This One and Magic Life (2 page)

THE DEEP SOUTH IS STILL A MYSTERY. IT IS EVEN A MYSTERY TO
those who live there. Live oaks trailing Spanish moss whisper and move around during the night. Sometimes they move next door. A mystery. But that's the way things are.

There are bays and bayous and runoff creeks that don't run but meander through swamp grass into deep woods where panthers and bears still live. Flowers no one has ever seen or cataloged bloom here; alligators and cottonmouths slide silently through the water.

It is here that Thomas Sullivan brings his bride, Sarah, in June 1927. Here to Harlow, Alabama, with Mobile Bay in front of them and the wild woods behind them. They come down the shell road in their new Model T that they paid $250 for yesterday in Mobile. Thomas has already changed one flat tire. They come to the water, to a narrow beach that magnolias and palmettos are trying to claim. If they turn left, they will have dinner at the Grand Hotel where guests are ferried in from Mobile. If they turn right, they will
climb the only hill on Mobile Bay and look out over the water, dotted by sailboats. They will get out of the car and smell honeysuckle, magnolia, and the strong seminal odor of the bay.

“Let's see what's up there.” Thomas points to his right. And that decision, of course, makes all the difference.

Two houses have already been built on the red clay bluff overlooking the water. Wooden steps lead from the front yard of each down to a pink strip of beach where a blue heron wades in a tidal pool. In the distance, the city of Mobile rises like a mirage.

Thomas, who is from Massachusetts, has never seen such exotic lushness. He equates it with Sarah who stands beside him in a peach-colored voile dress.

“Dear God!” he says, looking around, afraid he will miss something.

Sarah smiles at Thomas's reaction. Her front teeth are slightly crooked; freckles are scattered across her nose. She is beautiful.

“I want a house right here,” Thomas says.

“Fine,” Sarah agrees. She has been married five days. She takes Thomas's arm in both her hands. It is warm and hard. “But right now we'd better go to dinner. They'll run out of almond pie for sure.”

And then Thomas Sullivan does something that delights his new wife. “Hold these,” he says. He hands Sarah his glasses and then does cartwheels down the beach. And that is what Sarah will remember most about this day, the cartwheels and a boat with a vivid blue sail that draws a line across the horizon.

MARIEL CALLS HER DAUGHTER DOLLY ABOUT SEVEN O'CLOCK TO
tell her her Aunt Artie is dead. Died in her sleep, peacefully, no pain, and Dolly should come as soon as she can. Oh, and be sure to bring something conservative to wear.

Dolly says she'll be there as soon as she can get a flight, buries her head in a pillow, and cries. Finally, exhausted, she gets up, goes into the bathroom, and takes some aspirin. That damn Walt. If it hadn't been for him, she would have talked to Artie last night. Tears flow again. She wets a washrag and sits on the side of the tub holding it against her eyes. Damn. Damn.

The alarm clock going off in the bedroom forces her up. She walks across the bed and turns the alarm off. Seven-thirty. Bobby will be up; he'll want to know about Artie. She dials his number, gets his answering machine, says, “Bobby, Artie's dead,” and hangs up quickly. The call makes her chest feel tight. Or maybe it's the crying.

Dolly wipes her face again with the cool wet cloth.
There's a lot to be done here. Call Jim Nelson at the Children's Theater and tell him she won't be there for a few days to count the steps for the rabbits and robots. Call the airport.

First things first. She looks up U.S. Air's number and after listening to ten minutes of Vivaldi gets on a standby flight at noon.

Clothes. She ought to wear her silver cocktail dress, she thinks, opening her closet. Artie would have appreciated it. But she doesn't feel like facing her mother's lip-pursing. In the past, this has been brought on by such indiscretions as wearing flip-flops on the plane or carrying a tote bag with the logo
MERLE NORMAN
printed on it. Dolly pulls out everything black in her closet—a pair of jeans and a turtleneck sweater and a lot of leotards and tights. Nothing to wear to a funeral. Every woman in the world has a black dress but Dolly. Every single one. She blows her nose on the washrag and starts pulling out beige clothes and throwing them on the bed. Surely her mother can't complain about beige.

And then Dolly remembers the yellow gauze skirt that Artie had liked so well that she had painted her in it twice. She takes it from the closet; it must go with her to Mobile.

She wishes she could have spoken to her father, but her mother said he was asleep, that he had been awake most of the night.

“Is he okay?” Dolly asked.

“He knew it was coming.”

Dolly wanted to say, “That doesn't mean he's okay.” But she kept her mouth shut. She knows he's not. It was a stupid question; his twin is dead.

Artie is dead. Dolly begins to cry again, sitting in the middle of the beige pile of clothes, in the middle
of the huge bed, crying for her Aunt Artie and her father. And for herself, holding her yellow gauze skirt like the security blanket her mother had packed away long ago.

