“But you are?”
“Not at the moment, but I’ve been reasonably happy as a sober person.”
“Do you remember the hospital workers’ strike in 1969?”
“I wasn’t here, but I saw it on the national news.” I wondered why she was suddenly asking about this. To draw her out further I said, “I’ll never forget all those black women walking down King Street in their white nurses’ uniforms with the National Guard tanks rolling along behind them.”
“It was Joe Magnus,” Avery said. “Joe Magnus got Royce to help him set off a bomb during the strike. At least that’s what Royce told me. Joe had been arrested for assaulting someone at the hospital march, and he’d been suspended for carrying a knife to school. Royce thought what was happening to Joe was his fault, so Joe was able to talk Royce into helping him set off a pipe bomb right over there.” She pointed toward the Custom House. “Right where the Market Street meets East Bay.”
I turned my head and squinted, as if I could see through Oscar’s dark walls to the end of the block. “They really set off a bomb down here?”
“Well, they tried to. It didn’t even make the news, except locally. And no one could decide whether it was an action in support of the strike or opposed to it. Royce said the bomb had not been much stronger than those TNTs we used to get for fireworks. He said they made it out of twenty M-80s.”
“The ones that would blow off your fingers if you made a mistake?”
Avery smiled, her lips thin and chapped. “Can you believe what they used to let us play with? Royce said you just had to be quick and throw them before they exploded.”
“I was always afraid I’d freeze. I threw the cherry bombs, but the M-80s, I wouldn’t even light them on the ground.”
“You want to know what it’s like to be an aristocrat in Charleston? You get taught that you matter just for breathing. You believe you matter because a couple of hundred years ago your great-grandfather did something, and your house is a few hundred years old. It’s ridiculous. There’s nothing old in this country except the Indians. Excuse me, the Native Americans. Want to hear a good one? Fourteen ninety-two is when the Americans discovered Europe.”
“I heard that one,” I said. “I think it was Buffy Sainte-Marie, the folk singer, on The Dick Cavett Show.”
“My family’s house has been turned into a museum, and so what? We never had money, just the house, which we lost because of taxes. My father was an insurance agent, but he’d come home for lunch every day and we’d sit at the mahogany table in the dining room and he’d ring this little crystal dinner bell and the maid would bring us tuna fish sandwiches cut into squares. We ate with the family silver. Royce and I got two crystal dinner bells for wedding presents. But when we moved out to Blacklock, I started to realize I didn’t want any of it. I had the plantation and the star husband, and I didn’t want any of it. I don’t think Royce did either.”
“Avery, I don’t understand. Why do you still live in Charleston?”
She looked puzzled. “Why, Charleston is the most beautiful city in America. Charleston is paradise.”
4
Claudia had taken the night-owl flight through Atlanta, and she sounded jumpy with exhaustion and adrenaline. “You were right that my editor went for it, so here I am. Although the famous Del Mead may be close behind.”
“Welcome to the Holy City,” I said. “Take the Mills House shuttle downtown. You’ll like the Mills House, but don’t let them put you on the fourth floor because a man jumped out of a window on that one a few months ago. Get a tourist map of downtown and walk to the Battery and look at the seawall and the harbor and cannons. That’s where the first shots of the Civil War were fired. The aristocrats watched from their verandas like it was a big fireworks display. It’s beautiful down there. Go do that journalistic legwork.”
“Don’t make fun of me, and don’t start ordering me around.”
“You’re right, Claudia. One of my character defects is a tendency to jump out of the car and start directing traffic. Metaphorically speaking.”
“You and your metaphors,” she said. “I need coffee and breakfast. Any suggestions about that?”
“I like this new, testy Claudia. Can I just say ‘eggs and cheese grits at the Mills House’ without sounding too bossy?”
“That will pass muster.”
“And where does the phrase ‘pass muster’ come from?”
“It’s military. Am I going to be quizzed further?”
“I’ll pick you up in front of the Mills House at eleven forty-five.”
