by Amy Sorrells
Solly walked out from behind the counter and leaned against it. Wrinkles I’d never noticed before cut into the skin around his eyes, reddened with worry and pain. He rubbed his chin with his fingers and thought hard about it.
“Come out here.”
He led me out the back door to where rows and rows of potted plants waited—trees with their roots balled up in burlap bags, plastic flats full of flowers spilling over the sides of them, and domed greenhouses filled to overflowing with more.
“She always has liked pink,” Solly said over his shoulder. He seemed inches shorter, shrunk by sadness as he ambled slowly through the rows of shrubs and plants.
“What about those?” We passed a display of hydrangeas, huge puffs of pink, blue, and white, like mounds of cotton candy.
Solly shook his head as we passed, then stopped when we got to a section with pots full of tall purple, pink, and white flowers with yellow centers.
“Asters?” I read the name off the price tag, disappointed. Surely he’d point out something fancier than a wildflower anybody could pick on the side of the road.
He didn’t notice my hesitation. “The best sort of flower to get someone mourning is one they can plant. Something that’ll live and that grows there naturally. Something you don’t have to fight to get growing and keep alive. These asters don’t care where they grow. Don’t even mind clay and rock, which is why you see them on roadsides. They’re happy with other plants, and they don’t kill off and choke out their neighbors. They don’t mind the hot Alabama sun, either.”
“I don’t know …”
“They smell good, and butterflies love ’em. Once you have a bunch of ’em growing, you’ll have butterflies everywhere.”
“Butterflies would be nice.”
“And if you like history, asters have a history. In France especially, after the World Wars, mourners placed bouquets of asters on the tops of the graves of soldiers.”
“Why?”
“Asters mean you wish a story ended different.”
Perfect.
Jamais di: “Fontaine, mo va jamais boi to dolo.”
“Never say, ‘Spring, I will never drink your water.’”
CHAPTER 7
Comfort
Only after Oralee and Anni put the basket on my porch and I hear them leave do I open the front door. The breeze carries the scent of the ocean, floating in and filling my entryway. Today, the basket holds toothpaste, a new toothbrush, bread, lunch meat, eggs, and milk. A note falls out of a pot of pink asters.
Dear Comfort,
I love you.
Please come out soon.
Anni
Dear, sweet Anni. How can I?
And how can you know the hulking shadows of fear and pain in my head I wade past every day in order to get out of bed? Shadows that push the incline of my heart away from Solly, Oralee, and anyone, even as they reach toward me.
I remember learning to swim, how I thought if I grabbed at the top of the water, I could pull myself up for air. How I learned that water leaves the hands empty, and the hope of air siphons away.
As each day passes, fear, like a reaper’s bony fingers, crawls deeper into my heart. I don’t answer the door or the phone. I keep the shades drawn tight. And the knot within my belly grows, like a fetus, fed and nurtured by a cord of despair.
I accept their packages of food, though graham crackers and milk are my three meals a day. I can’t handle more than their familiar, unchanging taste.
Come out soon, Anni wrote.
And in the shadows of evening, I do. But only to dig a hole and plant the asters, praying they don’t die. I welcome darkness as it seeps over the horizon, shame traveling with it like an incoming fog, overwhelming me.
I lock the door back up and go back to hating myself in my most hidden places. Places Cole took from me with his whiskey-drenched hands and tobacco-stained mouth. Monsters linger again outside my front door as I crouch and make myself small—so very small—upon the cold, tile floor of my bathroom. Pain pushes graham cracker and milk back up toward my throat.
Comfort.
The voice comes from a place deeper than those in which I hide.
Comfort.
The voice nudges at the fear, and for a moment, I answer: Abba?
Yes, child.
I shudder, wondering how even He could be with me now. The God of my youth. The smiling face of Jesus I couldn’t wait to see on the Sunday school wall each week, who called His father “Abba,” “Daddy.”
I pull my knees into my chest even closer, at once afraid of what He will say next and afraid He will not say more.
