Dinah
Granny Byrd has a kindly way with her, and her hearin’ is good, but she’s so old I’m afraid she’ll dry up and blow away. I’m scared to touch her for fear she’ll break; kissing her hello is scary. Her eyes look right through you. Even when I haven’t done anything bad, I feel guilty when I’m near her. She never looks down at her fingers, which are always knittin’ or crochetin’ or shellin’ peas. I like her house. It smells like peppermint and has a lot of handmade things in it—patchwork and crocheted doilies and hooked rugs. And she has a black-and-white cat named Penny (short for Penguin) that sleeps in a basket by the hearth and purrs real loud. But I can never think of a thing to say to her.
Coleman just walked in and started talkin’. Of all things to talk about, she brought up angels because there’s a big picture of three angels on the wall in Granny’s house. Coleman took one look at that picture and said, “That’s mighty purty, but real angels don’t look like that. Well, maybe in heaven they have wings and halos and wear long white dresses, but not here.”
I worried Granny would be mad at her, talkin’ that way about angels, like she knows all about ‘em, but Granny looked at her with those see-everything eyes, and cocked her head like Peter does when he’s listenin’. “Have you seen angels, honey?” she asked.
“Oh yes, ma’am,” Coleman said, soundin’ surprised. “Haven’t you?”
“I can’t say as I have,” Granny said. “I thought the big ones look like that picture, and maybe little ones have hair like yours.” She was smiling, so I thought she was teasing. I looked at Aunt Mary Louise to see what she made of this angel talk. She wasn’t smiling. She looked real serious, maybe worried. I think she wasn’t happy about Coleman’s angels talk.
“I never met a little angel,” Coleman said. “The ones I’ve met are grown-up, and look just like anybody, but they act like angels. That’s how I know that’s what they are.”
“Oh, I see,” Granny said. “That’s a good way to tell.” She looked at me and Mary Louise, and I think she could see we weren’t easy with the conversation. She turned back to Coleman. “I want you to come back to see me real soon, so we can talk about angels some more. But before that, I want Mary Louise to bring you to our church. When you hear our choir, you’ll think you’re hearin’ a chorus of heavenly angels.”
“I’d like to come again, Granny. And I’d surely like to hear that choir. In New Orleans I was a Methodist, but I used to go around and listen to the choirs at the other churches. I wish I could sing like that,” Coleman said.
“Oh, honey, all God’s children should make a joyful noise to the Lord, and He’ll think it’s beautiful. He loves the sounds of children’s voices,” Granny said.
Coleman sighed. “I don’t know, Granny. That Gloria used to tell me I sounded like a crow, and I shouldn’t sing ever.”
“Hmph. Sounds to me like that woman took too much on herself. She’s interferin’ in the Lord’s business when she says something like that. God made all things, and the Lord made your voice. You sing by God’s will, and for His glory,” she said, real firm-like.
Granny sounds like she feels about that Gloria like I do. I can’t help thinkin’ bad thoughts about a woman who treated Coleman the way she did. Anyway, after that, they got off angels and religion and singing, and talked about the produce stand, and I was glad.
I felt kind of funny when Coleman said she’d seen angels. I believe in angels, and I don’t doubt her, but I never saw an angel, and I feel uneasy they’re close to Coleman. I don’t believe an angel turns up unless you need one bad, like you’re in danger of bein’ hurt. I hope she doesn’t see ‘em now that she’s home. With all of us around, I don’t see why she’d need angels. Aunt Mary Louise must have seen I was worried, because she reached over and squeezed my hand.
Granny thought we should sell cut flowers at the produce stand, so people can buy bunches to take to their houses. She said lots of people around Slocumb Corners have flower gardens, and they’d like to sell some to the beach people. She said, “Man cannot live by bread alone, and the stand should offer beauty, too; nothing is more beautiful than God’s flowers.” Aunt Mary Louise said it’s a good idea, so I know it will happen.
