Whispers of the Bayou

by Mindy Starns Clark

  “That’s why you can’t blame Janet,” he said. “Heck, I even showed up drunk to Cassandra’s funeral, a bottle of Jack Daniels in my hand. Your father was so agitated, he actually punched me in the jaw. I was kind of glad. At least then I felt something. Four days later, when they buried your mother, I didn’t even bother to go.”

  His words were rough, but I certainly got the picture.

  “I hate to sound like a cliché,” he said, “but I really did have to hit bottom and come to the end of myself before I could begin to climb back up.”

  He went on to describe how an old war buddy dragged him to an AA meeting where he learned about having a “higher power.”

  “They say your higher power is what you believe it to be, but I knew who that higher power was. His name was God, and He had been waiting to hear from me for a long time.”

  Holt talked about how he found a church-based recovery group and then found faith, how God dragged him “kicking and screaming” into believing that he could either buy the whole package or none of it at all.

  “The whole package?” I asked.

  “The Bible. Either it’s the true Word of God or it isn’t. You can’t pick and choose just the warm and fuzzy parts, or just the parts that make sense, and then use them to create your own version of who you wish God was. I realized that I had two choices: embrace the whole thing or reject the whole thing. Period.”

  “So you embraced it and became some Bible-toting Holy Roller?” I asked, trying to make light of it but feeling stupid the moment the words came out of my mouth.

  He was quiet for a moment and I was afraid I had offended him, but then I realized that he was just taking care to form the right words before he replied.

  “You know what parts I had trouble with?” he said, his wheels crunching over some branches that had fallen on the path. “The verses about suffering. The parts where these early believers, these incredibly important followers of Jesus, saw their lives get worse, not better, after they believed. Why, I wondered, would you choose to follow someone who was only going to drag you down? ‘Take up your cross and follow me’? Please! Trust me, I already have a cross. Everywhere I go, I roll there on a cross. And I want to make things even worse?”

  I listened to him talk, thinking that if he was trying to convince me not to believe as he did, he was doing a pretty good job of it!

  “Then I found what I was looking for,” he continued, “the words that made sense—not just for Christianity, but for what had been the problem my whole life.”

  I didn’t reply, wondering how a simple Bible verse could give anyone that much insight.

  “It’s from Romans,” he said. “I have it memorized. May I share it with you?”

  “Sure,” I replied, tossing a stick ahead of us and letting go of Sugarpie’s leash so that he could run for it.

  “It says, ‘We rejoice in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope. And hope does not disappoint us, because God has poured out his love into our hearts by the Holy Spirit, whom he has given us.’ ”

  “That’s lovely.”

  “Those words, Miranda, those words explained everything to me. In my entire life, I had never had to suffer through anything—not even a class I found boring at school or a punishment I was given by the nanny. My parents bailed me out of suffering, which meant I had never learned perseverance or developed character or found hope. And hope was what I needed most. That’s what saved me from myself. That’s what finally led me to believe, which in turn brought the Holy Spirit into my life. And that’s the most important part of that verse. The suffering which leads to all of those other things wasn’t the point. The point was that the suffering doesn’t even feel like suffering anymore, because I was transformed the moment I accepted Christ. He came into my heart and changed my life.”

  It was an interesting story, and I could tell it came from the heart. We continued on, side by side, for a bit longer, and though I was glad to have heard such passion for what he believed in, I didn’t know how his experience could apply to me.

  Finally, Holt seemed to be slowing down, and I realized we were approaching two stone pillars, almost smaller versions of the ones that flanked the driveway at Twin Oaks.

  “What is this?” I asked. “Where are we?”

  Holt took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.

  “We’re at the Fairmont family cemetery,” he said. “I thought you might want to visit the graves of your sister and your mother.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  No answer

  Came from the graves of the dead, nor the gloomier grave of the living.

  I don’t know what I had been expecting, but this certainly wasn’t it.

  As we stood at the stone gates, rows of our family graves just inside, I felt my heart thud against my chest like a drum.

  “I don’t know if I’m up to this,” I said. “Not yet.”

  “That’s fine, there’s no hurry. They’re not going anywhere.”

  I glanced at him to see that he was smiling. “You think this is funny?” I asked, poking him on the shoulder. “This is tough for me. Very tough.”

  “Of course it is. I’m just trying to help.”

  And he did help. Just having him there helped. Maybe, I thought, this was one demon I could face head-on. At least I wasn’t alone.

  “Let’s go in,” I said. “I’ll let you know if I need to turn back.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  Moving past those gates, I could see that there were about thirty or forty graves in all, some of them with simple engraved headstones, some with more elaborate statuary and even above-ground crypts. I didn’t usually mind cemeteries; sometimes I thought they were quite beautiful. This one was especially so, with Spanish moss hanging down from the nearby trees and a gentle breeze moving through the warm air, the dark water of the bayou gently rolling along in the distance. I wondered if I had ever been here before, and I asked Holt if I had been allowed to come to either funeral, or if they had decided I was too young and instead kept me at home.

