The Remembering tm-3

by Steve Cash

  Now several rugged wildflowers poked their way up between and around the giant, scattered “slabs.” The wind was down, and Geaxi spread a blanket across one of the stones. I brought cheese and bread and a basket of fresh strawberries. Sailor brought a bottle of wine and three tin cups, perfect for a picnic on a bright and clear day in Cornwall. Four miles away, along the horizon to the south and west, the open sea was visible, which was rare at Caitlin’s Ruby.

  Sailor uncorked the wine and filled our cups. He stood and looked as far to the west as he could, to where the sky and sea became one. “We have time, Zianno,” he said. “Or should I say we still have enough time?”

  “Enough time?”

  “Yes. Do not pressure yourself in your study of the spheres. We have forty-eight years to answer their riddles, forty-eight years before the Remembering is upon us.”

  “You’re probably right.” I was facing west, the same as Sailor, then for some reason turned and faced north, looking out and over the windswept, empty landscape. Geaxi was facing the same way. She held her beret in one hand and seemed transfixed on an invisible point in the distance. For a moment or two I watched Geaxi watching nothing. “The answer we seek, Sailor, is not in time. The answer we seek is … somewhere else.”

  We returned to Paris by air from London, with Koldo acting as our grandfather and purchasing our tickets, then seeing us onto the plane.

  “Perhaps Kepa or Yaldi will be performing in Paris one day,” he said. “If so, you should pay them a visit. They will know who you are.”

  I told him I would do just that if the opportunity arose and I thanked him for his generous hospitality. Koldo reminded me he was Aita of the tribe of Vardules and it was unnecessary to thank him. We embraced and he said, “Our grandfathers would be pleased, no?”

  I turned to board the plane. “Yes, they would, Koldo, and so would their grandfathers and their grandfathers’ grandfathers.” Then we both smiled and I waved good-bye.

  * * *

  Later that summer the American astronauts Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin walked on the moon. Practically the whole world stopped to watch. Inside the milk barn, I barely noticed. I was back in my routine of studying the spheres. It was Nova’s turn in the rotation of Meq “guests” and I was optimistic. Nova carried the Stone of Silence, and I had always felt that if any of us who carried the Stones were going to have a sudden breakthrough, it would be the one who carried the Stone of Silence, not the Stone of Dreams. Nova had also been prone to “visions” in the past. Perhaps she would “see” a breakthrough. But, once again, nothing happened. Nova sat for hours with the spheres, hours without moving or speaking … listening, waiting … listening. She did this for weeks and months, staying at the farm longer than ever before. Seasons came and went, and so did the other Meq, one by one, studying the spheres in vain. The Fleur-du-Mal tended his bees and we drank their honey with our tea. Two of the Mannheims died and Opari and I attended the funerals. We got back to Paris less and less. I even became somewhat fluent in German, though Geaxi labeled my accent “deplorable and pathetically American.”

  Late in 1973 the Fleur-du-Mal casually mentioned that Valery had passed away at his villa on Lake Como in northern Italy. I had always been curious about the true nature of the relationship between them, so I asked. The Fleur-du-Mal took his time before answering. He sipped his cognac and swallowed slowly. “There was no mystery, mon petit. Valery helped me and I helped him. Let us say he was … my Jack Flowers.”

  To counter the constant frustration and failure, I always had Opari. Never once did she allow me to doubt or despair. We became closer than ever, and many times, usually in the spring and often late at night, we went for long walks among the fields overlooking the Elbe. We talked about anything and everything, including the Remembering and the Zeharkatu. The only two Meq I had known who had “crossed” in the Zeharkatu were Unai and Usoa. Unfortunately, I never got to talk with them about the ritual. Opari and Susheela the Ninth, the oldest among us, possessed only the vaguest idea of what “crossing” actually meant or how it was accomplished. This was experiential knowledge. We would have to learn for ourselves, if and when the time came.

  On April 15, 1974, Ray Ytuarte arrived at the farm for his turn in the rotation. He was in a black Mercedes limousine and Hans Mannheim was with him, but Ray was driving. He could barely see over the wheel and he was laughing like crazy all the way until he came to a stop.

