This One and Magic Life

by Anne C. George

  “Yes, Doctor.” She takes a small bite and forces it down. On the steps, her mother appears to be feeding her father. Mariel has on a pale blue dress that Dolly has never seen before. It looks like something Artie would have painted, she realizes.

  “We never really know people, do we,” she says to Dave Horton.

  “Probably not. Not completely.”

  “Do you know, sometimes I’ve wondered why my parents married each other. It’s always seemed like such a strange relationship to me.”

  Dave looks at Mariel and Donnie. They have been joined on the steps by their cousin Bo Hardemond who has come from Huntsville for the funeral. “Doesn’t look strange to me.”

  “That’s just it. Look at them. It’s weirding me out. I asked Papa one time why he married Mama.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He made me mad. He said he married her because she had a great butt.”

  Dave laughs.

  “It’s not funny.”

  “Well, maybe he just found it hard to put into words.” Dave puts his plate down between them. “You want some of this chicken?”

  Dolly shakes her head no.

  Dave nods toward the steps. “Who’s the man with them? He looks like he should have been the twin, not Artie.”

  “Our cousin Bo from Huntsville. His mother, Aunt Mary, was my grandmother’s sister. She wasn’t able to make the trip.” Dolly looks at Bo Hardemond and her father. “They do look a lot alike, don’t they? Those Harvey genes are potent.”

  “They sure are.” Dave stretches. “I’m getting full as a tick.”

  “This is the only place where I’ve ever heard people say that.”

  “Makes you homesick, doesn’t it?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Well, I’m sure I could think up some other sayings that might work. How about my telling you that one of my patients is half a bubble out of plumb?”

  “Only one? Is that what you wrote as the diagnosis?”

  “Sure. Had trouble with the insurance company, though.”

  “I’ll bet.” Dolly watches as Donnie hands Mariel something from his plate. “My God, would you look at that. My father’s actually feeding my mother stuff. I must be sicker than I thought. I’m hallucinating.”

  “You know, maybe he doesn’t know why he married her,” Dave says. “Happens all the time. It seems to have worked out okay, though.”

  “But it hasn’t. My mother stays at her psychiatrist’s and Papa’s the workaholic of the world. I don’t know. I’ve decided I don’t know anything about relationships.” Dolly takes a carrot stick from Dave’s plate. “Last night I was thinking that Artie was only twenty-two when she was widowed. Twenty-two. Now how could she have had the love of her life by twenty-two? Lots of Artie’s men were talked about at our house, believe me. But why do you suppose she didn’t marry and have children? She loved children, I know.”

  “Maybe all her creativity went into her painting.”

  “Maybe.”

  “And she had you.”

  “Which made my mother jealous.”

  The two of them smile at each other. “Families,” Dolly says.

  “Families,” Dave agrees. “Wait till you hear about mine.”

  Mrs. Randolph sticks her head out the door. “Dolly, you got a phone call.”

  “I’ll save your place,” Dave says.

  Mariel tells Donnie that she bets Dolly’s call is from Bobby, that he’s already called a couple of times.

  “I hope she doesn’t get messed up in that again,” Donnie says.

  “I’m scared she will. She says he’s straightening up.”

  “Dolly’s husband?” Cousin Bo asks. His arrival this morning had been a nice surprise. When Mariel had called and talked to Merry, his wife, she had said that Aunt Mary’s days were numbered and she didn’t know if Bo would be able to make it to Artie’s funeral or not.

  “Hell, all our days are numbered,” Bo had told Merry when he came in and heard the news. “I’m going.” Then he got in the shower and cried for Artie, his beautiful girl.

  “Ex-husband,” Mariel says. “They weren’t married in the Church, thank the Lord. He was connected somehow with the dance company Dolly works for. A nice enough guy—we all liked Bobby when we met him, didn’t we, Donnie? Of course, we didn’t know he was screwed up on drugs. What gets me is that Dolly did know it and married him anyway.”

  “Maybe she thought she could straighten him out,” Bo says.

  “I suppose.” Mariel takes Donnie’s hand. “Try not to worry. She’s a grown woman.”

