So did my dog. Dismay was beside himself with joy—living things! Air! Trees! He made friends with every tree he came to—I never knew one dog could pee so often or so much. I caught up with him at the base of Listening Rock, where he slurped his sloppy tongue all over my face in a frenzied Hurry up!, his breath smelling like lima beans. I buried my face in his shaggy neck and hugged him. “Good dog!” I whispered.
I made one last look-around for Declaration—no, not yet—then Dismay and I made our way to the top of Listening Rock.
A thick stand of rose of Sharon bushes guarded the path with strong woody branches full of wide pink blooms. Hummingbirds and butterflies nosed around the sweet scent. I gave an appreciative sniff as I walked past the sentries and entered the world of Listening Rock.
I had to watch my footing, but mostly the walk to the top was an easy one, even in my black flip-flops, and I often imagined myself as Meriwether Lewis on the Lewis and Clark expedition (Discovering Our World Magazine, issue 14), hiking up an enormous boulder worn smooth by what Uncle Edisto said was thousands of years of water flowing over and around Listening Rock in the ice ages. “Granite and slate,” he said each time we visited, “maybe a little soapstone, sprinkled with limestone and quartz. Minerals galore! It’s a smorgasbord of metamorphic marvels!”
It was. Listening Rock glittered where the quartz sparkled it. It pebbled and flaked in the limestone places. Here and there scrub pines and bushes jutted from the granite surface. Patches of daisies sprouted from the rock in sandy places, with a few determined bumblebees buzzing around them, but mostly there was wide, warm rock to walk on at a slow but steady rise.
It took about the time it takes to eat a tuna-fish sandwich to get to the top. There, the surface was about the size of Snowberger’s big front parking lot, only, unlike the Snowberger’s lot, the top of Listening Rock gently rolled and sloped. The gnats that were fierce down in the grove didn’t bother us at the top of Listening Rock; the breeze kept them away from our faces.
Dismay stood, majestic, washed in sunlight, near the edge of the rock, on the tip-top of the slope, like he always did when he first got there. Regally he blinked at his dogdom, sniffing at the high air. The oak grove waved its leafy green flags at us, shouting, “Hail, Dismay!” A little farther out, across Snapfinger Creek and County Road 2435, the headstones in the Snapfinger Cemetery stood guard against all enemies like soft, silent sentries. Just beyond the cornfield was Snowberger’s, its tidy white fence holding a tiny kingdom safe within its arms—with the old sawmill boardinghouse that was my home rising up like a castle in the countryside. Rural Route 2 was dotted with pickup trucks meandering toward the towns of Snapfinger and Halleluia, Bay Springs and Puckett.
I’d wrapped Declaration’s sandwich in two pieces of waxed paper so it wouldn’t go stale; the paper made a crinkling sound as I set the sandwich in the best flat spot. I had two Royal Crown Colas in glass bottles. RC Cola was Declaration’s favorite. Dismay had exhausted himself chasing rabbits and chewing up sticks. Soon he was snoring in a shady spot under a fat juniper bush that spread out from a rock crevasse.
Everything was ready. I lay on my back, closed my eyes, pulled my Snowberger’s baseball cap over my face, and listened to the sound of Listening Rock baking in the sun. I wondered if Great-great-aunt Florentine could hear the blue jay I heard calling. Maybe she could. But she would never feel the warm sunshine on her face again. Tears gathered in the corners of my eyes, and I mopped at them with my fingers.
“Dying is a transition, Comfort, that’s all,” Great-uncle Edisto used to say.
“A transition to what?” I’d ask. “What’s next?”
“Who knows?” Uncle Edisto would say. “But life’s not a line, Comfort; it’s a circle. Just look around you and you’ll see that.”
I sat up and looked around me. It was September. Uncle Edisto had died in March. It seemed like a million ice ages had gone by since he’d left us for whatever adventure was next. An oak leaf drifted lazily in the breeze. As I watched it make its way to earth, I spotted Declaration coming up the rock. Finally! Dismay thumped his tail as if, even asleep, he knew Declaration was there.
