This One and Magic Life

by Anne C. George

  Hektor nods yes. Father Audubon comes over and takes the package from the mantel. He takes the plastic bowl out, opens it, and pours a small amount of the ashes into the pickle dish. Chalice, Hektor reminds himself.

  “There.” Father Audubon closes the plastic container. “We’ll need some candles.”

  “Any special kind?”

  “No. In fact one candle will do. We’ll need some light on the beach, though.”

  “Okay.” Hektor goes to the table in the front hall where candles are always kept for emergencies. He gets several half-burned tapers and a fat white candle for Father Audubon. “Anything else?” he asks the priest.

  “A flashlight.”

  “What?”

  “For light.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  “And a white napkin.”

  Back to the dining room. This time into the linen closet. Tablecloths and napkins are stacked in neat rows that smell of detergent and starch. Later, he will be surprised to remember how beautiful Sarah’s linens are, what good care Artie has taken of them. But now he simply takes a white napkin from the top of a pile.

  “Okay,” Father Audubon says. “Let’s go.” He unfolds the napkin and places it over the pickle dish. “You go first.”

  “What in the world are y’all doing?” Dolly stands at the top of the steps, her blue and white bathrobe clutched around her.

  Hektor looks at Audubon who shrugs.

  “We’re sort of having a requiem mass for Artie,” Hektor says.

  “Right now?”

  Both men nod.

  Dolly turns to Father Audubon. “And you’re—?”

  “Delmore Ricketts.”

  “He’s Father Audubon, Dolly,” Hektor explains. “I went to Mississippi today to get him. May and I did.”

  “Are you serious?” Dolly points to the napkin-covered dish in the priest’s hand. “What’s that? Don’t tell me it’s Artie’s ashes.”

  “Just some of them. I left plenty for Donnie to scatter on the bay.”

  Dolly comes down the steps, sits on the bottom one, and puts her head in her hands. “This whole family has lost its mind. Papa goes and has Aunt Artie cremated and Mama’s having a funeral with an empty casket. And now God knows what you’re doing.”

  Hektor comes over and kneels beside Dolly. “It’s okay, honey. Your papa knows what I’m doing and he understands. Your Aunt Artie would understand, too.” He hesitates. “It’s for me.”

  Dolly leans over and puts her head on his shoulder. “What are you going to do?”

  “We’re just going down to the beach and Father Audubon is going to say a few words. That’s all. Reese and May are already down there.”

  “Can I come?”

  “If you feel like it.”

  “I need to go get dressed.”

  “You’re fine,” Father Audubon says. “If you two will go and join Reese and May, I’ll be there in a moment.”

  “What do you think he’s doing?” Dolly whispers as they go out the front door.

  “I don’t know.”

  “You feeling better?” Reese asks Dolly.

  “I think I’m hallucinating.”

  “I think we all are,” he says.

  “Lord God,” May exclaims, jumping to her feet. Reese also rises. Hektor and Dolly turn and see Father Audubon coming toward them in his purple vestments. He has lighted the large white candle which casts shadows on his face. Behind him, the porch light makes him appear to be looming, large, dark.

  “The grace and peace of God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ be with you.”

  “And also with you,” the four people on the bluff answer automatically.

  Father Audubon holds out his candle. Hektor hands May, Reese, and Dolly each a taper. He leans over and lights his from Father Audubon’s. The others do the same.

  “The Lord be with you,” Audubon says.

  “And also with you.”

  The priest starts down the steps to the beach. The others follow, their candles flickering in the slight breeze from the bay. Dolly shivers and tries not to trip over her bathrobe.

  “Turn on the flashlight, Hektor,” Father Audubon says. “I can’t see a thing.”

  “I’m sorry.” Hektor shines the flashlight down the steps. Don’t fall, Audubon, he thinks. For God’s sake don’t fall and drop Artie.

  Father Audubon begins to chant. “I am the Bread of Life. No one can come to me unless the Father draw him. And I will raise him up on the last day.” He reaches the bottom of the steps. “Where, Hektor?”

  “The edge of the water?”

