The Art of Breathing

by Janie DeVos

  Willa Holton Harold was my mother’s maternal grandmother, and, according to Mama, she was quickly fading away in a nursing home over in Flat Top, which was the next mountain over. Even at the ripe old age of 92, Grandma Willa had been doing well until she’d slipped off an icy step coming out of her house one early January morning. The fall had broken her pelvis and left elbow. Mama had wanted to bring her back home to the orchard after her stay in the hospital, but Willa hadn’t been able to get up and walk because her pelvis wasn’t mending properly. Then pneumonia had caused a major setback, and we feared it was only a matter of time before there would be no strength left for her to fight with. With Willa’s immobility, the recurrence of pneumonia was almost inevitable, and I knew that when we lost her it would be very deeply felt, but most especially by my mother, for Grandma Willa had been Mama’s greatest source of strength growing up.

  Willa helped raise Mama, Prescott, and Merry Beth after their unstable mother, Anna, had died when my mother and her siblings were just young teens. Willa had always been there for all of us and we dreaded the day when we’d lose her. But she’d lived a long and full life, and as death stood like a silhouetted sentinel in the doorway, she welcomed it and was unafraid. She knew that crossing that ultimate threshold would release her from all earthly pain and the limitations brought on by age. But more importantly, death would reunite her with her beloved second husband, Sam, who had died two years before and was the reason for my last visit home. The loss of him, Mama explained, had taken much of the wind out of my great-grandmother’s sails.

  Rocking across from me on the front porch, Mama was just starting to tell me about Ditty when the phone rang. While she answered it, I was left alone to enjoy the quiet and beauty of the place. While I looked out at the fading light of the day as it lengthened the shadows of the trees in the orchard, creating abstract versions of them, a light breeze came up, carrying the scent of apple blossoms on it. It felt good after working in the kitchen. I undid a couple of buttons on the old cotton blouse I’d changed into as soon as we arrived home. Clothes that I’d worn in high school still hung in my closet and filled dresser drawers. I’d taken advantage of one of the blouses and a well-worn pair of dungarees, rolling the legs of the medium-length jeans into cuffs right below the knees. It felt wonderful being in my old, familiar clothing, and I was surprised but pleased to see the old outfit still fit. I had a small frame like my mother’s, but I was taller than she. The clothing was not the least bit tight, though it had been the last time I was home. I’d obviously lost a little weight, though I’d not noticed it before. During my time home, I would enjoy rummaging through my old clothes, and putting to good use those pieces that had my history imbedded in their well-worn threads.

  Mama returned from her phone call, bringing the iced-tea pitcher with her and telling me that it was Grandma Willa calling from the nursing home, wanting to know if Donnie and I had gotten in all right. Mama had asked her if she wanted to talk to me but the nurse came in just then to check on her, so she’d told Mama to just tell us that she loved us and would see us soon. Mama refilled our tea glasses, then, after taking a long drink from hers, began to tell me about Ditty.

  “Well, you know how he was staying in that little apartment over the garage at the mill? He’d usually come down for work about seven thirty in the mornin’, after Prescott got in. “Well, after there was no sign of Ditty come late afternoon, Prescott figured maybe he’d tied one on—again—and went up to the apartment to rouse him. But he wasn’t there and we haven’t seen him since. That was over three weeks ago. We’ve been fairly worried, but before you ask me why we didn’t call you, it’s because we figured he’d turn up after a time and that there was no need having you worry yourself to death, too. He’s done this before, Kate. It’s not the first time. He’s always come back, though, just a little the worse for wear.” She shook her head in frustration.

  “Anyway, we made some phone calls, but no one had seen him. Then, your daddy ran into Ronnie Coons up at the mercantile. Remember? Ronnie’s brother, Ray, married your Aunt Merry Beth.” I told her I remembered and she continued. “Ronnie told us that Ditty was over in Lost Cove, at least he’d been there the week before.”