I stood, waved to Declaration, and said, “Hey!” She looked up and gave a short wave with a gloved hand but said nothing. Up and up she came. Her footfalls slapped Listening Rock and her breath puffed her cheeks in and out. As she got closer, I could see the ribbons on her hat, the buttons on her sundress, and her painted toenails in her sandals as she gained the top of Listening Rock and stood in front of me. She had a beach towel folded under her arm. Her face was a sweaty pomegranate red. I smiled my biggest smile at her.
She didn’t smile back.
Uncle Edisto always said, “The heart hears more than the ear.” My heart listened as it thumped in my chest.
My smile wavered. “Declaration?”
Chapter 5
Declaration took a breath and made a Whoosh! sound through her teeth. It made her lips flap. She raised her eyebrows in a look that said, I made it! And finally, she smiled at me. My heart stopped thumping, and I felt a flood of relief through my chest that tickled my throat and made me laugh. I rested my hands on my bare knees while I laughed, but I kept my eyes on Declaration. “I’m so glad to see you!”
That made Declaration laugh, too. Her curls bounced under her hat. She walked past me and flapped out her towel. It floated like a magic carpet into the thick September air and settled perfectly onto Listening Rock, as it always did. She sat down carefully, as she always did. She took off her sandals and placed them neatly beside her towel . . . just the way she always did.
Declaration dressed for every occasion, even for a picnic. I always wore my lime green shorts, my Snowberger’s baseball shirt, and my Snowberger’s baseball cap. I liked knowing what I was going to wear. That meant I could use my deciding powers on other things.
Dismay gave a sleeping snort. His long legs moved like he was running in a dream.
“Oh, Comfort!” Declaration complained, weaving a gloved hand back and forth in Dismay’s general direction.
“I know, I know,” I said, sitting down. “But he’s been cooped up at home for the last two days, and he needs to get out as much as I do. Look—he’s all spent!”
Declaration made a face. “Fine.” She kept her gaze on the Snapfinger Cemetery, where a great hum had started. Old Johnny Mercer was chewing up the earth with a backhoe.
I handed Declaration an RC Cola and I gestured toward Old Johnny. “He’s digging Great-great-aunt Florentine’s grave.”
Declaration nodded. She took the RC with gloved hands, removed the cap, and with a small smile of thanks, drank a sip.
I licked my lips and watched her. “Want a sandwich?” I asked. “I brought ‘tuner-fish’!”
“No, thank you . . . Uncle Edisto.”
“Pickle?”
“No!” The skin between Declaration’s eyebrows wrinkled up—she looked like she was thinking about what she wanted to say next but couldn’t quite come up with it.
I tried to help. “I can’t remember the last time I saw you . . .”
“You just saw me at school on Wednesday!”
“. . . on top of Listening Rock,” I finished.
Declaration let out a long sigh. She picked a pine needle off her dress.
I scratched at a mosquito bite on my ankle. “Are you mad at me?”
“No.” She took off her hat and smoothed her hair away from her face. “Why?”
“Your note was awful persnickety.”
“Was it?” Declaration fanned herself with her hat and spoke in a lofty tone. “I was in a rush when I wrote it—sorry.”
“Oh.” I wanted to believe her. I changed the subject. “I have so much to tell you!”
Declaration glanced at me and reached for her sandals. “I can’t stay.”
I scrambled to my feet. “Why not?”
A silent Declaration pulled on one sandal at a time.
I stood in front of
her. “You’re mad because I didn’t show up on Wednesday! It couldn’t be helped!” My stomach had that sour feeling to it, like I’d eaten an entire bag of raw peanuts. “You had to wait too long . . . I’m sorry about that . . . But if you could have seen Aunt Florentine . . . Even Daddy got choked up . . .”
“Stop!” Declaration took a big gulp of her RC and put her hat back on her head. Then, as if she had fortified herself and come to a decision, she said, “I didn’t wait.”
“Oh!” I adjusted my hat on my head. “Why not?”
Declaration pursed her lips. “I didn’t come.”
“Oh . . .” I sat down. The sun was directly in my eyes, so I put my hand up and under my baseball cap, like a salute, and I squinted in Declaration’s direction. “Why not?” When she didn’t answer me, I asked, “Did something tragic happen to you, too?”