  “Is that Aunt Artie under that napkin?” May whispers.

  “Don’t ask me,” Reese mumbles. “I wish I’d gone home with Irene.”

  “Yes,” Dolly says. “It’s Aunt Artie.”

  They follow Father Audubon across the beach. “His skirt’s going to get wet,” May whispers.

  “Shhh.”

  But Father Audubon stops about ten feet from the water, puts down the napkin-covered bowl, and places his candle beside it.

  “Let us pray.”

  Dolly wonders if she is having a vivid fever dream. Stars are falling all around her, and she can hear the music from the Grand Hotel where couples are dancing on Julep Point. And all she had done was to come downstairs to take her antibiotic.

  “Lord God,” the priest says. “Since our sister Artemis believed in the mystery of our own resurrection, let her share the joys and blessings of the life to come. We ask this through Christ our Lord. Amen.”

  “Amen.”

  God, Hektor pleads, please let her in. We all messed up.

  “Let us pray with confidence to God who gives life to all things, that he will raise this mortal body to the perfection and company of the saints.”

  Reese begins to sob. “Artie won’t get along with any of those saints two minutes.” May puts her arm around him. Audubon pauses for a moment and then continues more forcefully.

  “May God give her a merciful judgment and forgive all her sins. And may she be happy forever with all the saints in the presence of the eternal King.”

  Hektor recognizes the song they are playing at the Grand Hotel. It’s an old one from World War II, “It’s Been a Long, Long Time.” His mother used to sing it. His mother in that beautiful black dress.

  “Welcome our sister to paradise and help us to comfort each other until we all meet in Christ to be with you and with our sister forever. We ask this through Christ our Lord. Amen.”

  “Amen.”

  “Hektor?”

  Hektor is imagining paradise. He’s hoping it will be better than Artie anticipated. He jumps. “What?”

  “This is where we bury her.”

  “Oh.” He looks at May and Dolly who look back solemnly. Reese’s face is buried in his arm. “What do I do?”

  “Dig a hole.”

  Hektor kneels down and scoops out a small hole. Father Audubon hands him the bowl. For a moment, Hektor wonders if he is supposed to bury the whole thing, but decides not. He takes the napkin off and sprinkles the ashes into the hole.

  “Tide’ll get her before morning,” Reese says, wiping his nose on his shirtsleeve.

  Hektor covers the tiny grave. Father Audubon kneels beside Hektor and bows his head. Dolly, May, and Reese kneel also. Their candles form a perfect circle of light. Father Audubon places the fat white candle on the sand. “We commit Artemis’s body to the earth from which it was made. May the Lord receive her into his peace and raise up her body on the last day. Amen.”

  “Amen.”

  “Repeat after me: Give her eternal rest, O Lord.”

  “Give her eternal rest, O Lord.”

  “And may your light shine on her forever.”

  “And may your light shine on her forever.”

  The five remain kneeling in the candlelight. Above them meteors crisscross the sky. Tiny waves stir against the beach.

  “Is that all?” Dolly finally asks. She is thinking how
Artie would have loved this, the falling stars, the five of them with their candles, the pickle dish which Dolly has recognized, the orchestra at the Grand Hotel which is now playing “Blue Bayou.”

  “Yes.” Father Audubon picks up his candle.

  “I hope it works,” Reese says. “I hope all of her gets there.”

  “She will,” the priest assures him.

  Follow those angels into paradise, Artie, Hektor is thinking. Give the place a chance.

  Father Audubon holds out the empty pickle dish to Hektor who backs away.

  “I’ll take it,” Dolly says. She carries it to the edge of the water and rinses it out.

  “Lord, Lord,” Reese says, tears running down his cheeks. “Just seems like everything’s either shit or sugar, don’t it?”

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Seeds

  THOMAS SULLIVAN ALWAYS THOUGHT OF MOBILE AND THE Mobile Bay area as a woman. No wonder. She was plump, ripe, juicy; she wore too much makeup, too much perfume. And she was fertile. Seeds planted in her rich soil sprouted recklessly. The fish in the bay swam to the beaches. All Thomas had to do was reach down and gather them in.

