This One and Magic Life (12 page)

Mariel nods.

“Well, I'm going to get you something to drink. Don't you want to come inside where it's cooler?”

“I think we'd better talk out here. Hektor's got company, and Dolly's sick. Maybe we could sit in your car.”

“Sure.” He climbs the three steps slowly, painfully. “Where's Donnie?”

“Mobile. He'll be out after while.”

“Well, you just sit down a minute. I'll be right back.”

Mariel watches him disappear into the darkness of the back hall. She realizes that this is the way he will disappear from her life one day soon. And the way her mother will disappear. And Donnie. Just step into a shadow and be gone. Just like that.

She cries harder into the already wet handkerchief. “Artie,” she says, “I wish you had wanted to be buried in your casket in your yellow dress. We wouldn't have let anybody see you, and you would have been at Myrtlewood.”

“I wanted purification by fire.”

“Whatever. Dead's dead, Artie.” Mariel wipes her eyes. “And did you see that sweet old man? I guess we're going to have you a funeral.”

Father Carroll comes out with two glasses. “Let's go see if the car is still cool,” he says. “I need you to explain about the funeral.”

Mariel holds the handkerchief against the already sweating glass. “There's nothing to explain, Father. I shouldn't have called you. It's just that Artie requested no funeral, and for a while, we considered going along with it. But we've decided we can't.” God, how can she be doing this!

“I'm glad, Mariel. Artie probably wasn't thinking clearly when she made that request. She was so sick for so long. You and Donnie are doing the wise thing.”

“Yes,” Mariel says. Donnie? The wise thing? She takes a large swig from the drink. It's pure bourbon; she chokes. Snot, tears, and spit all hit Father Carroll's handkerchief.

He pats her on the back and opens the car door for her. “There's something psychologically necessary about a funeral,” he says. He goes around to the other side, gets in, and continues. “It's like putting a period at the end of a sentence.”

“You think of life as a sentence?” Mariel takes a cautious sip of the drink.

“In some ways, yes.”

“Like a prison sentence?”

“For some people I think it is. Of their own making, of course. What I meant, though, was the clean page, the writing we put upon it.”

Mariel looks across the yard toward the bay. “How well did you know my in-laws?” she asks.

“Very well. Their dying was one of the greatest tragedies I've had to deal with. They were more than parishioners; they were personal friends. I was especially close to Thomas. What a chess player he was.” Father Carroll chuckles. “Poker, too. Fortunately he put his winnings back in the pot.”

Mariel sighs. “I remember how beautiful Sarah Sullivan always looked in church. The hats she'd wear.
She could even kneel better than anyone else. You know what I mean? Delicately. Thank God, Dolly's got some of her gracefulness.”

“Sarah wasn't perfect.”

“I know that now. But at the time…” Mariel takes another drink. “I helped out here sometimes when they had parties. People from the university and even the governor once.” Mariel smiles. “He took off his shoes, the governor did. Lost them under the table. Sarah Sullivan just laughed and said, ‘Everybody feel around for the governor's shoes.' She was a perfectionist in some ways, though. If there was a spot on the crystal or the dessert fork wasn't headed in the right direction, we caught it. I didn't even know there was such a thing as a dessert fork.”

“They aren't important,” Father Carroll says.

“Mrs. Sullivan thought so.”

“Maybe. I'm not sure.”

“Artie didn't, though.” Mariel starts to cry again. “I don't know what she thought was important.”

“Love. Family. Her painting.” Father Carroll sees Artie at her first communion. The wafer from his hand. At her wedding. Shining.

“She was one of the cleverest people I've ever known. Witty, irreverent, of course. I've been trying to pin down what to say about her tomorrow.” He pauses. “We
are
having a funeral tomorrow?” Mariel nods yes. “And I almost want to say she was like mercury. You know when you break a thermometer and try to hold it, how fast it is, how it'll break apart and come back together, and you can never quite grasp it. I'm not sure everyone would understand, though, since they don't put mercury in thermometers anymore.”

Mariel turns up her drink and finishes it. “You think Artie was like mercury.”

You know what I mean. I remember Thomas Sullivan telling me one time that he thought Artie was a lot like her mother. At the time I couldn't see it, but I've come to think he was right. They both were like quicksilver, beautiful, strong, and fluid.” He turns to look at Mariel. “Don't you think the metaphor would work tomorrow?”

“Isn't mercury poisonous?”

“In certain compounds. I'm sure nobody would think about that aspect, though.”

Mariel runs her finger around the top of her glass and makes the crystal hum. Whmmm, whmmm, the noise gets louder. “Think about this for a minute, Father. If it were me you were burying tomorrow, what metaphor would you use?”

Father Carroll smiles. “I wouldn't need any metaphors for you, Mariel. I'd simply say you were a lovely woman, mother, and wife.”