  They sit looking out over the bay. They see Hektor walking along the water’s edge.

  “Hektor said he had Delmore Ricketts say a mass for Artie last night on the beach,” Donnie says.

  Bo has been told the truth, but he already knew Artie wanted to be cremated. They had talked about it. “A regular funeral mass?” he asks.

  “I don’t know how much they followed the ritual, but Hektor said it made him feel better.”

  “Just like I felt better having the rosary last night and the funeral mass this morning,” Mariel adds.

  “And I needed to do what she wanted,” Donnie says.

  “I’m just glad it’s over with.” Mariel lets go of Donnie’s hand and rubs her tense neck. “Too many people knew Artie wasn’t in that casket.”

  “But in a way, it was like she was.” Donnie watches Hektor holding out his arms for May who is running down the beach toward him. “I don’t think it matters, anyway.” He points his fork. “Look at that Hektor. Who would ever have thought he would get so wrapped up in a child.”

  “I would have,” Mariel says. “He didn’t surprise me going to get Father Audubon, either. There are depths in Hektor I think you’ve never give him credit for, Donnie.”

  “He’s my little brother.”

  “Who could buy and sell you ten times over. And you’ve always put that down as luck. Well, some of it might have been, but Hektor took his luck and ran with it. He’s a shrewd, complicated man, Donnie. And kind.”

  “Lucky,” Donnie says. He watches a barge coming down the waterway.

  “I want to live in this house. I’ve always wanted to live here in this house with Artie.” Bo puts his face in his hands and begins to sob.

  Surprised, Donnie and Mariel look at each other over Bo’s bent head. As tears begin to seep through Bo’s fingers, Mariel presses a tissue into his hand.

  Long married, Donnie and Mariel need no words for the ensuing conversation.

  Donnie, do you think? Bo and Artie?

  Don’t know. Guess it’s possible.

  Her first cousin who, incidentally, looks just like you?

  Don’t read too much into this, Mariel.

  But Donnie knows. Oh, my precious girl. My other half.

  Hektor and May are trying to locate the tiny mound where Artie’s ashes had been placed. As Reese had predicted, the tide had come up during the night and erased all signs of it.

  “That’s as it should be,” Hektor says. “Earth to earth.”

  “I think it’s nice,” May agrees. “We got her up to heaven.”

  The early afternoon sun is blistering hot. “We better go in,” Hektor says. He and May wave at the barge that blows its horn in reply. “Would you like to live here, pumpkin?”

  “Sure,” May agrees. “Just find me a mama.”

  “Nag. Nag.” He takes her hand and they walk to the bluff steps.

  “Did you eat lunch?” Hektor asks.

  “I ate a whole lot. I never saw so much food in my life.”

  “That’s the way the Harlow people do when people are in trouble. They come bringing food. They’re saying, ‘Let us help you.’ It does, too. Help.”

  “Mrs. Randolph said she’d pack some in a cooler for us to take home. Are we going this afternoon, Papa?”

  “Well, I don’t know of anything else we can do here. And I need to get back to work. And Audubon needs to get ba
ck to his fishing. We can come over any time Donnie or Dolly needs us. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Hektor turns to look at the beach again. He sees Artie setting off with her crabbing nets. Wait for me. Thomas and Sarah set out for a sail. Wait for me. Wait for me. I love you.

  “Go get your things together,” he tells May. “And find Father Audubon and tell him we’ll leave in about an hour. I think I’ll walk down the beach a few minutes.” The child runs by her Uncle Donnie and Aunt Mariel and the cousin sitting on the steps.

  “Whoa,” Mariel says. “Give us a hug.”

  May hugs them hard and goes on into the house, unaware that her father is standing at the foot of the bluff crying. Sunrise, sunset.

  There’s one more thing Hektor needs to do before he can go back to New Orleans. He wipes his eyes and starts walking down the beach. He’s not surprised when his mother, Sarah, joins him in her black dress, nor when his father, Thomas, in his blue seersucker suit appears beside Sarah. Artie in her peach dress smiles and takes Hektor’s hand. This is not a surprise. What is a surprise is when Donnie takes his place beside Artie.