With Nadine’s top raised she was noisy, but at least the air conditioner still worked. I pulled up in front of the Mills House, got out of the car, and stood staring at Claudia standing on the sidewalk while she tried to think of something clever to say about Nadine. “Okay, I forgive you,” she finally said as she tried opening the passenger-side door. “The cheese grits are good. And I tried the country ham.”
“You’ll be drinking water all day from the salt.” I walked around the car to help her get in. “These doors are heavy, and this one’s a little bit bent at the hinges. You have to raise the whole door slightly with the handle before you can make the latch work. Also, never push down the electric locks or we’ll be climbing in and out of the windows.”
I shut the door for her, walked back around, and got in beside her on the white leather bench seat. I expected her to comment further on Nadine, but instead she said, “How’s your mother?”
“I see you’ve been doing your homework.”
“Is there really a grocery store down here called Piggly Wiggly?”
“Yes, it’s a chain. I think they might be up North somewhere too.”
She nodded, staring ahead as we pulled into the traffic on the narrow street. “I assume it’s too hot to drop the top on this contraption?”
“We’ll have to wait till evening. We’ll ride out to Folly Beach and go to a meeting. Right now we have an appointment at the funeral home. There was a Piggly Wiggly up in Moncks Corner that my mom and I stopped at once. They had a funeral cake in the display case with a rhinestone-studded lavender telephone on it and the words Jesus Called. I wanted Momma to buy it for me, but she wouldn’t.”
“How old were you?”
“About ten.”
“You want me to believe you were acting this way at the age of ten?”
“Nope, I’m just trying to tell you about the Piggly Wiggly and how much I wanted a rhinestone telephone. Look, I’ve made you laugh.”
Beecher’s Mortuary had been burying Charlestonians since the end of the Civil War. James Beecher Sr. buried my father, and Jimmy Beecher Jr. buried my sister and Royce. Jimmy was a year behind Royce at Porter-Gaud, and they’d played on the golf team together.
Jimmy tried to hide his surprise that a New York Times reporter was accompanying me. He was dressed as an undertaker: discreet dark suit, dark tie, white shirt, wingtip black shoes. Claudia wore a white sundress, which I thought made her look unserious, a fact I planned to inform her of later. I was wearing khaki shorts and an ARMY shirt with the sleeves cut off. My face was still warlike with white stripes of zinc oxide. I kept on my Holy City cap but took off the dark glasses. After amenities—no coffee or tea, but water, yes, thanks—I said, “I want to get a special coffin for Lucia. You should have been faxed all the necessary releases. Also, I want her plaque to say Lucia Burns Godchild.
He hesitated, opening a manila folder. “Well, her grandmother’s surname was Dao, Ellen. That’s the name on the papers we received.”
“Royce made us that name. You’re a powerful man, Jimmy, and you can make this happen. The paperwork releases the body to me. I know the name Godchild is not on any of it, but this was the name her mother Ruby gave to enroll her in the Head Start program in California: Lucia Burns Godchild. My lawyer said there shouldn’t be a problem. For the obituary she’s Lucia Burns Godchild, daughter of Ruby Burns Redstone, and granddaughter of Royce Burns. I want a new p
laque for Royce too. It should say Tomb of the Unknown Racist. It turns out Royce may not be who’s in that grave, but I can’t do anything about it yet.”
Claudia wrote furiously. Jimmy stayed silent.
“Is Lucia’s body here in the building?” I said. “Is it downstairs?”
He nodded slightly. “Yes.”
“Listen, Jimmy, don’t let me see her body before you work on her, even if I change my mind and try to make you let me, okay?”
He glanced at Claudia for support, but she did not look up from her notebook. “All right,” he said.
“Can we go look at some coffins now?”
“Tell me what you meant,” he said. “Your remark about Royce’s remains.”
“How soon can you get the plaques made? Can you get them in, like, two days?”