 

Dolly makes the flight. She is seated in the last seat on the plane, the one whose back is the wall of the rest room, the one that doesn't have a window. Her seatmate is a well-dressed middle-aged black man who helps her put her tote bag in the luggage rack. As soon as he is seated, he takes out some forms and a calculator and becomes totally absorbed in his work. Dolly glances over and sees nothing but numbers that look important. When the plane takes off and the flight attendant comes along with drinks, Dolly asks for a vodka tonic which she handles nervously. She can just see herself wiping out this man's entire career with one spilled drink. She pulls down the tray and places the glass on it. The man looks up and smiles.

“My aunt died this morning,” Dolly is startled to hear herself saying. “She lived in a little town out from Mobile named Harlow. She was an artist. A painter.”

“I'm sorry.” He looks like he means it.

Dolly nods yes. Her eyes hurt; her head hurts. She reaches over and drains the vodka tonic.

“Would you like another one of those?”

“Please.” There is something about the man that reminds her of Reese Whitley. He's black, sure, but years younger and, God knows, Reese wouldn't be caught dead in a suit on an airplane. And with a briefcase? But there's something that reminds her. The eyes?

He hands her the second drink and smiles again. Whatever—she's glad he's there beside her. Even with the calculator which whines.

She sips her drink and wonders how Reese is holding up. Probably not too good. Artie's best friend since the day he showed up at her house. Father, child, housekeeper, yardman, psychiatrist, friend, pain in the butt.

“Who is that man hanging around out at Artie's?” Mariel had wanted to know when Reese first came. “Artie doesn't know him from Adam's house cat, and she sashays off and leaves him the run of the place. I swear, Donnie, he could haul off everything she owns. Find out who he is.”

But if her father had ever investigated, Dolly never knew. It wouldn't have mattered anyway. Reese was permanent.

“Feeling any better?” asks the man. Old wisdom, Dolly thinks. Old wisdom in the eyes. That's it. And she turns to smile at him, but he is already studying his charts again.

“Yes,” Dolly lies.

She has steeled herself for her mother meeting her and looking her up and down. She's chewing Certs as she walks up the ramp because of the vodka tonics, but, to her surprise, her Uncle Hektor and May are waiting for her. Both have on shorts and Banana Republic Hawaiian shirts which make her Merle Norman bag pale in comparison. Hektor holds out his arms and Dolly walks into them.

His hug engulfs her. Dolly is always surprised at how large he and her father both are and how they smell exactly alike. She feels dizzy, her nose pressed into a bright green palm tree that seems caught in a storm. Uncle Hektor is crying, Dolly realizes. Sobbing.

She and May lead him to a row of blue vinyl chairs and sit on either side of him, holding his hands, offering tissues and scowling at people who look their way.

Hektor shakes his head. “I almost called her last night. Something told me to call her but I got busy on some paperwork and first thing I knew it was after eleven.”

“Me, too. I meant to call her, too.”

“She loved you so much.”

This does Dolly in. She burrows her face against Hektor's arm and cries for a long time, his hand pressed against her head.

Finally he pats her and straightens up. “Little girl, your mama would say we're making a spectacle of ourselves in a public place.”

“Being common.” Dolly is having trouble talking. “Where is Mama, anyway? I thought she'd be here.”

“She went on out to Harlow.”

People walking by appear blurry. Dolly blinks; May hands her another tissue.

“How's Papa?”

“Seems to be holding up okay. I talked to him in Harlow around ten. He said he thought you'd be on this flight. Hand me another one of those Kleenexes, May.” Hektor mops the tears from his cheeks. “Damn. Anyway, he said he thought you'd be on this flight, and I told him we'd be coming through about this time and would pick you up.”

“I'm glad you did.”

May stands up and announces that she is going to go to the gift shop, maybe buy a Goo Goo Cluster.

Hektor hands her a dollar. “Don't talk to strangers.” He and Dolly watch the child walk away.

“She's getting tall, Uncle Hektor.”

Hektor sighs. “I know.” They sit quietly for a moment. “You want anything to eat?”

“Not really. I had a couple of drinks on the plane. Probably shouldn't have.”

“Sounds good to me.”

“What happened? I thought she was getting along pretty well.”

“We all thought she'd have more time.” Hektor wipes the back of his hand across his cheek. “Donnie was out there last night and she seemed about the same. Then there was a jubilee, and when Mrs. Randolph came back from the beach, Artie was dead. Just like that.”

“She died during a jubilee? She'd love that.”

“Maybe she knew.”

They manage to smile at each other.

“I'll go collect my suitcase,” Dolly says.

“Can you carry it okay?”

“It's just a weekender.”

“Well, here comes May. How about I go get the pickup and meet the two of you at the front door?”

“This is good,” May says, holding out a half-eaten Goo Goo Cluster. “Y'all want a bite?”