  “Sorry, but with the condition I was in, I don’t remember,” he said. “Somehow, I doubt you came. That’s a lot to expect of a five-year-old, unless you’re JFK Jr. or something.”

  Holt didn’t say exactly where my mother and Cass were located, and I didn’t ask. I wanted to find them for myself, something that shouldn’t take long in this small family graveyard. Before I started scanning headstones, however, I thought of the bone I had sent off to the police, and I feared that perhaps it had come from here. In my fragile state, I knew that seeing an upturned grave or a wind-disturbed casket might send me over the edge. I told Holt about it, but he just patted my arm and assured me that no, except for a few toppled statues, Katrina had left this particular cemetery unmolested.

  “I have a guy come in regularly to do the maintenance. He keeps things up very well. There aren’t any missing bones from here.”

  Thus reassured, I began to walk along the first row, reading headstones. There were names, so many names, but Fairmont was the one that showed up most. The oldest graves I saw were from the 1800s, which gave me again that sense of being one link in a very long chain. That chain came into sharp focus when I reached two particularly beautiful graves, side by side, for Xavier Theodore Fairmont and Portia Saultier Fairmont. My grandparents.

  Their headstones were similar, though on hers, under her name, was a quote:

  Other hope had she none, nor wish in life, but to follow

  Meekly, with reverent steps, the sacred feet of her Saviour.

  “I’m guessing your mother shared your faith,” I said to Holt as he rolled to a stop beside me.

  “No, not really,” he replied. “It’s a nice sentiment, but just a literary quote.”

  He leaned forward from his chair and pulled a clump of weeds from the ground nearby. Judging by the clump of green on his lap, he’d been doing it all the way down th
e row.

  “I mean, I can’t presume to know the heart of another,” he added, “but I can guess. Her religion had a lot of rules, and she followed those rules as best she could. But I think in all that ‘stuff’ that she missed the point. As the Scripture says, ‘These people honor me with their lips, but their hearts are far from me. They worship me in vain; their teachings are but rules taught by men.’ ”

  “But isn’t being a Christian all about following the rules?”

  He looked up at me with an expression that I could only describe as beatific.

  “Being a Christian is about knowing the truth, Miranda, and it’s that truth that sets you free.”

  I thought about that as I moved forward again, Holt lagging behind as he did the weeding, Sugarpie hovering near his chair, sniffing and rooting along the ground and generally enjoying the outdoors. Holt was such a gentle person, and he was one of the few “born again” types I had ever really talked with.

  I wondered how that would feel, to have such a strong belief in something that couldn’t even be touched or seen. I supposed that for someone like him, it wasn’t a bad way to live. At least it gave him comfort and peace—even strength through adversity—and those were all great things he needed and things that made him who he was.

  As I reached the end of the row without finding the graves I sought, I took a deep a breath and moved inward along the second row. I didn’t have to go far. The moment I saw the tiny above-ground crypt, I knew it was for a child. Stepping closer, I could clearly read the name on the headstone: Cassandra Lynn Fairmont.

  My sister, my twin.

  I don’t know how long I stood there, but it must have been a while. I became aware of the encroaching darkness and of an itchy mosquito bite on my neck. Glancing up, I saw that Holt was still rolling along the perimeter, tossing an occasional stick for Sugarpie and weeding away, and I realized that the walking space for this row was too narrow and bumpy to accommodate his chair. I was overwhelmed with gratitude that he had kept himself nearby regardless, and I realized that it was getting late and we really ought to go.

  I moved on to the next crypt, which was etched with the name of my mother. As I stood there looking at it, I realized that with all of the emotions that were swirling around in my mind right now, above all else I had a deep and abiding sense of guilt. I was thirty-two years old, I realized, my mother had been dead since I was five, and this was the first time I had ever come to see her grave. Had Willy not sent for me so desperately, I would never have come at all. Yet she was my mother.

  My mother, who had died.

  The feeling started at the tips of my fingers, a tingling sensation that began like small pinpricks and quickly escalated into buzzing stripes of nerve pain. With every beat of my heart, my feet began to feel as if they weren’t even on the ground but were instead floating.

  Why, my mind hammered, why have I never let myself feel the loss of her absence from my life?

  Why, my head pounded, why have I spent all of these years pretending it didn’t matter, that being raised by an aunt was the same as being raised by my own mom?

  Had I not come here, I could have gone through the rest of my life ignoring that entire black knot of pain and loss, pretending it wasn’t even there.

  It was that black knot of pain, though, a churning surge of something dark and horrible that suddenly welled up inside of me, filling my entire being, forcing my hands to sweat and my vision to blur. The horizon became hazy and even as I thought, “Not again!” I was falling toward the ground. This time, though, was almost like slow motion, and instead of the floor hitting me in the head, I felt myself falling against something much softer, much warmer.

