This One and Magic Life

by Anne C. George

  He has closed his eyes to a slide show. Artie on the pier as they brought their parents’ bodies in. Artie at eighteen marrying Carl. Artie in the front hall with her suitcases packed. “I have to leave. I have to. You and Hektor take care of things.” “Where are you going?” “I’m not sure. I’ll call you, though.” Watching her drive away, running toward the road to catch a last glimpse of her ’50 Ford. Be safe, Artie. Be safe, sister.

  “Why did you let her go?” Hektor is standing inside the screen door. He looks as if he will cry. “Where is she?”

  “This is something Artie had to do, Hektor. She said for us to take care of things while she was gone. Okay?”

  “But where’s she going?”

  “To slay some dragons, Hektor. She’ll call us.”

  Artie showing them around New York. Her first opening at a gallery. A silver outfit, the skirt so tight she has to lie on the bed while he and Hektor zip her up. “This can’t be comfortable. You can’t breathe.”

  “I’m holding my breath tonight anyway, Donnie.”

  “You’re going to be a smash.”

  “I’m going to be okay, Donnie.” Hugging him, the material of the dress rough, like fish scales.

  “Yes.”

  The calls. “I’m going to Europe, Donnie.” To Japan. San Francisco.

  Be happy, Artie.

  “I’m happy, Donnie.” It’s Christmas and they are putting up the tree in Harlow. He looks at her and sees it’s true. She smiles and hands him a string of lights she has just tested.

  “Good. Dragons slayed?”

  “Sleeping quietly. What about yours?”

  “Sleeping.”

  “Merry Christmas, Donnie.”

  “Merry Christmas, Artie.”

  “And to all a good night.” She plugs another string of lights into the socket. It shines brightly. “Hey, how about that! You’re paying the preacher.”

  Walking down the beach. “I have lymphoma, Donnie.” The sun is warm and sandpipers scurry away from small waves, rush back to scoop up minnows. And the twins sit on the sand holding each other, their arms and legs entwined as they had been in Sarah’s womb, their tears the same.

  Donnie gets up quietly and dresses.

  “You okay?” Mariel mumbles.

  “Fine.” He goes downstairs and gets the plastic container out of the desk drawer where it has been kept during the funeral. My brother Adonis. The day he deems perfect. Bullshit, Artie. You’d be sitting around in this drawer for a long time.

  He puts the container on the coffee table and sits on the sofa looking at it. It’s as inanimate as it was yesterday.

  “What are you doing?” Dolly stands in the doorway. She has on the wrinkled khaki shorts and yellow shirt she changed into after the company had left.

  “Trying to decide what to do.” Donnie looks at his child. “How are you feeling?”

  “Better than I look.” She comes into the room and sees the ashes. “You decide when to sprinkle them?”

  “What do you think she meant by the ‘day I deemed perfect’?”

  “I don’t know.” Dolly sits down on the sofa beside Donnie. “What do you think?”

  “I’m thinking she was trying to tell me something. Something she understood and that I don’t know.”

  “What?”

  “Something about living. About each day. I don’t know. I’ll have to think about it.”

  “She enjoyed living, I know that.”

  “Yes, she did.”

  They are both quiet for a few moments.

  “Where’s Mama?” Dolly asks.

  “Asleep.”

  “You two are getting along splendidly.”

  “We always have.”

  “Don’t hand me that.”

  “And don’t you be sassy, young lady.”

  They grin at each other. “Let’s take Artie to the bay,” Donnie says.

  “Now?”

  “Right now. I think that’s what she intended for us to do.”

  “Okay. But first, I’ve got something I think she wanted you to read.” Dolly hands her father the book. She has marked the place with the scrap of blue paper.

  “What is it?” he asks.

  “The note was in her telephone directory. I found the book at the library. Miss Tallulah said Artie checked it out several times.” Dolly stands up. “Tell you what. I’ll go get me something to drink while you’re reading it.”

  It’s a half hour before Donnie comes to the kitchen door. He has been crying, but he smiles at Dolly. “Like I said, let’s take her to the bay.”