At the baggage claim, the bags are circling the carousel. “It's a gray American Tourister,” Dolly tells May. Packed with everything gray, black, and beige that she owns. Dolly sighs. She knows that all her life, even after her mother is dead and gone, she will hear Mariel's pronouncements on the proper way to dress.

She tries a pronouncement out to see what it's like. “Never wear patent leather shoes after five, May.”

“Okay.” May is watching the bags. “I think this one is yours.” They grab for it and hit heads.

“Shit!” they both say, rubbing their heads while the bag continues for another lap.

“Are you okay?” Dolly asks.

“I'm fine.” May feels to see if there is a bump on her head. “If it had been my knee, you know what Aunt Artie would have said?”

“She'd have said, ‘It's okay. You've got another one.'”

“That's right.”

“She told me the same thing. Once I rode my bicycle too close to the garage corner and hit my little toe some way. Anyway, the toenail was hanging on by a thread. It was awful. And Artie snipped the nail off and told me it was okay, that I had nine more. I remember it made me furious.” And Artie had taken her, almost as big as Artie herself, and rocked her and sung, “Pony boy, pony boy, won't you be my pony boy. Giddyup, giddyup, giddyup,
whoa!
” with Dolly too large for Artie to let drop between her knees on the “whoa” and not mad anymore.

Now she rubs her hand across her eyes. “Here comes the bag again, May. You get it this time. It's not heavy.”

 

Ordinarily Dolly loves the drive to Harlow. When she was in high school, the drama class had put on
Brigadoon
and she had thought something like this could happen in Harlow. Someone could wander in in a hundred years and the Christmas lights would still be strung across Main Street in August, and the same people would be sitting on the pier. Father Carroll would still be having early mass and the same seven women would be there, kneeling in the early sunlight which was broken by the stained glass windows, breathing the familiar incense.

She thinks this as they cross the causeway with the water level with the truck, small waves breaking over the crosstie retaining wall. The midday August sun hits the bay so hard it ricochets off the few fishing boats that dot the surface.

“Windy today,” Uncle Hektor says. “Hot wind.
Hope nothing's developing in the gulf.” This, too, will be the same in a hundred years.

And maybe when they reach Harlow, she'll wake up and Artie will be on the dune painting and Reese will be in the kitchen cooking one of his mystery meals.

Dolly is sitting between Hektor and May since the pickup has only two seat belts. In case of an accident, she'll be the one to go. Okay, she can accept that.

“Reese was real upset,” Hektor is saying, “when we hired Mrs. Randolph, you know. Said he could take care of Artie.”

“He could have.”

“Your mama wouldn't even consider it.”

“Why?” Dolly holds up her hand. “Don't answer that. My mama has a burr up her butt.”

“She just didn't think it would be proper.”

“What did Artie say?”

“She went along with Mariel, surprisingly. I don't think it was because of the impropriety, though. I think it was to spare Reese.”

“Probably to keep him from putting a hex on Mama.”

“There's a woman in New Orleans does that,” May says in her high voice. “Takes warts off, too.”

“I doubt Reese would stop with warts.”

“Can he put voodoo spells on people?”

“Of course not, sweetie.” Hektor reaches over and pats May's knee. “Dolly's just teasing you.”

“Ha,” Dolly says.

They have reached the main street of town. Baskets of red verbena hanging from street signs droop in the August heat. The Bienville Garden Club ladies will water them come late afternoon. Dolly counts five people walking down the sidewalk. Two of them are dart
ing from air-conditioned cars into the air-conditioned drugstore. Two are walking toward the library, and one is a UPS man delivering a package to a new herbal shop which everyone knows will not make it here in Harlow two months. Herbs. Good Lord.

“Stop, Uncle Hektor. I want out,” Dolly says suddenly as they reach the bay.

“You sick?” He puts on the brakes.

“I just want to sit in the park for a few minutes. I'll walk on up to the house.”

“It's mighty hot.”

“I'll stay in the shade. And I won't be long.”

“Okay. May, hop out, honey, and let Dolly out.”

“Hot as hell out here,” May grumbles. Her father pretends he doesn't hear her.

Dolly slides out of the truck onto the bay road. If she turns left, she will end up at the Grand Hotel where they still serve almond pie. If she turns right, she will climb the small hill to the house her grandparents, Sarah and Thomas, built over sixty years ago and where her Aunt Artie died last night. But all Dolly wants is to cross the road and sit on one of the benches under the live oak trees. She wants to look across the bay to Mobile, to borrow time to come home.

The park is nothing more than a grassy ribbon between the road and the small beach. Dolly brushes tendrils of Spanish moss from a white wooden bench that has
COMPLIMENTS, SERTOMA CLUB
painted on the back and sits down. Heat curls around her, making her sleepy.

Along the beach, a few people are still strolling, carrying baskets, picking up what the bay had given the night before. Dolly watches them until they become a dream.

“Hey, Dolly.”