Grace, Grits and Ghosts

by Susan Gabriel

  Maggie could be shy, especially when compared to Bluebird, but will be remembered most for her contagious laugh. Bluebird had a knack for getting her started and many a choir practice was spent with Bluebird saying something funny and Maggie—in the middle of the altos—starting to laugh, until the entire choir was in stitches or running to the bathroom!

  Maggie had one of the most beautiful flower gardens in Jacob's Ridge and for years her house was on the garden tour. She also dressed up as Mrs. Claus when Bluebird played Santa. But mostly she will be remembered as being a loving teacher, mother, grandmother, great grandmother, and great-great grandmother. Family, friends and former students, many of whom she kept in touch with, will miss her mightily.

  Maggie will be laid to rest in the Good River Baptist Church Cemetery, on the hillside under the giant oak, right next to Bluebird.

  River Reunion

  The seven of us met at the trial and had dinner together the day the verdict came in. Guilty. Jeremy K. Watson was guilty. Not that anyone had to tell us that.

  Although we lived all over the country, we decided to come together every year on the same day. For thirty years now we’ve met at my cabin in the mountains of North Carolina. It’s nothing fancy, but with 30 acres, it’s a private mountain retreat.

  The first year we met at my cabin we took a group photograph on the front porch. Later we realized we looked so much alike we could have been sisters. Jeremy K. Watson had a type of woman he chose. All of us had been blonde at one time and wore our hair long. We were around the same height—five feet, seven inches. Selected because we represented someone, not because we did anything wrong. Or believed something he didn't like. Our crime was to look a certain way and to live alone.

  Four of us remain, all in our seventies now. Tonight the moon is full and the sky filled with stars. We walk the path to the open field by the river where I laid a fire earlier that afternoon. On our first weekend together, all those many years ago, we had simply built a fire and sat around it talking. Comparing stories. Listening. The talking cure. Then, over the years, we leaned on each other when life got rough, encouraging each other to move beyond merely surviving.

  In her travels, Julie—a retired counselor—visited various healers and brought back rituals. One year we burned anything we wanted to get rid of in our lives. Toxic reminders of the past, of which we had plenty. Another year we drummed on various makeshift drums, releasing our prayers to heaven. Another year we danced around the fire. All but me joined in. I have been slow to trust these women, and slower still to trust myself.

  This year, Julie leads us in a ceremony where we cover our faces with the black charcoals left from previous fires. As with everything she suggests, I am skeptical. We pass the spent wood, as light as a charcoal pencil, and use it to paint our faces. Within minutes, we are covered in darkness, only the whites of our eyes and our teeth are visible. I have never liked getting dirty, but we giggle at the sight of each other, as if going from white to dark as night is something magical.

  The stars call down to us tonight. Ursula Major, the Little Dipper, Orion's Belt. Venus winks at us, as well.

  “Isn’t there a Native American story where all the fallen warriors return to the sky?” I ask. I remember reading it to the fourth graders I used to teach.

  “If that’s true, we’ve got entire tribes watching over us,” Maggie says.

  “Can’t women be warriors, too?” Claire asks.

  The fire crackles in agreement.

  “We’re the warriors,” Julie says. “We refused to be defeated.”

  “I like that,” Claire says. The others agree. In truth, Claire looks the least warrior-like of all of us.

  We sit on logs surrounding the fire pit. Seven originally, but now three spaces are empty until I place Jane's ashes on one of them. It was Jane’s final request that her ashes be released on the river, and her husband sent them by UPS. We plan to release them tomorrow morning. Meanwhile, the white square box that holds the remains of our friend looks like an order of Chinese takeout. Takeout illuminated by the moon. Claire takes a piece of charcoal and blacks out the box. No one speaks as we watch the last bit of white disappear.

  Four women surround the fire. Four women and a box containing the ashes of the fifth. We look like part of a Lenten ceremony that got out of hand. I think of the women missing from this circle. Shirley went first, four or five years after our first meeting, and then Maryann about ten years ago and now Jane. Last year, Jane was so weak from chemo we all guessed that she wouldn't be with us this year. Yet the reality of it is difficult to face.