  Ray hopped out with a big smile and his beret in his hand. I said, “When did you start driving?”

  “Just as soon as we crossed into East Berlin,” he said, laughing again. “Happy New Year, Z. It’s been a while. Good to see you,” he said, winding up and throwing me an invisible baseball, which I pretended to catch.

  “Good to see you, too, Ray.”

  Even the Fleur-du-Mal enjoyed Ray’s visits, although Ray always insulted him whenever he got the chance. That night, the Mannheims served a wonderful meal, which was arranged in Ray’s honor. After we finished and Ray had eaten everything on his plate with great gusto, the Fleur-du-Mal asked Ray if the meal had been satisfactory. Ray smiled and wiped his mouth carefully, almost daintily with his napkin, and said, “A bit salty … a bit salty.” The Fleur-du-Mal laughed and poured more wine into Ray’s glass.

  Later, when Ray and I were alone, he told me he had a message from Jack.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “Jack said, and these are his exact words, ‘Tell Z if he’s ever coming back, he should come back now.’ ”

  “Is it Carolina?”

  Ray’s expression turned serious. “He didn’t say, Z.”

  This time, I didn’t hesitate and Opari agreed with my decision. The next morning Hans Mannheim drove me into East Berlin, then through a checkpoint into West Berlin, where he booked a flight for me to New York with a connecting flight to St. Louis. I took my seat on the plane, closed my eyes, and thought about Carolina the entire trip.

  As we approached St. Louis, it was just after sunrise, and the Gateway Arch, which had only been constructed six years earlier, stood tall on the West Bank of the Mississippi. It gleamed and sparkled in the sunshine. This was the first time I’d seen the monument and it was magnificent.

  After landing, instead of calling Jack, I took a taxi to Carolina’s house. I wanted to surprise her, but it didn’t work. I walked in the kitchen door and she and Star were sitting at the big table in the center of the room, drinking coffee. She looked smaller and much older. Her freckled white skin was wrinkled and blotched, and the veins in her thin hands crisscrossed and stood out like a map of blue creeks and streams. Still, her eyes were as bright and clear as ever. The tiny gold flecks danced in the light. Carolina was one hundred and four years old.

  She looked up at me without a trace of surprise, as if she’d been expecting me. “You’re late,” she said.

  I wanted to laugh. “It’s complicated,” I replied with a slight smile.

  “You always say that.”

  I walked over and kissed her on both cheeks and did the same to Star. “What’s for breakfast?”

  Finally, Carolina smiled and reached out for my hand. Star laughed and said, “Anything you want, Z … as always.”

  Jack joined us for breakfast, dressed in his pajamas and a St. Louis Cardinals baseball cap. He gave me a quick wink when he entered the room, and mouthed the words “Thanks for coming.” Even though Jack was sixty-eight years old, Carolina made him remove his cap at the kitchen table. Some things never changed. He told me he was writing a book about “Dizzy” Dean and his brother Paul “Daffy” Dean, the fantastic pitchers and personalities for the Cardinals of the 1930s. He said the book was going to be titled Me an’ Paul, after the famous bragging quote by “Dizzy” that “me an’ Paul are gonna win forty-five games in one year”—and they did.

  I asked about Caine, Antoinette, and Georgie, and was told by Star they were all out of town. Antoinette was with Caine in Chicago, where he was researching his own book
and giving a series of lectures at Northwestern University. Georgie was away at college, where she was now in her third year, studying anthropology at the University of California in Berkeley. Star showed me a recent photograph of Georgie and I was astounded. She was beautiful. Carolina assured me she was smarter than she was beautiful. Jack added, “She is a remarkable girl, Z.” I had no doubt it was true. Everyone in her bloodline was remarkable.

  That first day back was golden. We spent the whole day talking and laughing. Carolina seemed full of energy. After dinner, she suggested the two of us take a stroll to the “Honeycircle.” She held my arm and we walked through the twilight at a slow but steady pace. The forsythia was in full bloom and the honeysuckle would not be far behind. We stopped next to Baju’s sundial and Carolina raised her eyes to the sky. We watched the sky darken from blue to purple to black. Venus was already bright in the south. Mars had yet to rise.