Granny’s garden is so pretty, I wish we had one. And I wish we had a cape jasmine bush like she has—I dearly love those flowers. Aunt Polly says city folk call ‘em gardenias, but around here, where they grow by every cabin that wants one, we say cape jasmine. Whatever they’re called, they smell wonderful. I wish we had an arbor with white roses growin’ over it like Granny’s, too. I could sit in there and read all day. But nobody at our house has time to work in a flower garden. Someday maybe I’ll have a flower garden of my own. Granny’s right: nothin’ is more beautiful than God’s flowers.
Polly
Patriotism runs deep in our little town, and the Fourth of July is a major holiday here. Ida and I have always been thankful that we live in a free country, and especially that we can worship freely—that’s why our ancestors came here. We want to make sure Dinah and Coleman understand the holiday and know that it’s not just about fireworks. Not that fireworks aren’t wonderful—to tell the truth, I like them as much as the children do.
Our Fourth of July celebrations are grand. While it’s still light, the young people parade on Main Street with a few homey floats and the school band playing “The Stars and Stripes Forever.” In the early evening there’s a street dance, with one of the big boys as disc jockey. They have three cakewalks for the children. This year, Ida made a lemon pound cake with lemon icing for one of the prizes; Mary Louise made a coconut cake; and Mrs. Guthrie, the Presbyterian minister’s wife, made an orange marmalade cake from a recipe she got when she visited some friends up in the mountains. Any child who can toddle joins in, sometimes clutching the hand of an older brother or sister, and they walk ‘round and ‘round in a big circle. The child standing at the marked spot when the music stops wins a cake. Dinah and Coleman walked in all three. They didn’t win a cake, but they didn’t mind—it’s the walking that’s fun, and they get plenty of cake at home.
Everyone takes picnic suppers to eat on a cloth spread on the grass in the little park by the courthouse. We always pack ham biscuits and egg salad sandwiches, a thermos of lemonade, and oatmeal cookies and brownies. We bring lots of cookies and brownies because people stroll around to visit with friends and neighbors, and it’s good to have something to offer them when they stop by to say hello. The town provides watermelons in tubs of ice, and freezers full of homemade vanilla ice cream made from Mayor Rankin’s wife’s recipe. Janet Rankin makes the best ice cream I ever tasted—I look forward to it every year.
Before we eat, one of the ministers—they take turns—leads us in the blessing, and we sing “God Bless America.” Then we have our picnic. I’ve never known it to rain on the Fourth of July. The evening air is always soft and warm, scented with pine trees and honeysuckle and newly cut grass and watermelon. Whenever I smell fresh cut grass and watermelon together, it takes me back to the Fourth of July.
When it’s full dark, the fireworks take my breath away—sparkly gold and green and white and red against the blue-black sky. Everyone stays up later than usual, and we’re always a little tired the next morning, but this year we couldn’t sleep in, because business is booming at the stand. It’s like feeding a dragon—you can’t ever let it get empty.
Today, like every July 5th since Arthur Rankin became mayor, Miss Ida is making angel food cakes, mostly for customers who’ve reserved one. Any left over, we’ll sell at the stand. This is how it is: Janet Rankin’s ice cream recipe calls for egg yolks, and she can’t use the egg whites, so she brings them to Miss Ida to use in angel food cakes. They sell well because hardly anybody makes angel food cakes from scratch anymore, and there’s a big difference between homemade and out of a box. We give 10 percent of what we make from the angel food cakes we sell on the produce stand to our church, and another 10 percent goes to the Salvation Arm
y, in Janet Rankin’s name.
Coleman had never heard of or seen angel food cake, let alone tasted it, and she loved it. “I know why it’s called angel food,” she said. “It’s so light it could fly away to the angels. But I don’t think they eat in heaven—just when they’re here. I wonder if my angels ever tasted it.”
I didn’t know what to say, but she didn’t seem to want an answer; she just wandered off looking thoughtful. Mary Louise told us about Coleman’s angels, but this is the first time I’d heard her mention them. I see no harm in it. When I was a child, I went to sleep every night thinking about guardian angels at the head and foot of my bed.
The produce stand sales keep getting better and better, and we’re putting a little money in the bank. I worry what we’ll do when Sarah Ann goes back to college in September. Will we have to close down? But Mary Louise says she’ll find somebody else, and we’ll stay open full-time through Halloween, then close, and reopen for Thanksgiving and Christmas to cater to the visitors to Wilmington that come for the house tours and all the other holiday festivities.