  “You okay, Hektor?”

  “They’re here with us, Donnie.”

  “I know.”

  “Artie has on her peach-colored dress. She was a pretty girl, wasn’t she, Donnie?”

  “Not beautiful like Mama, but cute and pretty.”

  “What did you think of Mama, Donnie?”

  “Like I said, beautiful. But I felt sorry for her and I’d get mad at her.” He pauses. “And I loved her.”

  “Me, too.” They walk in silence for a few minutes, the tiny waves slapping at their feet.

  “Tell me the truth,” Hektor says. “What do you think happened the day Mama and Papa died?”

  “I think Papa sank the boat. I think he did it out of love and that it took a hell of a lot of courage.”

  “I think it was an accident.”

  Donnie nods. “Just telling you what I thought.”

  “True.” Hektor stops and says he’s going up Logan Creek. “You want to go?”

  “I think it’s past time we did.”

  They turn and walk along the slippery creek bank. “Watch for snakes,” Donnie warns Hektor.

  After a few minutes, Hektor and Donnie agree that nothing looks familiar.

  “There was a big water oak that used to be right about here. We dug the grave between the tree and the creek because the ground was soft there.” Donnie looks around, trying to get his bearings.

  “Guess Hurricane Frederick got it. Probably got Zeke Pardue’s body, too.”

  “I hope so.”

  “Did we wrap him in anything? I don’t remember.”

  “You weren’t but ten and you were pretty upset. Artie got a tarp from the garage.”

  The brothers sit on a log and look up and down the creek.

  “Does it still bother you, Donnie?”

  “Always will.”

  “I’ve often wondered what he was doing on the beach anyway. Like he knew we were coming and what we’d do.”

  “You thought he was the Devil.”

  “I’m still not sure he wasn’t.”

  “He fell off a boat, managed to make it to the beach.”

  Both men see Artie running to the figure at the edge of the water. “Zeke Pardue,” she calls back to them.

  “Is he dead?” The brothers rush forward.

  Artie pokes the body with her foot. Zeke Pardue gives a strangled cough, opens his eyes.

  “Remember how yellow his eyes were?” Hektor asks Donnie as they sit on the log.

  “His liver. All that whiskey.”

  “It was Artie’s idea, wasn’t it?”

  “Yeah, but when she said, ‘Help me hold him under’ we didn’t argue.”

  “I sat on him.”

  “And I tried to hold his head under the water. He was still pretty strong. I remember blaming him for everything that had gone wrong with Mama and Papa and just thinking, ‘Die, you bastard.’ ”

  “Do you remember the sound his head made, Donnie?”

  “Like dropping a ripe melon. God! Who would have thought Artie was that strong?”

  “And where did she find that piece of pipe on the beach?”

  “Lord knows. We had a mess on our hands, didn’t we?”

  “Did you ever confess it, Donnie?”

  “No. And I’m sure Artie didn’t.”

  “I told Father Audubon that the three of us had committed a mortal sin when we were children. He said he’d say some extra prayers for Artie. But Donnie, maybe it’s something we ought to start thinking about. We’d be forgiven, and it would stay in the confessional.”

  “Hektor, do what you want. I know you’ve always thought there’s some Supreme Being out there keeping tabs, and that you don’t deserve the good things that happen to you, like May. Maybe it would be best for you.”

  “What about you?”

  “If Artie’s in hell, Hektor, that’s where I want to be.”

  The log they are sitting on moves slightly. Beneath them, another bone breaks off the Devil’s hand.

  After Dolly hangs up the phone, she goes out the back door and sits under the pecan tree. Dave Horton finds her there in a few minutes.

  “It’s too hot out here for you,” he says. “Are you okay?”

  Dolly surprises herself by bursting into tears. “I want to live here, Dave,” she sobs. “I want to live here and have a dozen children and make everything turn out right.”

  Dave kneels and wipes her face. “All right.”

  Reese, sitting in the shade of Hektor’s truck, listening, thinks she just might do it.