  “I have expressed my wishes to Jack,” Carolina said and paused. “Now I will tell you, Z. I want my ashes to be buried right here … where I’m standing … next to Baju’s sundial, inside the ‘Honeycircle.’ ”

  Her voice was firm and clear. There was nothing fragile or pitiful in it. “It’s a little early for that, isn’t it?” I said.

  “No, Z … it is not. When you age physically as long as I have, you know your body well. I say these things because they need to be said and said now. Do not be sad; do not grieve. I have lived a long, wonderful life.” Carolina paused and I could see her smile in the darkness. “It’s all right, Z. I’m ready to go.”

  I said not a word. It was the most pure, honest, and peaceful statement I’d ever heard.

  For the next week Carolina and I spent nearly every waking hour together. She was no longer able to walk on our aimless, wandering journeys through Forest Park, so Jack bought a wheelchair and I pushed her along the paths and through the bright blooming dogwoods and redbuds. We talked about Solomon, Mrs. Bennings, her sister Georgia, Owen Bramley, and Nicholas, but often we walked in silence, especially in the mornings. Forest Park had always been a special, magical place for us. It was somewhere deep in Forest Park where I first revealed to her that I was Meq, slashing my forearm with a penknife and making her watch the wound bleed, then heal within minutes. One day Carolina turned her head in the wheelchair and looked up at me. She was smiling. “All our secrets are here, aren’t they, Z?”

  I smiled back and said, “Yes, they are, Carolina. Yes, they are.”

  Caine and Antoinette returned from Chicago on Thursday, and on Friday, April 26, we decided to celebrate Jack’s birthday at the ballpark. Carolina insisted on going, and she stayed for the entire game, only to see the Cardinals lose 4–3 to the powerful Cincinnati Reds.

  Caine was impressed with his grandmother’s stamina and the next day he suggested we all go to an outdoor concert being held at Washington University. I asked who was playing and he named several artists and bands unknown to me, but one name got my attention and drew a small shout of recognition from Carolina. The blues singer and guitar player Walter “Furry” Lewis from Memphis, Tennessee, was among the musicians who were going to appear. Decades earlier, in the 1920s, Carolina had befriended him and even put him up in her home when he played St. Louis. Now he had been rediscovered and was finding newfound popularity in his early eighties. “I must go and see Walter,” Carolina said. “Not going would be an insult.”

  It was a warm, sunny day and Caine found a spot in the shade, off to the side of the main crowd, where he set up folding chairs for all of us. Several solo acts started the concert, including John Hammond, Jr., and Captain Beefheart. Next came a new band from Missouri called the Ozark Mountain Daredevils. Carolina seemed to be enjoying herself and when the band ended their set, I asked her what she thought of them. Smiling slightly, she said one word, “Quaint.” When “Furry” Lewis played, Carolina stood and cheered, holding on to Jack’s arm, and clapped as hard as she could when he finished. Caine asked her if she wanted to go backstage and talk with him, but she declined, saying she was “feeling a little tired.”

  Once we were back at the house, Antoinette began preparing dinner, a routine that usually included Carolina, but she excused herself, telling Star she might like to “lie down for just a bit.” Star and I helped her to her room and into her bed. Star arranged two or three pillows under her head so that she was almost sitting up. Star kissed Carolina on the cheek and said, “Why don’t you and Z talk for a while, Mama?” As she left, Star touched my shoulder. “I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me.”

  “Star—” Carolina said.

  “Yes, Mama?”

  “I love you.”

  Star was standing in the doorway. She turned to leave and there was a tremble in her voice. “I love you, too, Mama.”

  For several minutes after Star left the room, Carolina and I said nothing. Her eyes were half-closed and I thought she might have fallen asleep. I listened to her breathing. It was steady, but with tiny, shallow little breaths.

  “Carolina?” I whispered. “Are you awake?”

  “Yes, oh yes, Z. I’m awake.” She opened her eyes wide and looked at me. Her eyes were shining and seemed to be smiling. “I was daydreaming, Z, remembering those days when Georgia was still alive, when we were still together right here.”