Arranging the release of Lucia’s body had turned out to be somewhat complicated, since she’d never had a birth certificate. Like Ruby during the years Santane was hiding her, Lucia existed outside of known contexts. However, Ruby’s own birth had been recorded in California as the daughter of Santane Dao, because when Royce took her to a hospital to be sewn up, they were unmarried. After Ruby ran away, she’d used a fake ID to get a driver’s license, sent a fax of it to the hospital in Mendocino, and received a copy of her birth certificate, which said her name was Ruby Dao. But by the time she married Lightman, she was calling herself Ruby Burns. When Lightman refused to adopt Lucia, Ruby told everyone her daughter’s last name was Godchild.
The coffin room, like all public areas of Beecher’s, smelled suspiciously clean. Some dozen coffins were on display, and we wandered among them. Jimmy said there were more in storage, and he could show me photographs. “We only have two children’s sizes in here,” he said. “But, of course, we do have others.”
“Of course.” On the edge of my vision Claudia was scribbling again. “But I want a full-size one for Lucia.”
“If you prefer,” Jimmy said.
“This is the one I was remembering.” I stroked an oversize purple-pink metallic casket with a mother-of-pearl polyester interior.
“That’s an extra-wide model, Ellen, designed to hold someone over three hundred and fifty pounds.”
“Do you have a regular adult one like this?”
He looked toward Claudia again, but her head was down and she was writing.
“If you don’t, Jimmy, I’m going to have to bury her in this one.”
“I do have the adult size, Ellen,” he said, “but I hope you realize that this is a casket. Caskets are rectangular. Coffins are tapered.”
“What difference could that possibly make?”
“Well, you buried your brother in a child-size coffin.” He gestured toward a polished mahogany one.
“I know you don’t like this choice, Jimmy, but we didn’t have much of Royce to bury, whether that was Royce or not. Also, he was my little brother, so it all kind of worked out in my head. But I think Lucia Burns Godchild is a very large figure.”
“Ellen, are you sure this is how you want to proceed in this situation?” Jimmy’s hands were clean, his nails and cuticles trimmed, his skin soft with lotions.
“I’m sure.”
We retreated to his comfortable office, where we signed a lot of papers. Lucia’s gaudy casket was expensive. “Okay, can I see Lucia’s body now?”
He glanced at Claudia. “You asked me not to allow you to see her.”
“I’ve changed my mind. It can’t be that bad. There was no violence. She died of oxygen deprivation, didn’t she?”
“But she’s been autopsied, Ellen. We certainly don’t recommend viewing at this point.”
“Has she been embalmed?”
“Yes.”
“What do they do with a person’s blood after they’re embalmed?”
“It is disposed of sanitarily and respectfully.”
“But isn’t blood an important part of a person’s body, Jimmy? What do they do with it, flush it down a drain into the sewer system?”
He didn’t reply but tried to look sympathetic.
I pushed the photo of Lucia across his desk. “Can you make her look like this? I’m not sure anybody will be viewing her, maybe not even me, but I’d like her to look like her authentic self as much as possible.”
“Do you have garments for her?”
“Fuck.” I suddenly feared I might cry, and he saw that in my eyes.
He said gently, “Why don’t we clothe her in a simple white gown? Something nice, with a little lace. We can arrange that for you.”
I hated the idea of crying in front of him. “Will she need shoes?”
“We’ll arrange some small white slippers. Like ballet slippers.”
Outside, in the blistering parking lot, I opened Claudia’s door for her. I’d left the windows open to keep the car cooler. When I got into the driver’s side, I started the motor and air conditioner and raised the electric windows. “Please don’t say anything right now.” I concentrated on the ocean, the in breath and out breath, and later we would listen to the real ocean.
We drove all the way to a car rental place on East Bay Street before Claudia spoke. “I assume that lawyer thing was a bluff?”
“Yes, of course, but I do have a lawyer. I want to tell you something important, Claudia, that might help you with your career. In my experience, authority belongs to whoever decides to seize it. So seize your authority. At first, I didn’t think that dress you’re wearing, that frocky thing, was such a good idea, but maybe you can get people to think you’re harmless. I saw that happen with Jimmy. He wrote you off as a good girl. I play it different. That’s why I have all this stuff on my face. That’s what the men’s shirts and trout bag are for. Other than that I like them.”