  Claire begins to sing, her lilting voice sounding like someone much younger. I remember the year we discovered she could sing. An angel was among us disguised as a grandmother. That night Claire told us she had once lived in New York City and had sung in several off-Broadway productions. After she was attacked, she stopped singing until two years ago, when she suddenly felt like singing again at one of our reunions.

  Nobody is as they seem, I remind myself. Rich talents hide in unlikely people.

  The song Claire sings has no words, yet the melody arches toward the moon. It moves into a minor key, as life does sometimes for many of us. The melody now is harrowing, sad. A lullaby where the baby and bough are dropped, cradle and all.

  Women who have been victims of violent crime often feel betrayed by life, as if an Eternal Mother somehow dropped us and abandoned us to die. Yet, over the years, we have found our way back to the Mother: back to Nature, the one thing we are convinced can heal the deepest of wounds.

  When the singing stops, Maggie pulls a long, slender joint from her skirt pocket. “I brought something for us,” she says.

  Wine is usually our drug of choice, but no one complains. We watch as Maggie lights it with a stick from the fire. I wonder how long it’s been since I had a joint. The late eighties?

  "A gift from the earth," she says, inhaling deeply. Maggie is an artist.

  We pass the joint, as if passing a communion chalice.

  "Don't tell my grandchildren about this," Claire says. "I wouldn't want to give them the wrong idea." She holds her breath in and then begins to sing again after she exhales the smoke.

  Maggie sways to the music and rises to dance. She is the most free-spirited in our group, the least inhibited, while I am the most. Maggie weaves in between us as Claire sings her haunting melody. It was hot today, almost ninety, and humidity hangs thick in the air.

  Sliding off her shorts and unbuttoning her oxford shirt, it is Julie who begins to take her clothes off first, as if undressing to ready herself for bed. She flings her clothes into the darkness. I gasp, and then giggle. Her white, wrinkled skin mixed with the charcoal makes her look like a creature who is half woman, half zebra.

  "I wasn't a bra burner in the sixties, but I am now." Julie laughs and tosses her bra and panties into the fire. We all laugh with her. We are way past middle age, but feeling our youth.

  After Maggie cheers her on, she unbuttons her own blouse and slips it off, along with her skirt. The joint passes to me. I inhale deeply, hoping to take in the courage the others have. Claire’s song evolves into a stream of giggles, like the evening has called for a release and laughter is the current we ride to get there. Now totally naked, Maggie continues to dance. I cover my eyes, until I realize no one else is embarrassed. Especially not Maggie.

  Now Claire takes off her clothes and flings them into the trees. Maggie hoots. Julie howls. The full moon watches us.

  “Sing more,” I say to Claire. I want her to never stop, but it is she who gets naked now, her plump body the whitest of all. She takes the cold coals at the edge of the fire and spreads the night over her skin. Maggie and Julie help to cover her.

  I take another deep inhale of the joint and pass it on. It is my turn now, but I’ve never made peace with my naked body and the scars Jeremy K. Watson left behind.

  How brave they are, these women in their seventies, baring body and soul, showi
ng up in our small circle in their birthday suits. Vulnerable and flawed. Wrinkles, like tree rings, showing the number of seasons they've survived. Wrinkles that need to be celebrated, not judged. Wrinkles that Jane is no longer privileged to have. Aging is a privilege, not a birthright.

  At least I am alive, I tell myself, even if I am a coward.

  The naked women dance around the fire. The only one clothed, my shame anchors me to the log where I sit. Maggie dances close and pulls me gently toward standing. Her eyes search mine. They plead. They understand. They invite me to join them. The fire crackles as if amused by my plight. I am frozen in the warm night. Iced over. A queen of ice, with no idea of how to thaw. The marijuana blurs the scene. Will I remember any of this tomorrow morning? Or maybe this is all a dream. I want to let go. But let go of what?

  Your resistance, the fire says. Let yourself burn like me.

  Oh great, I say to myself, hallucinations have started. Is it time to finally release the burden I’ve carried for nearly forty years?