I am here.
A tear rolls from my face onto the tile before I reply: But for how long?
Bèt nan fòm pòv ap mòde.
“Animals in poor shape will bite.”
CHAPTER 8
Anniston
Daddy let me drive the tractor, which sometimes we used to pull a wagon of supplies, as soon as I turned seven. Sun shone on our windburned faces on those long, winter afternoons as we zipped the bright, John Deere-green of the four-wheel-drive utility vehicle around the trees. Groups of wild turkeys barely outran us as I drove up and down the hills.
We slowed down only long enough to gauge the measure of sky through the gnarled and lanky branches. If we couldn’t see enough blue when we looked up, we would make a note to thin the branches in that row. Around the trunk of every tree, clumps of Bermuda grass as tall as my hips called for a whacking. Handfuls of cattle—which Daddy referred to as Granddaddy’s “bad, hobby-farming habit”—huddled in groups scattered throughout the orchards. But despite smelling bad and getting in the way, the cows helped eat the grass and kept crows and deer from nibbling at the trees. Red-tailed hawks hung over our heads, wings stretched wide and floating on the wind, nests high and safe in the branches of the tallest trees. Squirrel nests, on the other hand, we blasted out with a shotgun. They were one of the worst varmints around for getting into the trees and eating away the crops.
Even as Mama drove the packed station wagon toward Princella and Vaughn’s glaring white mansion, these memories felt like a thick, homemade afghan around my shoulders. Though I often complained about going along with him on days Mama worked at the hospital, these orchards were as much a part of me as my daddy … a place to run and dream, to plant and tend, to cut back and fertilize, like I’d done at his side my whole life. Here in these hills, I’d make sure Daddy lived on within me. I’d find him strong and safe in the most distant of fields where I could run until I had no breath left, and then lie down in the green pastures, like in Psalm 23, and be restored.
The sparse branches of the sleepy orchards sent a spooky chill through me as we drove up the long driveway. Especially against the cloudy gray sky, the orchards—carefully and purposefully planted rows of them—looked as if they bowed with the weight of sorrow. I tried to focus on the coming work the winter orchards would bring.
“Mow the grass by the creek down near the pond, Anni,” Daddy’d remind me, the single dimple on his right cheek deep and cheery, “or the weeds’ll grow up over and hide it. Somebody’d forget it’s there and drive that tractor right into it and sink.”
That’s the thing about the orchards. They were always changing. Always something to cut back so as not to hide the important parts. Always something that doesn’t get noticed, unless you take your time to be still and walk slow among the rows.
“Not everybody notices the details in life, but the details are what make or break a pecan crop. Knowing the difference between a hawk and a squirrel nest. Seeing the starts of a webworm nest and pulling it off the branches. Being able to tell when branches grow toward each other too much before buds show on the ends of branches, and knowing when they need to be cut back before they sap the strength out of their neighboring trees,” Daddy’d
said.
One year, Daddy showed me how a whole row of younger trees close to the creek leaned away from the bigger, older row alongside it. “If that leaning gets too bad, we’ll have to cut all the young ones back.”
Daddy’s lectures stuck with me, mostly because he repeated them every year. He taught me all kinds of odd things, like how each tree should be at least fifty feet from the next, and how even though you’d watched a perfect one grow all your life, sometimes you had to cut it down for the health of the whole crop. I knew how to use a chain saw, the jarring growl of it slicing through the thick of a trunk. And I knew how to haul away the cut pieces of tree for a bonfire or to sell to someone offering the right price. I knew how to drill holes in fresh-cut stumps and pour trunk killer all over what was left of the former tree, making sure it wouldn’t grow back again.
After Mama parked the car, the afternoon school bus squeaked to a stop at the end of the driveway. Kids from my school spilled out, and the Bailey brothers from next door chased the girls like usual.