  A near-empty settlement at the Tennessee and North Carolina line, along the Nolichucky River, Lost Cove had been big in timbering at one time, so railroad tracks were laid to it. But when there wasn’t enough lumber going out any longer, most of the trains quit coming in. That was the quickest way to kill a place in these parts. Only a handful of its die-hard residents had stayed, and because of its out-of-the-way location, not to mention the fact that the place was thick with rattlesnakes and copperheads, it was the ideal location for getting lost if one wanted to, and also the perfect spot for moonshine making.

  “Ronnie said Ditty’s working a still up there now,” Mama continued. “Looks like he’s following in the footsteps of my daddy.” Emotion choked her up, and she took another sip of her iced tea. Then she was quiet for a moment as she stared out over the orchard, though I knew she wasn’t really focused on the trees.

  “Mama, why’s he doin’ it?” I softly asked. “For what reason? He makes a decent living working at the mill.”

  “Who knows?! I have to think it’s the pull of that damned poison. Some folks just can’t quit it. It’s not that they don’t want to. It’s that they can’t. You know we have a history of it in this family,” Mama finished disgustedly.

  I didn’t say anything. I just leaned over and squeezed her hand. The soft creaking of our rockers and the arguing of two blue jays somewhere off in the orchard were the only muted sounds as each of us got lost in her own thoughts. Undoubtedly, though, we were both thinking about the same thing: Calvin Guinn.

  Mama’s father had been a good and honest man for most of his years. He’d provided well for his family through backbreaking work at his timber mill. But long hours and long relationships with customers hadn’t been enough to keep the family business going. The Hollis Mill, over at Flat Top, had taken a lot of our family’s business through means that were unethical, to say the least, and downright illegal, to say the truth. The end result was that it about ruined our mill, so, out of desperation, my grandfather did what he had to in order to keep food on the table and a roof over the family’s head: He started making moonshine with my other grandfather—Daddy’s father, Gilbert Harris. It was not a skeleton our family was proud of, but like it or not, it lived in our closet. Both men paid mighty prices for their illegal endeavors: Mama’s father was killed in a shootout with the law at the still that was set up right in our own orchard. And Daddy’s father was sent to prison, where he died many years later from influenza. Through absolute determination, my father was able to keep the orchard going through hard and honest work. Now, it seemed, the apple didn’t fall far from the tree with Ditty making moonshine, too.

  I broke the silence. “Has anyone gone over there to look for Ditty?”

  “Your father had Ronnie take him back in there, but they didn’t get too far. Two men with shotguns, acting as the welcoming committee, saw your father and Ronnie comin’. They stopped them before they could get too far in. The men said that they hadn’t seen Ditty in a couple of days, so Ronnie and Jack left. They both knew those guys were lying, though. It was obvious that they just wanted them gone, but there was no sense in arguing with them. So, that was that, at least for the time being, anyway.”

  “I’ll go back over there with Daddy, Mama. Maybe Ditty will come.”

  “You’ll do no such thing, Kathryn, and I mean it! You could go missing just like Ditty, but not because you want to be missing. You stay away from there, you hear me? Promise me you will!”

  “All right, Mama, I promise.” I didn’t want to upset her more than she already was. “Answer me something, though: How was Ditty doing before he took off?”

  “Ditty’s Ditty, honey. You know he’s never taken life too seriously, and work even less so. Your daddy and I are still trying
to figure out who he got his ways from. He’s always been as carefree as a child in the summertime.” She looked away from me, off into the distance. “Reminds me of my sister, Merry Beth. I’ll never know what possesses some people to do the worst things they could possibly do, even though they know better.” Though her voice was low, I could hear the frustration in it. “Rebellion, maybe. I don’t know,” she continued. “But her runnin’ off with that no-good boy Ray Coons was more than just rebellion, I think. It went way beyond that. With your brother, it’s a different matter altogether, though. I don’t think he’s tetched in the head like Merry Beth, or my mama, but still, I don’t know . . . I swear . . . I just don’t know . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  As hard as she and my father had always worked, I knew my brother’s attitude frustrated her to no end. I sometimes wondered if she was disappointed in me for dropping out of nursing school to get married. She and Daddy had been so excited and proud when I’d been accepted at Watts. “Mama, I want to ask you something, and I want you to be honest with me. Were you and Daddy disappointed that I dropped out of nursing school to marry Geoffrey?”