  He had heard about jubilees while he and Sarah were living in the apartment in Mobile. The first one he witnessed was right after they moved into the house at Harlow.

  Sarah had been having trouble sleeping, but since they had moved, she had slept like a child. Even the twins crying for a bottle wouldn’t wake her up. Thomas gladly got up and heated bottles, a baby on each hip. He was happy to see Sarah lying there peacefully.

  The night of his first jubilee, he was dreaming his mother was calling him. “What?” he said. “What?” Sarah stirred beside him and he realized he had spoken out loud. He also realized there were calls from the beach. He got up and looked out the window to a sight he would never forget. A full moon cut a path across the water and lights danced all over the beach.

  Then, “Jubiliee!” he heard. “Jubilee!”

  He shook Sarah. “It’s a jubilee, honey. You want to see it?”

  “No, thank you,” she said formally. He knew she was not really awake. He looked at the clock. It would be an hour or two before the twins woke up for their bottles. He pulled on some old pants and slipped his feet into some tennis shoes.

  The scene at the foot of the dune was amazing. People were running along the edge of the water with crab nets and buckets scooping up fish, crabs, shrimp. And Thomas, stopping at the edge, saw that what looked like a dark wave moving toward the beach was alive—twisting, jumping. He moved back as a large fish slapped against his leg. The beach was silvering with the bodies.

  “That you, Thomas?” his neighbor, Buck Stuart, asked, holding up his lantern. “Where’s your buckets, man?”

  “I’ll have to go back and get them.”

  “This is something. Right?”

  “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “Don’t happen anywhere else. Well, get busy. Hey, look at that crab!” Buck scooped up a huge crab and dropped it into an already heavy bucket. “Better than a circus!” he declared, continuing down the beach. “Jubilee!” Thomas heard him shout.

  “Jubilee! Jubilee!” The shout rose and fell like a wave.

  Thomas picked his way through the squirming bodies on the beach, climbed the dune, and got a bucket and lantern. For the next hour, he picked up what he considered the choicest fish and crabs. They would make a huge gumbo, he thought. Fry the fish.

  “Hey, Thomas. How you doing?” People he had just met greeted him from the circle of their lanterns. It was a giant party. “Jubilee!” someone shouted. “Jubilee!” Thomas echoed as the wave came down the beach.

  By the time he got his heavy bucket up the dune and into the sink, the twins had already awakened, cried, decided no one was coming to feed them tonight, and had gone back to sleep.

  Thomas went into the backyard, stripped, and turned the hose on himself. Then, naked, he went and crawled in beside his sleeping wife. The next thing he heard was Sarah screaming, “Thomas! Come look in this sink! Where on God’s earth did all this come from?”

  “It was a jubilee,” he called. “I picked it up.”

  “Well, you just come here and get it out of the way. I can’t even fix the coffee.”

  Thomas smiled. He heard Artie and Donnie begin to whimper. Let Sarah get them. He turned over and went back to sleep.

  His job at the university had not turned out like it was supposed to. A dropping enrollment had meant that Thomas was required to teach two history classes as well as the Greek, Latin, and ancient literature he had been hired to teach. This suited Thomas fine, though. The day the head of the department had called him in, he was sure his contract was not being renewed. So when he was informed of the added history classes, he was relieved. And the truth was, he enjoyed them. Even more than the languages.

  Many of the students who signed up for the classical languages, particularly Greek, were planning on entering the ministry. Premed students were required to take Latin. They hated it. Their hatred was so intense and so universal, Thomas began to wonder how it was he had been captured by these ancient languages, how it was he considered them beautiful. Was it something his teacher had done that he, Thomas, was totally neglecting to do? Or was it the fact that outside Mobile Bay shimmered, cool, inviting, and the oscillating fan mounted above the blackboard did nothing but stir the warm air and hum hypnotically? Sometimes he would turn from the blackboard and be startled by the sight of the bay, its sailboats and barges. In February, azaleas were already banked in full bloom around the live oak trees. Spanish moss hung from the trees.