“That's what I thought. We'll see you at seven, Father.” Mariel opens the door and gets out.

The old priest is puzzled. “Did I say anything wrong?”

“Of course not. That's exactly what I am, Mrs. Adonis J. Sullivan, the mother of Dorothy Artemis Sullivan. And I'm fifty-seven years old, Father.”

“What's wrong with that?”

“Something.”

“Well, we all get old, Mariel, if we're lucky.”

“Thanks, Father. We'll see you at seven.” She starts across the yard, turns, and calls back. “You wouldn't by any chance say I'm mercurial then?”

He doesn't hear her.

In the back hall, Mariel runs into Hektor. “Father Carroll is just leaving,” she says, “if you want to catch him.”

“Nothing's wrong, is it?”

“I called and told him we weren't having a funeral for Artie.”

“You did?”

“I changed my mind, though. Let him bury an empty coffin. Serves him right. Throw incense and holy water around.”

“Why? What happened?”

“Nothing. He said he was sure Artie requested no funeral because she wasn't thinking right. And I said, Okay, go ahead.” She pauses. “He said funerals are psychologically necessary.”

“I think he's right.”

“We'll give you a big one, Hektor.” Mariel starts into the kitchen with the glasses. “By the way, who's your friend?”

“He's a priest.”

“I thought so. He looks like one.”

Hektor thinks of Delmore Ricketts and his fishing hat. “He does not.”

“Does, too. Priests always look alike.”

“How's that?”

“Holier than thou. I'm beginning to think Artie was right. Don't give me a funeral either, Hektor.”

“Okay.”

“Promise.”

“Promise.”

“Don't cremate me, though. That's going too far.”

“What's in those glasses, Mariel?”

“Straight bourbon. And there's going to be more. Want to join me?”

Hektor remembers the dream he'd had the night before of Thomas and Sarah going sailing.

“I think I'll pass.”

DONNIE HAS GONE HOME TO SHOWER AND SHAVE BEFORE GOING
out to Harlow. He places Artie's ashes on the kitchen table, but that bothers him. He takes them into the bedroom and puts them on the dresser. This also bothers him. He finally puts them on the mantel in the den under one of her paintings, a woman climbing the dunes to a house which is obviously the one at Harlow. The picture has hung here for years, part of the furnishings. But now he looks at it carefully. Sea oats at the top of the dunes are bent over in a strong northerly wind. February, Donnie knows. When the woman gets to the top of that dune, it will be freezing. And it's around three o'clock because the shadows are beginning to lengthen. Behind the woman, though it's not in the picture, the bay is shimmering, rippling.

Would Artie have painted like this if Carl had lived? He tries to imagine Carl and Artie growing old together, having children. Would her talent have gone into creating a family? Probably, he thinks, considering the time she spent with Dolly and how close they were. If she
had had children, painting might have been just a pleasant diversion. But she would have been happy. He knows that. His twin would have been happy with big sweet Carl Jenkins.

“You know Carl, Donnie. You know everything's going to be fine. Just look over toward Harlow any night and you'll see us sitting on the screened porch having a couple of beers and listening to the music from the hotel. Maybe we'll even get in a couple of slow dances. Then we'll go upstairs and make babies.”

That was Artie in her wedding dress reassuring him. And he, Donnie, was jealous. It wasn't the fact of Carl, and, God knows, he was happy that Artie was happy. It was the assimilation. Artie was changed, and that was hurtful. Twins, he thinks. Twins. It's so damn complicated.

And then Carl was gone and Artie was another person. This one Donnie understood better, though. And wherever she was, whatever she was doing, he knew she needed him. He was never again on the outside.

He wonders if Hektor remembers the first time Carl had shown up at the house. It was Valentine's Day and he and Artie were thirteen. It was Hektor who had answered the knock on the back door.

“Is Artie home?” Donnie heard Carl say. And then Hektor's amazed “Is
that
for Artie?”
That
had been a heart-shaped box of candy. He had been almost as impressed as Hektor. His own idea of a Valentine at the time had been an envelope with a rubber band twisted around a popsicle stick so when the envelope was opened, it would rattle viciously. “Rattlesnake!” he would yell, managing to get some violent reactions.

But Artie had accepted the candy graciously, and she and Carl had walked down to the beach. He and Hektor were picking out all the chocolate-covered nut
pieces when their mother caught them and made them put the box up. After that, it seemed Carl was always there. He and Artie had married the week they graduated from high school. He, Donnie, had walked down the aisle with her, had been the nervous one. Then he had gone off to the university while Hektor had continued to live with Artie and Carl. And then the Korean War had come along.