“What exactly is a trout bag?”
“A tailored canvas bag with a rubber lining, in case I ever want to keep dead fish in it.”
I saw the glint of a smile.
“So, listen, Girl Reporter, you need to rent a car now. You’ll need a car anyway, and I want you to do something for me. Participatory journalism. I’d like for you to go to some stores and buy a couple of dozen toys that would be appropriate for a four-year-old kid. Stuffed animals, things like that. Will you do it? Do you have a credit card you can use? I’ll pay you back, or we can go get some cash for you now.”
“Do you care what stores I go into?”
“No. But it all has to fit into that awful purple-pink thing.”
“What’s up with that?”
“I want Lucia to be happy in paradise. I thought a colorful ride might make a little kid happy.”
5
Around 4:30, I picked Claudia up again at the Mills House. Nadine’s top was down now. It was still hot, but the sun no longer beat straight onto us. Claudia had changed into shorts and sandals, and she wore, over a silky black top, a lightweight khaki men’s shirt, unbuttoned, with the sleeves rolled up. She opened the car door like an expert.
“You got what I asked?”
“I did my best.”
“I’ve called a press conference for tomorrow.” We pulled into the stream of traffic. “Only local TV and newspapers. And you, of course.”
“And maybe Del Mead,” she said, as we reached the road that runs beside the harbor. “He’s supposed to be arriving late tonight.” When I didn’t comment, she said, “I like Charleston.”
“Of course, because Charleston is paradise. Did you buy that shirt today, or did you bring it with you?”
“None of your business.” She had to shout when we crossed the old Ashley River Bridge and the wind began to blow us clean.
I settled back into Nadine and let the velocity hold us. We crossed the Wappoo Creek Bridge onto James Island. At a stoplight, Claudia said, “Where are we going?”
“Out to Folly Beach. I want you to see Folly Beach.”
“Everything is so flat here.”
“That’s because the ocean used to reach a hundred miles inland. At the Isle of P
alms you can walk out into the water a hundred yards and still be only waist deep.”
“What’s so special about Folly?”
The light changed, and talking again became difficult. “Folly Beach is washing away. When the Army Corps of Engineers built the jetties to keep the harbor open, they caused the sand to build up on Sullivan’s Island and the Isle of Palms. Those islands have all the sand that belongs on Folly. Then the hurricane of 1938 ripped off the entire front row, the really big beach houses.”
As the sun fell, the damp air cooled and began to feel wonderful. We stopped first at a restaurant on the Folly River, which divides the island from the mainland. The Sea Shack was the kind of place that spread newspapers on our table and dumped out a bucket of boiled shrimp and a pan of roasted oysters. I showed Claudia how to use the oyster knife and glove to pry them open and throw the shells into the bucket beside us on the sawdust-covered floor. “I think Charlestonians roast the oysters so we can eat them faster. Opening them up while they’re raw is too much work.”
“This sure seems like beer food,” Claudia said.
I had ordered a pitcher of Coca-Cola, and she asked for sweet tea.
“Wow,” she said, popping a shrimp into her mouth.
“See? The small local shrimp are always sweeter. Now you know something new.”
“What did you do while I went shopping?”
“I took my mother to a dentist so he could adjust her spare teeth and make a cast of them. Next time we’ll know what to do in an emergency.”
“What?”
“Yesterday my mother threw her teeth off the balcony, but nobody recognized us when we were out. Her old Mercedes with the Confederate bumper sticker is quite a disguise.”
“Do you know that being here with you does not feel any weirder than every other day of my sobriety? Being sober, I feel as if I’ve woken up in another world.”
“I know exactly what you mean. You’ll begin to see how everything just gets weirder and weirder, because the truth is, reality is so genuinely bizarre. Also, it’s chock-full of people even crazier than we are.”
“Well, that’s a cheerful view.”
Tomb of the Unknown Racist Page 12