  “Yes and no,” she answered quickly, as though she’d pondered the question herself. “Your father and I understood you wanting to get married, but we were sorry it couldn’t wait until after you’d finished school. It’s getting so that it’s just about as important for a woman to have her education as it is for a man. But mainly we just wanted you to be happy. So, the no part of my answer to your question is on account of the fact that you seem to be living a good life, and besides, we got Donnie because of the decision you made.”

  I smiled at her fair response. Though she liked to point out that a glass was half full, she wouldn’t hesitate to remind someone that the glass was also half empty if there was a need to. She had never looked at life through rose-colored glasses, and if you wanted a candy-coated answer, you had to look further than Rachel Harris for it. But she also tried to see things from other people’s points of view, rather than judging them. Because of that, she was one of the most logical and fair people I’d ever known. Sitting on the porch with her, I realized how blessed I was to not only have her as a mother, but also as a wise and wonderful adviser.

  “You are, right?” Mama asked.

  “I am what?”

  “Happy. Are you happy, Kate?” Just as she had in the truck on our drive from the train station, she searched my eyes for the truth.

  “I am, Mama. We all are. Well, I guess I shouldn’t speak for everybody, but I believe we all are. It’s just different in Cabot, than here. That doesn’t make it bad, though. But, sometimes, I wish Geoffrey would just relax a little more. He’s always caught up in work and reaching that next goal he’s setting for himself. Even when he’s doing something that’s supposed to be fun, like playing golf or tennis, he’s always got to take more lessons so he can improve his ranking in whatever league he’s playing in. You’d think he was playing head to head with the pros. I just wish he wouldn’t take life, or himself, quite so seriously.

  “Just this past November, our church decided to invite the two other Presbyterian churches in Cabot to have a father-son go-cart race to help raise money for Christmas gifts for the Children’s Home. The fathers and their sons would build the go-carts, then race them the day before Thanksgiving. Of course, each cart was sponsored by local businesses, with all of the money going for the Home. Well, you’d think Geoffrey was building a car for the Indy 500! He even went so far as to call that Indy winner, Lee Wallard, who was the guest speaker at one of the firm’s big dinners last year, to get advice on making Donnie’s go-cart ‘aerodynamically superior.’ Lord! He had that child dressed up in a miniature race-car driver’s getup, and it was so bulky that Donnie could hardly get into the cart, much less drive the thing. Poor little fella. I told Geoffrey that Donnie was not wearing that getup on race day, and if he felt so strongly about it being worn, he could do the wearing!”

  “Well, did he?” Mama teased.

  “I swear he would have if he could have gotten into the outfit—and the cart—and gotten away with it! Anything to ensure another Cavanaugh win.” I laughed because I knew the story sounded funny. But it didn’t feel quite so funny, and my mother knew it. She always knew what was going on deep down inside of me.

  She was well aware that there were things I would have changed in Geoffrey if I could have, but she also realized that I loved him. He had always been good to me, making sure I lacked nothing, in the material sense, anyway. Geoffrey was kind and considerate, as well as generous, but in a more restrained way than I was used to. Like I’d told Mama when I answered her question about being happy, his attention was just different—not wrong, just different. I was much more at ease than he was with being openly affectionate. Holding hands or an impulsive hug when it just felt right never seemed awkward to me, but to Geoffrey, those displays of impulsive affection, no matter how small, made him uncomfortable. However, all inhibition and restraint were quickly forgotten when the lights were turned out at the end of the day, and it was only the two of us. But I wished, for Geoffrey’s sake as much for mine, that he could let go of propriety a little more often while the sun was still up.