Declaration’s face pinked up. She kept her eyes on her shoes. “No.”
Old Johnny Mercer’s backhoe bucket clanged and dropped dirt into a big pile next to Great-great-aunt Florentine’s grave. Dismay snored on.
“Well . . . why, then, Declaration? Why didn’t you come?”
Declaration shrugged. “I can’t say.”
The back of my throat stung with tears. “You haven’t been to my house all summer . . .”
“I was in Mobile!”
“And then I had to pester you at school to meet me at Listening Rock—and then you didn’t even bother to come when you said you would!”
“I’m here now!”
“You haven’t even called me! Aunt Florentine died!”
Declaration shook her head. She wouldn’t look at me. “You don’t understand . . .”
“Well, then, what is it?” I made myself listen to my breathing so I wouldn’t cry.
“Maybe I just don’t like . . . some things . . . anymore . . . like this sorry old rock.”
I stared at Declaration as hard as I could, and she added, “It gives my feet blisters when I climb it!” She stuck her chin out and continued in a serious tone. “My grandmother Lucy says a lady doesn’t climb rocks after a certain age. She says my mother would be scandalized to think of me climbing rocks or playing kickball in my school dresses at recess!”
Now, I’ve met Grandmother Lucy. She’s at least 480 years old. She is always giving Declaration advice from the Dark Ages that doesn’t make any sense to me. Now that Declaration had spent a whole summer with Grandmother Lucy and all her mama’s relatives, I’d have to wait a long time for all the latest advice to wear off.
I looked at Dismay, so happy to be on top of Listening Rock, sleeping. As he breathed, his nostrils expanded and contracted and his nose glistened, cold and wet in the warm, sunshiny September afternoon. I wished he’d wake up and come sit by me.
“Well, then,” I said, “why are you here, Declaration?”
Declaration sighed. “I came to pay my respects, of course.” She handed me her empty RC bottle. “I’m sorry about Aunt Florentine. I’m . . . I’m real sad about it.” Her voice gargled in her throat. She twirled one of her curls around and around one finger. “I decided to come here to pay my respects since I’m not coming to the funeral.”
“Don’t say that, Declaration.” I swallowed my tears. “I knew you would say that . . .”
Declaration fidgeted on her towel. “You know I hate funerals—they depress me.”
Now, the only funeral she’d ever been to other than her mother’s was Great-uncle Edisto’s. “I know,” I said quickly, using my helpful voice. “I asked Aunt Florentine about it once, Declaration—she said Uncle Edisto’s funeral had been upsetting to you because it put you in mind of your mama and her death. She reminded me that you hadn’t talked about your mama for ice ages!”
Declaration studied her sandaled feet, as if she were looking for blisters. Then she said, “I heard a lot of stories about my mama this summer. I had a good time in Mobile.” She pursed her lips again. “Maybe I’ll move there.”
“No, you won’t,” I said, as if I was the boss of Declaration. “Will you?”
Declaration shrugged. “Probably not. At least not for now.” We sat in silence for a while, and then Declaration said, “I can’t remember what Mama looked like anymore, until I see a picture of her.” She wiped at her eyes.
I wanted to be helpful, and I didn’t want Declaration to move—ever. “You just need to go to more funerals, Declaration, that’ll take care of that. I mean . . . look at me. You get used to death if you live around it long enough.”
Declaration shook her head. “Don’t you think it’s strange that you go to so many funerals, Comfort?”
“No. But I would think it was strange if you didn’t come to Aunt Florentine’s funeral—you were a member of our family to her!”
Declaration studied Old Johnny Mercer putting a green tarp over Aunt Florentine’s grave site. She was composing herself. She didn’t like to act emotional in front of anybody. Her grandmother Lucy had told her that a lady never sneezes, burps, runs, screams, or cries in public. Which made me think about Peach.
“And I really need you to come,” I said, “because Peach is coming, and you know what that means!”
“Then I know I’m not coming!” said Declaration. At Great-uncle Edisto’s funeral, Peach had thrown up into a potted fern and then had dribbled vomit on Declaration’s new patent-leather shoes. She had screamed at him, which was what made him run outside and fling himself into the azaleas.