  “You mean, when you two were running the most expensive and exclusive whorehouse in St. Louis?”

  Carolina laughed out loud and so did I. “Yes, oh yes,” she said. “Those were wonderful times, Z. Do you remember all the characters who came and went?”

  “I can’t remember them all, but there were many.”

  We laughed some more and then started talking. We talked about things at random, back and forth — shared adventures, shared embarrassments. At one point Carolina had me retrieve a box of photographs from her desk. We spread them out across her bed and traveled back in time through the images and faces in the pictures. Solomon, Georgia, and Nicholas appeared over and over. Carolina kissed the photograph of her and Nicholas holding hands under the table on the same night they fell in love. I even showed up in a few pictures. Carolina shuffled through them and stopped at one in which Caine and I had just finished playing catch. He was about ten years old and we were standing in front of the “Honeycircle.” We were about the same height. Caine was holding his baseball glove and the baseball. I was holding Mama’s glove.

  “My, oh my,” Carolina said. “I haven’t seen that glove in years.”

  I thought for a moment and realized I hadn’t seen it either. I was sitting on the edge of the bed and stood up. “Is it in the same place?” I asked.

  Carolina looked at me with a faint smile. “I believe it is, Z.”

  “I’ll be right back,” I said, heading for the door. I knew Mama’s glove was in a shoe box on a shelf in Caine’s old bedroom.

  Before I got out the door, Carolina said, “Wait, Z.” I turned and she was sitting up, leaning forward. Her silver hair shimmered in the light from the lamp. Her eyes were moist and they focused directly on mine. “I love you, Z,” she said in a clear, even voice. “I always have and always will.”

  Without hesitation, I said, “I love you, too, Carolina — always have, always will.”

  I shut the door and walked down the hall. I found Caine’s old room and switched on the light in the closet. The shoe box was under a sweater on the middle shelf. I opened it and there was Mama’s glove. It looked exactly as I remembered. The stitching was still good and the leather hadn’t cracked. I put it on my hand and pounded the pocket. It felt the same and there was nothing like that feeling. “Thank you, Mama,” I said. I stood there for a few seconds, admiring her work and remembering her touch. I thought about her and I thought about Papa. It was so long ago and it seemed like yesterday. Then I remembered Carolina. I switched off the light and walked quickly back to her room and opened the door.

  She had fallen sideways from a sitting position and was sprawled across the photographs with her head hanging o
ver the edge of the bed. I ran to her, lifting her head and straightening her body, resting her head on Mama’s glove. I put my ear to her chest and listened for a heartbeat. I heard something, but it sounded too faint to make a difference. Her eyes were barely open. She was looking at me. I leaned down close to her mouth to see if she was breathing. Then she tried to speak. “What … were the words, Z? Egibizirik …”

  Then there were no more words. Carolina’s heart stopped, her breathing stopped, and her eyes stared into space. I closed her eyelids and answered her question with my finger on her lips. “Bilatu,” I said, “egibizirik bilatu, the long-living truth, well searched for.”

  I have no explanation for what I did next. Maybe in some way I wanted to help Carolina leave, or maybe I wanted to keep her from leaving. I don’t know or care. I do know I have never regretted it. I turned Carolina on her side and lay down next to her with my arms wrapped around hers. I wanted to cry, but I didn’t. She had told me not to grieve, yet that, too, was impossible. Instead, I talked to her. I held her close and simply talked to her, as if we were on a plane or a train, or just kicking leaves in Forest Park. I held her close to me and talked until every last degree of warmth had left her body and she was far, far away.

  I only said a few words when I finally entered the kitchen. Star and Jack, Caine and Antoinette, were expecting what I had to tell them. Antoinette said a prayer in French and Jack called an ambulance. I held Star’s hand while the tears ran down her cheeks and each of us sat in silence, remembering the most amazing woman any of us had ever known.

  * * *

  Because of the numerous local organizations and charities to which Carolina had contributed throughout her long life in St. Louis, Jack, Star, and Caine held a small service at First Unitarian Church, only a few blocks from Carolina’s house. Many representatives of those organizations attended; however, there were no close friends. Carolina had outlived them all.