Without seeing it, I recited to myself the sign above all the school-bus windshields that read, “Passengers are not permitted to stand forward of white line while bus is in motion.” The line always reminded me of the Freedom Riders. Daddy named me after the town where those men and women all nearly died: Anniston, Alabama. Back in that town on Mother’s Day, 1961, the Freedom Riders weren’t doing anything wrong except fighting for folks who couldn’t fight for themselves. They wanted to show how whites and blacks deserved equal rights. A huge mob of disagreeing townsfolk threw firebombs at the bus, and when it started burning, tried to hold the bus doors shut to burn the Riders to death. Hot flames must’ve licked and stung the necks of those folks as the inside of their bus threatened to become an inferno. They must’ve pressed their faces hard against the windows, their expressions like silent screams on Halloween masks, half a dozen of them crammed into the front stairwell of the bus, begging someone to open the door before the fire turned them to ashes. On the other side of the glass doors, a dozen men pushed back, their faces twisted with hate. The Freedom Riders managed to escape, but then the mob beat them, as if nearly burning them to death wasn’t enough meanness to dish out.
Daddy always said I should live like a Freedom Rider, willing to step across some lines to set folks free. I wondered if this was one of those times he was talking about as we moved box after box into my grandparents’ home.
The throaty cry of the mourning doves in the magnolias woke me Sunday morning, and the haze of quiet sunlight floated into the room like a slow dance between dreaming and waking up for the day. Slow dances reminded me that in spite of Daddy and Cole shooting each other to death, in spite of Christmas coming, and in spite of the general mess of all we’d lost, Princella had not forgotten about the upcoming Bay Spring Junior Cotillion. She was in charge of the annual event, which was only a few months away, so I suppose she couldn’t help herself from nagging me about a date. Last night, as we ate another donated casserole, she reminded me I needed to find a date. The conversation pricked the back of my mind like a pebble caught in my shoe from recess.
I wondered if someone from church group would be okay to take, but thinking about those few boys embarrassed the heck out of me. To start with, Grady Bingham ruled the Bay Spring Junior High football team. He cared more about grass stains on his cleats than an old dance, let alone attending a dance with me. Besides, my family did nothing to give me any kind of affinity for football players.
Tommy Sharp might’ve been a possibility, but I’d known him since kindergarten, which meant I also knew he used to chew on pencils and eat paste.
I considered Eddie Prince, but I didn’t want to be stuck alone with him, seeing as how it was rumored he’d planted a first kiss on at least a dozen of my female classmates.
“Anni, you want waffles or eggs for breakfast, child?”
I groaned at the sound of Ernestine’s voice outside the bedroom door and shivered at the prospect of sticking my feet outside the warm covers. “Eggs, I guess. Thanks, Ernestine.”
By the time I came down the winding staircase to the dining room, fine china and serving bowls full of steaming eggs, grits, sausage, and biscuits filled the table. Glass carafes of orange juice, tomato juice, and water sat next to a silver pitcher, steam from fresh black coffee rising from its spout.
“Anniston.” Princella already sat at one end of the table.
Vaughn walked up beside me and patted me on the back, then took a seat at the opposite end of the table. The room felt thick, like an apology waiting to happen that everyone knew would never occur.
“Morning, ma’am,” I said.
“Did you sleep well?”
“Yes, ma’am, thank you.”
She sprinkled salt and pepper on her eggs. “Say, have you thought about any of those boys in your Sunday school class?”
“Ma’am?” Playing dumb rarely worked with her, but I couldn’t believe she was bringing it up again.
“Surely there’s one there you could ask to the dance. Do any of them stand out to you as at least a possibility?” Princella had a way with words that could make Jesus Himself feel guilty for not committing a sin.
“I don’t know, ma’am. Not really.”
She clicked her tongue in irritation, then rang a small bell in front of her plate. Ernestine appeared through the swinging door that led to the kitchen, carrying a tray with cream and sweetener. “Come sit down with us now. Everything looks delicious. You’ve outdone yourself this morning, Ernestine.”
“Nothing is too much for my girls.” Her smile warmed me.