“Oh, please, Declaration! Not even for me?” The stinging place in my throat had turned into a big lump.
“He’s not my cousin.” Declaration stood up.
So did I. “Aunt Florentine loved you as much as she loved me.” I swallowed hard and spoke the truth. My tears came, along with the memories. “She taught you how to make cherry cobbler. She braided your hair when you spent the night . . . and she listened to all your stories about your mama . . .” I wiped at my face.
Declaration’s eyes filled with tears, too. She smoothed the front of her sundress, picked up her towel, and with careful hands rolled it into a ball. She dabbed at her eyes with her towel. Then she sniffed and said, “Fine.”
“Really?” I hardly dared to believe her.
“Yes.” Declaration looked me in the eye. She gave a small shudder. “Grandmother Lucy says,’A lady always honors her societal obligations, no matter how it ruins her more pleasant plans.’ Daddy wants me to go, but he told me it’s my choice.”
She tucked her towel under one arm and gave me a flat smile. “So, fine—I’ll come.” She pointed a finger at me. “But I’m not coming to the viewing tonight, and I’m not getting anywhere near Peach tomorrow—just so you know. I had to get new shoes after Uncle Edisto’s funeral! Don’t expect me to spend one minute with Peach!”
“I won’t,” I said. “I promise . . .”
Dismay groaned. He opened his eyes, wobbled to his feet, stretched a long stretch, and shook himself all over, slowly, as if he were coming back alive. He wagged his tail at the sight of Declaration. She pointed a gloved finger at Dismay. “Don’t you dare, dog . . . This is a new dress.”
Dismay sat down and panted at Declaration in his calm dog way. It was the respectful way he sat with the grieving when he was on duty at funerals. Folks appreciated Dismay’s presence at Snowberger’s. They knew that he had slept all night next to their loved one’s casket, on the night before the funeral. It was Dismay’s way of seeing them off to the next world. He kept a vigil.
“Dismay isn’t just any dog,” I said. “If you would only hug him once, you’d see. He’s full of good feelings—and they sink right into you when you hug him.”
“No, thanks,” said Declaration. “I’ve got to go . . . Daddy’s expecting me back soon.”
“Could you spend the night tonight?”
Declaration shook her head. “I can’t tonight.” She didn’t give me a reason why; she just began making her way down Listening Rock. She didn’t even say good-bye.
�
�Don’t forget, the funeral’s at four!” I called after her. “Visitation’s at three!”
The sun had shifted lower on the horizon, and long shadows began to creep across the Snapfinger Cemetery. In the distance Old Johnny Mercer had finished setting up the large green tarp over Aunt Florentine’s grave site. It looked like a circus tent, open on all sides, with SNOWBERGER’S painted in bright white letters across the top of one side and WE LIVE TO SERVE on the other. If we had rain the next day, or if the sun was blistering hot, we would all be under the green tarp together, saying good-bye to Aunt Florentine.
I heard a crinkling sound and turned my head toward it. Dismay was chewing hard, in great big chomps. Waxed paper dangled from his jaws. He smiled at me as he chewed. It was a good sandwich. Especially the extra pickles.
“You dog, you!”
Dismay chomped faster.
I laughed at my dog—and at my own joke. Then I lay flat on my back for a few minutes and watched a cloud turn into Abraham Lincoln’s hat, which made me think of Great-uncle Edisto and his tomatoes. I ate my tuner-fish sandwich.
I felt a whole lot better after that. Now I needed to get home before Peach showed up.
* * *
* * *
Special to
THE AURORA COUNTY NEWS
(Mr. Johnson, please print this whenever you’ve got a slow news day.)
Top Ten Tips for First-rate Funeral Behavior
Life Notices and Tips by Comfort Snowberger:
Explorer, Recipe Tester, and Funeral Reporter
You don’t have to wear black to a funeral. Any old color is fine; just don’t wear a wedding dress or your torn shorts. No bare feet or flip-flops. Comb your hair. The deceased (a fancy word for the person who died) will wear more makeup than all the mourners combined; so if you run out of time getting ready to come to the funeral, don’t worry about makeup.
Each Little Bird That Sings Page 3