  My eyes closed, and as they did, my final thought was I’m sorry, Mama.

  I’m sorry I forgot how much I needed you.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Friends they sought and homes; and many, despairing, heartbroken,

  Asked of the earth but a grave, and no longer a friend nor a fireside.

  Written their history stands on tablets of stone in the churchyards.

  Somebody was rubbing a soft, wet washcloth across my cheek.

  I raised up one arm to push them away and felt it whack against something furry and large.

  Alarmed, I opened my eyes to see a big, blond dog with dopey eyes standing there staring at me. It was Sugarpie, who had saved me from another big bump to the head.

  “I’m okay, boy,” I said, pushing myself up to a sitting position and draping an arm around his neck.

  I looked up to see Holt straining to roll his way closer, one wheel caught against a stone.

  “It’s okay, Holt. I’m okay. The dog protected me.”

  Holt turned his face upward and then his eyes met mine, a deep crease running vertically down the center of his forehead. He looked upset, and I felt bad that I had scared him by collapsing in a place he couldn’t get to.

  Summoning my strength, I got to my feet, walked forward, leaned down, and simply put my arms around my uncle. He hugged me back, fiercely.

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I’m okay.”

  He didn’t reply, but when we pulled apart, I could see him wiping tears from his face.

  “Look at it this way,” I teased, dabbing at a tear of my own. “I probably just saved you several days of dog testing.”

  He laughed out loud, and with my help we made our way out of the cemetery and back toward his home.

  Once we were there, I didn’t linger. The sun had set and I only had a little bit of light left to get home. We said our goodbyes and then I took off jogging, eaten alive by mosquitoes as I went but making it back to Twin Oaks before it got too dark to see. When I flung open the back door, I startled Deena and Lisa both, who were sitting there at the table, a pot of stew between them. I was glad to see that my father wasn’t there also.

  “Little late for dinner, aren’t you?” Deena snapped.

  I glanced at the table. Though Lisa had nearly polished off a full plate of something dark brown and lumpy, Deena’s serving sat in front of her, barely touched.

  “Sorry,” I replied, feeling belligerent and hearing the sarcasm in my own voice. Toning it down, I added, “Time got away from me. I didn’t mean to worry you.”

  Deena huffed, but I could tell that’s what had been behind her bossy tone. She’d been concerned.

  “It’s just so nice to get to know my Uncle Holt,” I said, walking to the sink to wash my hands for dinner. “He is a fascinating guy.”

  “He’s been good to us,” Deena said in a very uncharacteristically generous statement. “I think he’s the only one who really knows what Willy and I sacrificed for the Fairmonts.”

  “Oh, please,” Lisa snapped. “You live in a freakin’ mansion. You’ll complain about anything.”

  With that, Lisa dropped her fork onto her plate with a clank and pushed away from the table.

  Deena did not look offended, merely amused.

  Lisa carried her plate and glass to the sink, dropped them in with just enough force to make a statement, and stomped out of the kitchen.

  “We need to talk later,” I called to her as she went.

  “Come knock on my door as soon as you finish eating Deena’s poison.”

  I joined Deena at the table, apologizing for the interruption.

  “She’s just being ornery. Eat up, won’t you?”

  I wasn’t very hungry, but I scooped out some of the stew just to be polite. Next to it I added a scoop from the casserole Livvy had brought over. It was tasty, but Deena’s stew was terrible. After Lisa’s remark about the food being poison, however, I was embarrassed for Deena’s sake not to eat both with equal enthusiasm.

  “You’ve barely touched your food,” I said.

  Deena put down her fork, slowly shaking her head.

  “The viewing’s in the morning. I just don’t know how I’ll get through this.”

  I nodded, recognizing her pain not just in her words but in the defeated
slump of her shoulders.

  “Uncle Holt says he takes everything one day at a time, sometimes one hour at a time or even one minute at a time. He says when someone has to face something difficult, that’s the only way to get through.”

  “Guess he’s right.”

  I invited her to talk about Willy, asking how they met to get her started. As she reminisced, I continued to eat just enough to make it look as though I had enjoyed the meal.

  While her story of he said/I said/he did/I did romance was no doubt fascinating to her, I found myself growing bored and restless and eager to get upstairs and search that third floor for my grandmother’s paintings. Finally, when her story drew to a close, I thanked her for sharing and then seized the opportunity to make my exit.

  “I think I’m going to move to one of the bedrooms on the second floor,” I said as I got up and carried my dishes to the sink. “There’s a little more room up there.”

  “Suit yourself,” she replied, watching as I took a few minutes to squeeze out some dish soap, fill the pan with warm water, and wash my dishes along with the others that were there. “I’ll get you some sheets for the bed.”

  “Thanks.”

  She left the room and came back with a pile of crisply folded sheets, which she set on the end of the table.

  “And you got some phone calls,” Deena said. “Miz Kroft nex’ door, said she was just checking to see if you’d had a chance to look at her paintings, whatever that means.”