  “You okay?”

  “I’m okay.”

  “Do you want to get the boat or just walk out or what?”

  “We’ll get the boat.”

  Mariel hears the car start. She gets up and goes to the window just as they pull out of the driveway. She knows where they are going. Good. Be careful, my darlings.

  Because of the bluffs, most of the residents of Harlow keep their boats at a communal dock. The slips hold boats that range from small fishing boats with trolling motors attached to sleek cigar boats used (to the annoyance of the natives) for skimming across the surface of the bay at incredible speeds. Artie’s boat is one she has had for as long as Dolly can remember, a blue and white outboard with GRAVY on the side. It is kept in the same slip that had once wintered Thomas and Sarah’s sailboat.

  “Old Gravy Boat,” Dolly says affectionately.

  “I don’t remember when it’s been out.” Donnie puts the plastic bowl on the pier and unhooks the cover. “Hope it starts.”

  “We can always row.”

  “Old Gravy’s made me do that quite a few times.” Donnie jumps into the boat and unhooks the cover from the other side. “Come on,” he tells Dolly.

  She hands him Artie’s ashes which he puts on the floor of the boat. Then he holds her hand while she steps onto the seat. The boat rocks gently as they settle in.

  “Keep your fingers crossed,” Donnie says. He turns the key in the switch. Gravy coughs and sputters before settling into a steady rhythm.

  “Good girl,” Dolly says.

  “This is no girl,” her father says. “This is an old lady.”

  “Well, she’s still got some get-up-and-go.”

  “Old folks will surprise you every now and then.”

  They back out of the slip and start slowly toward the open bay. “You need any gas?” Jeff Crenshaw shouts as they round the end of the pier. Donnie waves no. The tank is almost full.

  He points Gravy toward the middle of the bay, toward the channel. The air, though warm, feels good blowing against them. Then sun is getting low in the sky.

  “I love this place,” Dolly says.

  Donnie nods.

  “I see Mama.” Dolly points toward the houses on the bluff. Mariel is visible sitting at the top of the steps. Dolly waves to her but Mariel apparently doesn’t see them and doesn’t wave back. “Daydreaming,” Dolly says. “I see Cousin Bo, too. Down on the beach.” She waves at him, but he doesn’t see them. He has what looks like a stick in his hand, and he’s writing in the sand. “Where are we going, Papa?”

  “To the center.”

  There is very little traffic on the bay today, not like there will be tomorrow and Sunday when the sailors and fishermen are out from Mobile. Even the Grand Hotel at Point Clear seems somnolent. No one is on the grounds and the beach seems deserted. Tomorrow it will be a different story.

  “How will we know we are in the middle?” Dolly asks.

  “I’ll deem it.” They smile at each other. Dolly leans back and closes her eyes. The heat and the sound of Gravy’s motor are making her drowsy again. “Almond cream pie,” she says to Artie who has taken her to Sunday dinner at the Grand Hotel. “Almond cream pie.”

  “What did you say?” her father asks.

  “I said ‘Almond cream pie.’ I was thinking about the Grand Hotel.”

  “I used to dream about it when I was away from here. I swear I t
hink that’s why Artie liked the smell of almonds so.”

  “I never thought of that. I can remember her laying away a couple of pieces at a time, though.”

  “And never gaining an ounce. It killed your mama.”

  “Artie as a sister-in-law must have been pretty formidable. Do you know, I don’t think I really thought about that much until this week.”

  “Your mama can be pretty formidable in her own way.”

  “I’ve been thinking about that, too. It must have made your life complicated at times.”

  “Certainly interesting. What drove me the craziest, though, was how much they were alike, deep down. And I seemed to be the only one who could see it.”

  “I can’t see it,” Dolly says.

  “Nobody else can, honey. But they are. They’re both strong women; take my word for it. That’s why they never could get along with each other.”

  “Do you think if Carl had lived, Artie would have stayed here?”

  “Harlow was always her security.”

  “You were her security.”