After she said that, I decided to let go and let God. I promised Him not to worry about the produce stand anymore. I know worrying the way I do is a sin, and I pray for His help to keep my faith in Him and trust that He will provide.
Right after the fourth, Robert Sherrill, the Fairgroves’ lawyer, called Ida and asked if it was true that Olivia’s grandchild had been found. When she told him that Coleman was living with us, he said Olivia left everything she had to Coleman, except for our little legacy. (Like Ida, Olivia had never stopped believin’ Coleman was alive and would be found.) Mr. Sherrill was about to launch another search for her when he heard people say Coleman was with us. He was mighty glad she was home at last, and he’s comin’ to see her. He cautioned there wouldn’t be a lot of money, but with Coleman located, the estate could be settled quickly, and what there was, we’d probably have before cold weather. Another blessing! Coleman will need shoes and other things for school I can’t make. I need to take her to the doctor and the dentist, and I’ve been putting it off till we have a little more put by. But Mr. Sherrill told Ida if she needed money for Coleman he’ll advance it, so we needn’t worry. The Lord is always with us.
Mr. Sherrill is planning to sell Fairways, Olivia’s house, but I doubt it will fetch much. The last time I saw it, it was even more dilapidated than Four Oaks. Like us, Olivia sold most of the land. She couldn’t farm it herself, and she had no family left except Coleman. Even after she sold the land, I don’t think she could afford to keep the house up. Or maybe she just didn’t have the will or the energy. She was sick for a long time.
Before he could put the house on the market, Mr. Sherrill said we’d have to go through Olivia’s furniture and clothes and other belongings to see what Coleman wants to keep. Mr. Sherrill thought it would be a big job, and he urged us to get started right away. The estate would pay for moving whatever Coleman wanted brought to Four Oaks. After Fairways was empty, he’d have the house cleaned and start showing it to prospective buyers.
I wondered what we’d find in that house. Nothing valuable, I guessed. A long time ago, the Fairgroves were rich, but they had more than their share of death and bad luck, and when Henry and Olivia took over the property from his folks, there wasn’t much left. The Fairgroves’ bad luck continued: Angela, their only child, drowned, which nearly killed Henry and Olivia, and then Henry, a heavy smoker, got lung cancer, the tobacco disease. Tobacco is grown and cured all around here, and even if you don’t smoke or live with a smoker, you can’t help but breathe tobacco fumes. Lung cancer is a killer, and so are other smoking-related afflictions—other cancers, heart disease, emphysema, asthma, and who knows what else. Coleman talks about the demon drink and I agree, but she hasn’t yet learned about “terrible tobacco.” She may not even know how her grandfather died.
Henry was sick and in pain for a long time—lung cancer is a horrible way to die. Angela’s and Henry’s deaths took a heavy toll on Olivia, and there was no love lost between her and Andrew. Olivia thought he should have stayed in North Carolina, or if he had to go, he should have left Coleman with her or us when he moved to Richmond. She said he was in no shape to take care of a baby, which was certainly true. We weren’t happy about it either, but we made a point of not quarreling with him. If we had, we’d have lost touch completely. But he didn’t care either way. After Angela died, he didn’t care about anything. As to why he insisted on taking Coleman, none of us could understand it. Coleman was all he had left of Angela, of course, but he didn’t pay as much attention to her as he would have paid to an alley cat that raided his garbage can. Coleman’s disappearance was the final blow to Olivia. They say Olivia had heart disease, but I think her poor heart just broke.
We walked over to the house—the four of us and Peter in a new red collar Mary Louise gave him. Peter struggled against his leash. He’s devoted to Coleman, but there’s a lot of yard dog in him—he looks like the Guthrie dog, but in some ways he’s like his mama—and he doesn’t like being penned up. He wants to roam free, and to accompany us when it’s his idea, not ours. So far he’s not big enough to put up much of a fight, but I worry that we’ll have trouble with him eventually.