  Our arguments were few and far between, which was unusual given the fact that we came from two very different worlds. Even when there was a disagreement, true to Geoffrey’s style of behavior, we settled things with lowered, almost formal voices. Though there may have been a little iciness between us for a day or two, there was never a loud, heated exchange of words. I wondered, at times, if the world would stop spinning if Geoffrey’s voice were raised an octave or two, though I doubted I’d ever find out. I believed that another reason we rarely argued was that I had acquiesced to doing those things that a socialite, a wife of a Cavanaugh, was expected to do. Even so, as I stood at the altar promising to honor and cherish Geoffrey for the rest of our lives, I also made a promise to myself never to lose my own identity. And I hadn’t.

  Though I gave in to his mother and joined the garden club, and I went to the parties and dinners as well as hosted my share of them, I also stayed true to my nature. The gardening around the house was left entirely in my care. Our Italianate-style home took up most of our lot, but I was able to carve out enough room back by the toolshed for tomatoes, cucumbers, and some peppers. Still, I missed having a big garden.

  So, one day I drove out to Cabot Children’s Home, a place for orphaned and abandoned children. My intention was to sit down with the Home’s director, George Eisenhower, and discuss the possibility of putting in a large garden. After spending less than two hours with Mr. Eisenhower, I left with a new sense of purpose and a rough drawing of plans for a large garden to be placed behind the rear dormitory. That had been three years before, and there were now several gardens thriving. They helped to feed over three hundred children residing there, and served other purposes, as well. Gardening taught them a skill, and the discipline of cultivating and caring for plants that could either feed them well, or wither up and die due to neglect. As I told the young gardeners every spring, it was completely up to them. Thus, the children gave the gardens the attention that they themselves so craved and because of that, the gardens flourished.

  The only real lack in my life was that I had wanted to bear more children, to give our son a sister or brother. But when Donnie was almost three, I gave birth to a stillborn daughter, and the doctors had warned me that should I get pregnant again, both mother and child could very well be lost. I was tempted to try anyway, but Geoffrey was completely opposed to the risk I’d be taking, and out of fairness to him and to Donnie, I relented, for I didn’t want to leave my husband a young widower, and even worse, my son motherless.

  Mama’s yawning in her rocker across from me brought me back from my deep thoughts. I began to yawn, too. “Lord, yawning is contagious.” I chuckled. Darkness had nearly blanketed the orchard, and the night moths were fluttering around the porch light over the door. “Well, I guess that’
s it for me tonight, Mama.” I stood up and stretched, before grabbing my empty iced-tea glass. “I’m worn out. Guess I didn’t sleep much last night, excited about the trip ’n’ all. I think I’ll go ahead and take my shower. When Donnie gets back, would you send him on in and I’ll bathe him as soon as I’m done.”

  “You go on, honey.” She followed me to the door. “I’ll get Donnie cleaned up. I’ll put him in the big claw tub in my bathroom. He liked that last time he was here. You tend to yourself and don’t worry about us. Go straight to bed after you’ve washed up, if it’ll feel good to you. We’ll put Donnie down, so you go on now.”

  “Thanks, Mama. It’s good to be home.” I hugged her hard. “It’s good not to have to worry about the garden club, or a party, or even Geoffrey right now.”

  “Or go-carts.” Mama laughed as she followed me through the screened door.

  CHAPTER 5

  Withered Things

  “Lord, I hope those lilies aren’t half-dead and withered by now!” Mama called from the hallway as she passed by my bedroom door on her way to put some clean towels in the linen closet. It was the third time she’d made the statement since leaving the church after we’d spent the morning decorating it for Uncle Prescott’s wedding that afternoon.

  “They’ll be fine, Mama, really,” I assured her—again. “I put more water in the vases right before we left. They’ll be as fresh as if they were just cut.” And just to ensure that they would be, I added in a whisper, “Please, God, even though I know that’s really at the bottom of Your to-do list.” Mama wanted everything to be perfect for the big event.