  “And she was mine.” Which, of course, Dolly knows has always been the contention between Artie and Mariel.

  Dolly holds her hand out and catches some spray. “Do you think Artie ever had another great love? I’ve been thinking about that, too. Besides Carl, I mean.”

  “Yes.”

  “Who was he?”

  “I don’t know, honey.”

  He’s lying, but Dolly doesn’t mind. She rubs her wet hand against her shorts and asks, “Have you ever heard, Papa, that psychologists say we marry ourselves?”

  “And you look at your mama and me and wonder about it?”

  “Well, yours is the only marriage I have to go by. Do you think it’s true?”

  Donnie thinks for a moment. “Probably. I think your mama and I are opposite sides of the same coin with the edges beginning to blur.”

  And Bobby? Dolly feels the familiar rush of pain. There were no dividing lines, Bobby. What you did to yourself, you did to me.

  “Everything will turn out fine,” her father says, reading her thoughts. Dolly reaches over and pats him on the leg.

  They are now in the ship channel with no barge or large boat in sight. The few sailboats and small fishing boats are clustered near the beach. Donnie cuts the engine down. “Here?” he asks. Dolly nods.

  Donnie turns off the motor and they drift. Waves slap against the boat; seagulls squawk above them.

  “The current here will take her to the gulf,” Donnie says. Dolly nods.

  Donnie picks up the plastic bowl and takes the top off. I scarce know which greater be, what I keep of you, or you rob of me. You are robbing me, Artie. “Do you want to say anything?” he asks Dolly. She says no. “Do you want to sprinkle some of the ashes?” Dolly again shakes her head.

  “Then I better get to it. I’ll need you to move, though, so I can put some on that side.” Dolly sits on the back of the seat.

  “I commend my sister to you, Lord,” Donnie says. “I loved her. We all did. We ask that you be merciful to her and grant her eternal rest. May your light shine on her forever. Amen.”

  “Amen,” Dolly says through tears.

  Donnie holds the container over the side of the boat and lets some of the ashes fall into the water. Then a few more. Finally, he shakes the bowl. Dolly hears a noise that sounds like a fish feeding. Then he moves to her side of the boat and does the same, this time holding the container upside down and finally dipping it into the water to rinse it out.

  “Look,” Donnie says. “Look, Dolly.”

  Dolly looks behind them. The drifting ashes have formed a wishbone that is gleaming golden in the last rays of the sun. Artie would have loved this, she thinks. The light. It was what she was always trying to get on canvas. Now she’s part of it. Goodbye. Goodbye.

  They sit quietly for a few minutes watching the wishbone widen, change shapes, get caught in ripples.

  “Let’s go home now,” Donnie says.

  “Not yet. Let’s wait for the sun to go down. It’s almost to the horizon.”

  At that moment a breeze springs up and the wishbone’s forward motion quickens toward the light. The hot, cold, dangerous, forgiving light.

  “Lord!” Dolly stands up and shouts. “Lord! Here comes Artie!”

  They drift until the last chord of sun disappears and Dolly says, “Okay, Papa. We can go home now.”

  And they do.

  FORTY-ONE

  Waiting for Artie

  “I DECLARE I LOVE THIS TIME OF THE DAY,” SARAH SULLIVAN says. She is sitting in a yellow canvas chair at the end of the community pier. The setting sun is making her hair golden.

  “Anybody else want this last tomato sandwich?” Thomas Sullivan asks.

  “I’ll half it with you,” Carl Jenkins says.

  “Okay. Will, lend me your knife.”

  Will Cates fumbles in his overall pockets for his knife and hands it to Thomas.

  Sarah leans back and closes her eyes. “When the breeze comes up like this, it makes you feel like you’re floating.”

  Thomas reaches over her to give Carl his half of the sandwich. “Ana,” he says to the dark-haired girl sitting on the pier with her feet dangling in the water, “did you have enough?”

  “Plenty.” She splashes the water slightly; her toenails are painted bright red.

  “It sure is taking Artie a long time,” Carl says.