Donnie touches the woman in the painting. Who are you? Four women, he thinks. Artie, Mama, Mariel, and Dolly are at the center of my life and I don't understand a damn thing about any of them. Hektor is just plain old Hektor, and Papa was certainly easier to know than Mama. Suddenly, as if someone had flipped a slide, he sees his father sitting at his desk. His head is in his hands, and the desk lamp is casting an elongated shadow that spills from the desktop to the floor. Donnie sighs. Maybe we never really understand anybody, not even ourselves. Or our motivations.

Mama. We killed for you.

It's four-thirty. He should be getting ready to go to Harlow for the rosary. Maybe Mariel is going to pull this thing off after all. What he can't figure out is why it's so important to her. What really puzzles him is that he senses somehow that it's because of him.

“Screw it all,” he says out loud and goes to take a shower.

Clothes are thrown across the unmade bed and the chair. This is so unusual, it worries him. He pushes a dress aside and calls Artie's number. Reese answers.

“Reese? Is Mariel around?”

“Somewhere.”

“May I speak to her, please?”

“I'll see can I find her. Dolly's sick.”

Donnie feels the parent's instant rush of fright.

“What's wrong with her?”

“The doctor says a sinus infection. Mariel took her to the doctor.”

“Well, will you see if you can find Mariel for me?”

“Sure.” Reese pauses. “You back from Birmingham?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. I'll get Mariel.”

Donnie waits for what seems to him a long time before Mariel answers the phone.

“Donnie? Reese says you're back.” It's a formal voice, slow and polite.

“It only took a couple of hours. Reese says Dolly's sick. What did the doctor say?”

“She has a sinus infection. He gave her a couple of shots and she's asleep. I don't know if she'll feel like going tonight or not.”

“Is Hektor there?”

“He brought some guy with him.”

“Well, I'll be there around six.”

“Fine.”

“Mariel, are you all right? You sound funny.”

“I'm fine, Donnie. I'll see you at six.”

The phone goes dead. Donnie puts it in the cradle. Well, hell. What has he done now? He grabs clean underwear from the drawer and hurries to the shower.

Women. He doesn't understand a one of them.

WHEN I WAS A CHILD, MY MOTHER KEPT A SILVER-FRAMED PHOTOGRAPH
of her and her two sisters on her dresser. The picture fascinated me. I would sneak in her room and take it, hiding it in the pocket of the pinafore she made me wear. Then I would take it to the attic or, if it were summer, down to the creek where I'd take it out and examine it.

It wasn't an unusual picture. Just three young ladies posing in a photographer's studio. One sister was seated; the other two were standing, each with a hand on the back of the chair. On the gray mat it said S. Lindbergh, Lynchburg.

They look alike, my mother and her sisters. They each have on suits with fitted jackets and long skirts that appear to be gathered more toward the back. My Aunt Daisy is seated, my mother stands to the left, my Aunt Annie to the right. Not one of them is smiling. Their heads are held high, unnaturally high, as if the
ruffles on their blouses are starched and scratching their chins. They all seem to be in their late teens, though my mother was twenty-two when the picture was made, and engaged to marry my father. The other two were older.

I never knew what it was about that picture that fascinated me so. I only knew I could take it out and look at it, and it would be May, 1890, and I would be there with them, literally.

“Be still, now,” the photographer says, and the three sisters try to quit giggling. “I mean it!” His voice is stifled under a mantle of black canvas. For a second, they look toward him seriously. He snaps the picture with a small explosion. Each girl shrieks. The smell of sulfur is loud in the room. “Let's try one more,” he says.

Later they walk down the street. It's early afternoon on a perfect day in Virginia. They stop at Carter's Jewelry to admire Jenny's china and silver patterns again. Daisy and Annie, too, have selected theirs, though that July, Daisy will prick her finger cutting roses for a party and die two weeks later from blood poisoning.

But they don't know that, any more than they know I'm walking with them. They go into the tea shop and order a lemonade. They know they are pretty; they see the admiring glances of the other women. They fold their fingers daintily around the icy glasses and lift the lemonade to their mouths.

This is true. I could hear the swish of their petticoats as they walked down the street.

“Jenny O'Farrell Harvey. Sounds wonderful, doesn't it?” my mother says to Daisy and Annie as they lean over the rail of the bridge they have to cross on their way home.

“Wonderful,” they both agree.

I climb on the rail. “I'm here. Look at me.”

But they keep looking into the creek, watching the way the water divides around small stones.

One day when Mama switched me hard for fighting with my brother Johnny and then sassing her, I went in her room, got the picture, and took it to the creek like I usually did. But that day it didn't say anything to me. The three faces just stared at me, frozen in that second in 1890. So I waded out into the creek, scooped out a place under some rocks, and put the picture into the hole. Mama screamed and yelled, wanting to know where her picture was. Her picture of her dear dead Daisy. No one knew. It had disappeared from the face of the earth. A week later, I got to missing it and went to dig it up. It was gone. Even the silver frame.

 

The Devil smiles and kisses her.