  The night pulses with energy. A forest of animals watch the wildness of these human crones. Dancing crones. Claiming what is finally ours. The moon's wisdom. The night's secrets. Julie's burnt bra clings to the fire like a charred question mark. What am I to do now? What if I can’t let go? But I want to. I want to.

  Maggie continues to dance to an inner melody. She kisses me softly on the lips. A kiss for the frozen princess to startle her awake. I haven’t been kissed for years. Not even briefly like this, and with such soft lips. Then Claire comes and then Julie. While Maggie kisses my cheeks and forehead, Julie unbuttons my shirt. They each take a sleeve of my blouse and coax the fabric down my arms. Claire begins to sing again while my heart beats like jungle drums. Then I step out of my jeans. Even in summer I wear pants and long sleeves to cover the scars. The shedding of clothes makes me feel light. Unencumbered. The air kisses my skin, like the invisible spider webs that cover the morning trail that I walk through to christen a new day.

  Eyes closed, the marijuana helps me let go. I feel exposed, yet also safe. I know these women will not shame me. In the darkness I stand in my underwear.

  Old lady underwear, I call it. Roomy and white.

  But I don’t feel like an old lady now. I am a girl in old skin. My face grows hot with the awareness that even in the moonlight the women can see the biggest scar. A knife aimed at my heart that somehow missed. An angel's breath of a distance between life and death.

  Someone kisses the scar and ice melts along with the shame. I move as though blown by a gentle breeze. The fire warms my already warm skin. Eyes open now, I toss bra and panties onto the fire. A wide smile feels strange to my face. Smoke rises before the flame takes them, the mountains in shadow around us. In the distance, the river calls me. We are all connected. The women, the fire, the moon, the river, and every creature that lives here.

  “Let’s go skinny-dipping,” Julie suggests.

  The idea ignites us. As one unit, we grab flashlights and move toward the river.

  "Wait," I say. I run back to get Jane's ashes, tucking the box under my arm before joining up with the group again.

  A thousand yards away is the swimming hole where I swim every morning from spring to fall. We have swum here together before, but we always wore bathing suits and it was during the day. Never at night. Never feeling this free.

  At first, seeing the bare bodies of my friends was shocking, but I am getting used to them now. The roundness of one, the slenderness of another, the drooping of breasts and skin as gravity pulls us toward our final resting places. The beautiful bodies that have seen us through so much.

  Since I know the land best, I lead the way. We are naked, except for shoes, our flashlights bobbing in the darkness. Moonlight splashes across the path making its way through the canopy of trees. The sound of the river reaches for us, the most soothing sound on earth, next to the ocean. I think again how grateful I am that I live here in the mountains next to a river. A glorified mountain stream, really. That’s all it is. Yet someone named it a river and the name stuck.

  A small animal scurries along the path in front of us, and we scream like we are girls again.

  "It's just a mother possum," I say, shining my flashlight on the silver body scurrying away. Possum's are ugly, yet they are good mothers. Like all of us, she is trying to live the life she was meant to live.

  Claire shudders and says the possum reminds her of Jeremy K. Watson. We scream again, and then laugh, as if the spell he has had over us for decades is finally broken. The crickets celebrate and turn up their song.

  At the edge of the swimming hole, we take off our shoes and wade into the dark water. I leave Jane's ashes sitting next to my sneakers in a spot of moonlight coming through the beech trees.

  She can watch from here, I think.

  Beech trees grow next to the river. At one time they were believed to be royalty—queens of the forest, while oaks were the kings. If that is true, the four of us are surrounded by queens and kings, a royal court with princes and princesses growing in the shadows of their parents.

  For a second, I see something in the darkness. A ghost perhaps, for there are ghosts here. Has Jeremy K. Watkins returned? But then the fear fades and is washed down the river, and I am left with a soft serenity.

  The water is chilly at first and then perfect. We giggle and float, the water washing the soot and ash from our bodies. The moonlight dances on the water and the night turns up its magic. We talk about Jane and Maryann and Shirley—those who are no longer with us—and wish them a peaceful rest. Then we become quiet ourselves.