  Sarah laughs. “She’s pulling herself together.”

  Ana laughs, too. “That Hektor is crazy. He got half of her blessed and buried.”

  “I think it was sweet.” Sarah turns to Will. “Don’t you want me to hold Toy a while?”

  “No. She’s asleep. She’s fine.”

  “That’s a beautiful christening dress, Will,” Ana says. “I think it’s prettier than the one May had.”

  “Thank you.” Will rocks back and forth in his blue canvas chair, holding the baby against his chest.

  “The ladies of the church made it in one day. Amazing.” Sarah reaches for her glass of iced tea.

  Thomas leans forward. “I see a boat coming in. It’s probably Donnie and Dolly.”

  Sarah looks toward the boat. “I hope so. Dolly doesn’t need to get chilled.” She turns to Carl. “I think she’s going to stay here and marry the doctor.”

  But Carl isn’t paying any attention to his mother-in-law. He’s listening to the music from the Grand Hotel. They’re playing “Sweet Caroline.” When Artie gets here, they’ll dance. He hasn’t danced in a long time. Which is all right. It’s pleasant here.

  “Who knows?” Thomas says.

  But Sarah insists. “She’ll marry the doctor and have a dozen children. We’ll be great-grandparents, Thomas.”

  “So will I,” Will says.

  “I keep forgetting that.” Sarah smiles and sips her tea. What does it matter?

  “That’s my favorite dress, Sarah,” Thomas says. It is, of course, the black velvet dress without a back that Hektor remembers so well.

  “I know.”

  Carl gets up and walks to the edge of the pier. “I wish Artie would get here.”

  A man in a white dinner jacket is walking down the beach.

  “Have patience.” Ana stretches. “Listen to the music.”

  Sarah looks at Carl’s uniform. “You know,” she says, “it’s amazing how those Korean uniforms still look good. Still stylish.”

  A teenage boy joins the group and sits beside Thomas. “What’s going on?” he asks him.

  “We’re waiting for my daughter. What’s going on with you?”

  “Don’t know. I was just riding my motorcycle.”

  Thomas nods. “It happens.”

  “You want to fish?” Will asks the boy. “I’ve got an extra pole.”

  “Might as well. It’s nice out here this evening.”

  “Always is,” Ana says.

  “There’s tea and almond pie,” Sarah offers. “The tomato sandwiches are gone
. We can get some more, though.”

  The boy shakes his head no.

  “Hush, little baby, don’t say a word,” Will sings to Toy who has begun to stir.

  “It’s them,” Thomas says as the boat pulls closer to the pier. “It’s Gravy Boat. Artie will be here soon.”

  “It’s nice out here,” the boy repeats.

  “What’s your name, son?” Thomas asks.

  “Joe Murray.”

  “You Eugene Murray’s grandson?”

  “Yessir. He’s going to be wondering where I am. My whole family is.”

  “No, he’s not. Go on and cast. See what you catch.”

  “Papa’s gonna buy you a mockingbird,” Will sings softly.

  Donnie brings Gravy Boat into her berth. He and Dolly get out and tie the boat up.

  “Dolly’s going to be fine,” Sarah says. “Look how much she looks like me.”

  “May’s going to be fine, too,” Ana says.

  The lights come on on the pier. A slight eastern breeze stirs the banners on the boats. The boy pulls in a five-pound catfish.

  Sarah reaches over and takes Thomas’s hand. “It’s a lovely evening.”

  “I wonder where Artie is,” Carl says.

  Thomas smiles at him. “She’s be here in a little while, Carl. We’ve got all the time in the world.”

  About the Author

  Anne Carroll George is a former Alabama State Poet, cofounder of Druid Press, and a nominee for the Pulitzer Prize for Some of It Is True, a book of verse. She is also the author of the highly acclaimed Agatha Award-winning Southern Sisters mysteries. She lives outside Birmingham, Alabama.

  Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.

  THIS ONE AND MAGIC LIFE. Copyright © 1999 by Anne Carroll George. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.