I guess. What did Ford's parents say?"

  Dan lowered his voice. "They told us not to come at all. It really hurt his feelings."

  "That's what Ray wanted me to tell you. But I told him there wasn't any way I could do that. And he hasn't said anything about it since."