Princella’s face grew pinched when Mama took a seat next to me. Dressed in sweatpants and the same T-shirt she’d worn during the move, she wore her hair pulled up and twisted like a bird’s nest on top of her head. We ate our meal in silence from then on. The tension between Mama and Princella thickened the air, making it feel hard to breathe.
Finally, Ernestine broke the silence. “Do you need me to go to the storage unit with you this morning, Oralee?”
“I think I’ll wait until I unpack these boxes. I’m sure I’ll have more to take over there before the day’s done.”
Princella set her fork down with a clank. “I hope so. We have room for you all, but not that much room.”
“I know. I’m sorry, Princella. I couldn’t sort through it as much as I would’ve liked. I’ll get it out of your hair by the end of the day.”
“You’ll take your time, is what you’ll do.” Vaughn’s voice boomed across the table, and yet he smiled at Mama kindly. Then he spoke to Princella. “We’ve all been through enough. We will treat each other with kindness and grace.”
“Of course we will.” She wiped her mouth. “Excuse me. I have to be at church early. I’ll be driving separate, unless you’re ready, dear.”
“You go on ahead. I’ll ride with the girls here.” Vaughan nodded toward me and Mama, then toward Ernestine.
We all let our breaths out at the same time after we heard her climb the stairs to her room.
“I’ll find a place as soon as possible, Vaughn. Really. I don’t want us to be a burden.”
“Woman’s got bigger burdens than you are to her, Oralee.”
“But we’re reminders of everything that happened.”
“No more than the sky is a reminder that we live on earth. Working through this whole thing with Cole and Rey has more to do with her coming to terms with her own past than with you living here. She’ll have to work that out on her own. Besides, you, Anni, Comfort—you three girls are all I got left. You girls living here is my choice, and this is my house and my land. Maybe I never said that before, but I’m saying it now.”
Princella, carrying a box full of poinsettias, clip-clopped past the dining room where we sat and pulled open the double front doors without looking at any of us.
“Good-bye
, love,” Vaughn called out to her.
The slam of the door was her reply.
Jijman Bondye a vini sou yon bourik.
“God’s judgment comes on a donkey.”
CHAPTER 9
Anniston
The first Sunday of December was filled with church and the Bay Spring Sugarplum Parade, the annual kickoff of the Christmas season. My church, Bay Spring Presbyterian, sat across the street from the Bay Spring Resort Hotel. For this reason, the church caretaker, Ed, prided himself on concocting eyebrow-raising, sometimes funny, and always convicting phrases for the church sign. He firmly believed tourists should go to church on Sundays, too, despite being hundreds of miles away from their homes. This week, still in the off-tourist season, Ed went pretty easy on the town: “All we want for Christmas is your presence.”
Mama and I gussied up into the best church clothes we could, considering we had to dig them out of packing boxes. I felt the stares of many folks as we slid, along with Ernestine, into the back pew, ends covered in evergreen branches tied up with big, red velvet bows. At least the extra lights and smells of the season helped hide the hangdog state of our hearts. Princella and Vaughn walked past us to their usual spot in the front row.
The sign near the pulpit listed hymns 57, 8, and 212, in that order and to be sung upon Preacher Beckett’s cue. I only had to stay for morning announcements and the first hymn since anyone in high school or younger scattered to their Sunday school rooms for a lesson and a snack, which almost always consisted of Voortman sandwich cookies and Thelma Cunningham’s homemade lemonade. She’d bring eggnog on Sundays in December, if we were lucky.
Felt awful strange sitting in church again, this being the first time since Daddy and Cole’s funeral. Mama had wanted a separate service for Daddy, but she had nothing left inside her to argue with Princella, who insisted the brothers be honored and laid to rest together. I forced myself to pay attention when Preacher Beckett mentioned “the Harlan family” as he read down his list of prayer needs, praises, and financial news. As he motioned to Mrs. Reed, the organist, to begin hymn number 57, “Joy to the World,” the floorboards creaked, indicating a latecomer.