It’s not far to Fairways, but the driveway is long, and you can’t see the house from the road. When we turned the bend in the weedy rutted drive and I saw it, I felt sick. The shutters were closed, and the face of the house was blank. So much paint had worn away, the house was grayer than white. The grass was knee-high and full of weeds and sandspurs, and the shrubs were overgrown and tangled with kudzu vine—that pesky vine will take over if you turn your back on it, and it kills everything in its path. The air was still and hot and humid, and the house and grounds were silent, as if the birds and insects had abandoned the area when the humans left.
“It’s like Sleepin’ Beauty’s house, but nobody here’ll ever wake up,” Coleman said.
I knew what she meant. I thought of Edward Burne-Jones’s painting Briar Rose, and all those thorny vines around Sleeping Beauty, who looks more dead than asleep. The temperature was in the high eighties, but I shivered. A goose must have run over my grave.
Olivia would have hated seeing her house so rundown. She’d been forced to abandon it when she became bedridden, and after that, she waited for death in the nursing home for more than a year, asleep most of the time. She’d left instructions that her body be cremated and her ashes sprinkled in the Good Hope River where it meets the ocean. She didn’t want a religious service or any kind of ceremony, and Mr. Sherrill had honored her wishes. Maybe that’s why the house was so forlorn: its mistress left and never came back, not even for her lying-in.
Ida read my mind. “We should have a memorial service for Olivia,” she said.
“But she didn’t want a service,” I protested.
“She would have, if she’d known about Coleman,” Ida said.
As soon as she said it, I knew she was right: with Coleman back home, Olivia would have wanted a service. Coleman should know how much her grandmother was loved and respected. Just about everyone in Slocumb County would come to say goodbye to Olivia, and to offer Coleman their condolences. We’d arrange a service as soon as we could.
Despite the burning sun, the house was dark and clammy. It reeked of damp and rot, that moldy odor that makes it hard to swallow or breathe. When I turned on the lights and saw the interior of the house, I felt even sicker than when I saw the outside. The walls were streaked with water stains where the windows leaked, and the paint on the woodwork was peeling. Mice had left signs everywhere. The parlors on either side of the staircase entry hall and the hall itself had been stripped of furniture and decorations. Lighter marks on the walls were ghostly reminders of the pictures that once hung there. They were family portraits by unknown artists, but I’d have thought they were worth keeping for their sentimental value. I guess Olivia was totally out of sentiment. We didn’t see a stick of furniture until we got
to the kitchen, where the poor woman spent her last months before they took her away.
The kitchen used to be cozy and attractive. There’s a fireplace and a potbellied stove as well as a modern range, and a dishwasher and a refrigerator and a big freezer—all the “mod cons.” But rain had leaked in here, too, and what with the stains and the stench and peeling paint, the kitchen looked and felt derelict. The fridge and the pantry and the freezer were empty; someone must have come in and cleaned them out. Thank goodness we didn’t have to deal with spoiled food on top of everything else.
The shabby brown corduroy sofa piled with blankets and pillows in one corner of the kitchen was where Olivia slept and spent her days, mostly watching the huge television set opposite the sofa. In a small room next door to the kitchen, shelves were stuffed full of books. Books and the TV must have been her only company most of the time. We all stopped in now and again—whenever I visited the TV was on—but days and nights must seem endless when you are alone and ill.
Until we went upstairs, I couldn’t imagine why Mr. Sherrill thought clearing the house would be a big job. Getting up there was a challenge—the steps are worn and rickety—and we held tight to the banister and watched where we put our feet. When we reached the second floor, I couldn’t believe my eyes: the entire floor was crammed with boxes and trunks and furniture. No antiques; I suspect she had a dealer come and get all the good stuff. But what’s left should sell in a yard sale. The attic was full of boxes and furniture, too, and cobwebs and dust. Luckily, the roof didn’t leak, and the attic was the driest place in the house. What in the world could Olivia have packed in all those boxes? They were sealed, with no labels to tell us what was in them.
The mold and mouse smell was even worse upstairs. Ida wheezed and coughed—she had asthma when she was a child, and she’s always had a weak chest. How would we ever get through all this mess when less than an hour here made Ida sick?
Angels Page 4