  The water holds me, and I feel myself relax. Tears pool in my eyes, the moon blurring overhead. My breathing deepens into an awareness that surprises me: I could die in this moment and feel content, knowing I have completed everything life required of me. I have even been brave.

  Tears fall and return to the river. Tears that will eventually return to the sea. It is the quietest night on earth. A moment more sacred than any I’ve ever experienced in a church. My cathedral now is an unroofed one, the sanctuary filled with the entire night sky. As queens and kings witness the long-awaited ceremony, I am whole, newly born of the river.

  Scarlett and Rhett Redux

  An elderly couple approaches pushing a baby stroller, perhaps taking a grandchild or a great grand for a walk, a scene reminiscent of the St. Augustine of my childhood, forty years before.

  North Florida boasts a year-round mild climate perfect for strolling the historic district, with its cobblestone streets, quaint cafes, unique shops and bed-and-breakfast inns. I am visiting my parents who own one of those quaint cafes. However, apart from visiting them, I also relish the opportunity to get away from big city life for a while and escape to a town with fewer crackpots.

  We exchange greetings and pleasantries about the weather, which is indeed pleasant. Meanwhile, the couple reminds me of an upscale version of my grandparents.

  Although I'm not an expert on babies or strollers, the push carriage boasts an impressive design. In the traditional English style with a chromium plated chassis, it also has stylish chrome and white wheels whose spokes sparkle in the sunlight. A ride befitting royalty. Enclosing the fortunate passenger, is a refined privacy curtain in delicate light blue organza.

  When I lean over with a smile to offer the expected oohs and ahhs, shrill barks ensue, causing me to mutter profanities and take a rapid step back while clutching a tall skinny latte to my chest.

  “Scarlett is frightened of strangers,” the elderly woman says.

  “And Rhett doesn’t give a damn,” the gentleman chuckles with a smile.

  He lifts the privacy curtain to reveal two small dogs—the kind Paris Hilton might sport—that look like blonde rats. Scarlett and Rhett wear costumes. Scarlett a little tutu—pink—with ruffled lace, and Rhett, a simple black bow tie befitting a tux.

  As I step closer, Scarlett lunges with a high-pitched growl toward my crotch.

  “Whoa
, there,” I say, and position a protective hand over the zipper of my khakis. From the side, I think I see Rhett smile.

  Scarlett’s small chest heaves her excitement, as Rhett begins to lick his private parts with the dexterity of a Cirque du Soleil performer.

  “Rhett, darling, where are your manners?” The woman places a polished fingernail under his chin and scratches.

  While Rhett receives this attention, Scarlett pouts and pushes her tutu into Rhett’s face. With a snorting gasp, Rhett renews his quest for the family jewels.

  Am I on one of those television programs where hidden cameras film unsuspecting chumps? I wonder.

  Flashing a smile toward a cluster of nearby palm trees, I suck in my gut and offer by best profile. Scarlett is not impressed.

  “Do you have dogs?” the woman asks.

  “Not anymore,” I say. “Did when I was a boy, of course, but Duke was a German shepherd.” And could have eaten these blonde rats for breakfast, I want to say.

  The tutu still in Rhett’s face, he lets out his first growl, as though he’s heard my thought. Then Scarlett lets out a whimper that could turn the head of any male.

  “You two behave,” the older gentleman says.

  Since television crews have not arrived, I now ponder what might have happened to cause this seemingly normal couple to transfer all their affection onto two dogs. Did they lose two infants in some devastating tragedy? Perhaps while Gone with the Wind played at the local theater?

  In my imagination, the tiny mongrels sleep in handmade cribs wearing tiny diapers instead of being walked at night, which sparks another question: Why aren’t these dogs walking? Isn’t this what canines are meant to do? To walk, run and sniff where other dogs have been and then to lift their tiny legs to relieve themselves in the same place? They aren't frail like their owners. They appear in robust health.

  “Well, we must be going,” the woman says. “We’ll be late for the dog groomers.”

  My eyes widen. I can’t begin to imagine why these dogs need to be groomed. They are already more presentable than I am.