  “Would you look at that!” he might exclaim. And the students would look dutifully at the scenery they had known all their lives. “I’ve seen snow banked against the windows in Massachusetts this time of year.”

  It would have surprised him to know how many of these South Alabama students yearned to see snow. Just a few flakes. Snow up to the window was beyond their imagination.

  “Well,” he would say. “Back to Odysseus.” And heads would bend back over textbooks. Such nice young people, Thomas thought, not realizing that many of them were still watching snow drift down.

  Mobile, Sarah, the children, and the classes were a long way from Salem and the priesthood Thomas had considered.

  “Consistency,” Dean Huffstutler said one day in an address to the faculty, “is the key to good teaching. Imagine if you never knew when you turned your steering wheel if your automobile were going to the right or left. It would drive you crazy, wouldn’t it? Well, that’s how students feel when we aren’t consistent.”

  And Thomas thought how he had been headed for the church and New England and celibacy and here he was, far from all. He even knew when his steering wheel turned toward the left when he, with the help of his parents, was turning it right.

  It was the Summer of Celia. He loved the alliteration and had always thought of it as that, though he had never spoken to anyone about it, not even a priest. It had started when Celia, the Grangers’ niece, had come to spend the summer in Salem. The Granger house was next door to the Sullivans’ and like the Sullivans’ was a two-storied Victorian, too large for the lot it was built on. This meant the Sullivans and Grangers could easily converse through their open windows. It also meant if the shades weren’t drawn, each could see right into the other’s house. Which never bothered anyone until the Summer of Celia.

  She appeared in June, blonde, peachy, at nineteen a year older than Thomas. The Sullivans went over after supper to meet her.

  “Pretty girl,” Mr. Sullivan said.

  “Lovely,” his wife agreed.

  Their son didn’t say a word. Words had failed him. He went to bed thinking of her pink-golden skin, the way her dress curved. And while he lay there in the dark, a light came on in the Granger bedroom opposite his. He sat up and saw Celia unbuttoning her dress. She was no more than ten feet away. He should say something. At least lie down. Instead, he knelt by his wind
ow in the shadows and watched. She stepped out of her dress, her petticoat. Wearing only a flesh-colored silk teddy, she began to dance around the room, holding her arms out as to a partner. Finally, she opened a dresser drawer and took out a nightgown. Turning toward the window, she lowered the straps of the teddy and stretched. Thomas felt he could reach out and cup his hands around her breasts. He was having trouble breathing; he was afraid Celia could hear him wheezing.

  The teddy shimmered to the floor and she stood before the window naked. Thomas could see the dark V of her pubic hair, the way her upper legs bowed slightly. That was all it took. Thomas sinned mightily on the worn Persian rug that had always been on his bedroom floor. When he opened his eyes, Celia was pulling the nightgown over her head. In a few minutes, she turned out the light.

  Thomas crawled into his bed, spent, happy, confused. Even ashamed. Tomorrow he must figure out a way to tell her how close their rooms were.

  But he never did. The same thing happened the next night. And the next. The only difference was that Thomas kept a towel under his bed. And felt more guilty, if possible. It wasn’t until several years later that he realized that Celia had known exactly where he was and exactly what he was doing. By that time, Celia was married and a mother, and Thomas’s thoughts of becoming a priest were in the distant past, as blurred as the memory of Celia’s firm young body was still clear.

  He had no ties left with Salem. His father had dropped dead while he and Thomas were bringing a trunk down from the attic to pack Thomas’s mother’s clothes in for the church’s charity work.

  “Wait,” he said, quietly, the trunk between them on the stairs. He sat down. Thomas stood at the top of the steps holding the trunk by its strap for a full minute before he realized something was wrong. He had had to pull the trunk back to the attic before he could get to his father who had slumped against the banisters.

  There were three days between Thomas’s parents’ deaths. “A blessing,” the priest said. And Thomas knew it was so. They had been married twenty years before Thomas put in his appearance, startling everyone. And they had been good parents, loving, thoughtful. But, as Thomas admitted to Sarah once, he had always felt like a guest in their house. A beloved guest, but a guest, nevertheless. It was best that they had gone together.