  FORTY

  The Wishbone

  AFTER HEKTOR, MAY, AND DELMORE RICKETTS DRIVE AWAY IN the truck, the house seems empty. Mrs. Randolph finishes cleaning the kitchen and goes home, carrying supper to her husband. She has neglected him and her house long enough, she thinks. Tomorrow she will get him started on those bannisters on the front porch that he has been promising for weeks to repair. All he does when she isn’t there is sit around and drink beer and watch TV.

  But Mr. Randolph will enjoy the supper and not worry about the bannisters. Kelly Stuart has already called and left word for Mrs. Randolph to call her. He knows what she wants; he’s heard old Mrs. Stuart’s health is failing. He greets his wife and her offering of food happily.

  Dolly drives Naomi home and then runs by the Harlow library. In her pocket is the scrap of blue paper that fell out of Artie’s telephone book. The words may be just some casual jotting, but Donnie’s name in parentheses beside “Fruit-Gathering” seems important to Dolly.

  It’s a new library, not the old house that had been the library when Dolly was a child. The librarian is the same, though, Mrs. Tallulah Smith, who is curved with osteoporosis and who says, “Oh, honey, I’m so sorry about your Aunt Artie. Bless her heart. I wish I could have been at the funeral this morning. And how’s your daddy doing?”

  “He’s doing pretty good, Miss Tallulah. Thank you.” Dolly takes out the note that had fallen from Artie’s telephone book. “Miss Tallulah, I’m looking for something called ‘Fruit-Gathering.’ I think the author is Tagore. I don’t know if it’s a poem or what.”

  “Well, let’s look in Grangers Index.”

  Mrs. Smith leads Dolly across the shiny new floor to the small reference department. “Here you go.” She points to a large book from the shelf. “They’re listed by author, title, first and last lines. If we don’t have the book it’s listed in, we can borrow it from Mobile.”

  “Thanks.” Dolly takes the book down and sits at a table while Mrs. Smith returns to the circulation counter saying, “Holler if you need some help.”

  Dolly turns to “Tagore.” Nothing. “Fruit-Gathering.” Nothing. Then she looks up “What I keep of you, or you rob from me.” And it’s listed as the last line of a poem by George Santayana entitled “To W.P.” She goes to the computer and clicks on “Author—S
earch.” The Harlow library doesn’t have a copy of Santayana’s poetry, but Mobile does. She writes the title down. Next she looks up Tagore and finds a long list by Rabindranath Tagore. No “Fruit-Gathering” is listed. It must be a smaller piece in one of the many books. And how would that be indexed?

  None of his books are in the Harlow library. She is listing the ones that Mobile has when Mrs. Smith comes over with a thin dark blue book.

  “Artie checked this book out and renewed it and then had Reese check it out on his card and renew it. I think she got a lot of comfort from it. You might, too, Dolly.”

  Dolly takes the book. Its title is A Humanist Funeral Service. The author is Corliss Lamont.

  “I know your family’s Catholic and Artie had a regular Catholic service, but I thought you might like to see what she was reading.” Mrs. Smith shakes her head. “The title scares a lot of people off, but it’s a nice book.”

  Dolly knows what she will find when she opens the pages. She thanks Mrs. Smith and takes it to a table. And there it is on page twenty-four, a reading from “Fruit-Gathering” by Sir Rabindranath Tagore.

  Oh Fire, my brother, I sing victory to you.

  You are the bright red image of fearful freedom.

  You swing your arms in the sky, you sweep your

  impetuous fingers across the harp-string,

  your dance music is beautiful….

  My body will be one with you, my heart will be

  caught in the whirls of your frenzy,

  and the burning heat that was my life will flash up and

  mingle itself in your flame.

  On the next page is the poem “To W.P.” by Santayana.

  Dolly wipes her eyes with the back of her hands, then goes to the counter to check the book out. She thinks the book smells like almonds.

  With the shades drawn against the August sun, Mariel and Donnie lie in Donnie’s old room after making love quietly and unhurriedly. Mariel is dreaming she is walking through a field of daylilies. Suddenly she sees a blue one. At first she is excited, but when she gets closer, she sees it’s a silk flower. She jerks it from the ground. Someone is playing a trick on her. She turns on her side away from Donnie.