Linden Hills

by Gloria Naylor

  The side view was as unspectacular as the front, even though they could now see the funeral home and chapel across the drawbridge that let them over the lake. Up close, Willie searched in vain for any sign that might set the house apart as belonging to a legend. And there definitely wasn’t a shred of evidence that it sheltered a monster. Why, it was nothing but a house. But then what had he expected, since Luther Nedeed was nothing but a man.

  Luther stood at his den window, watching the lights smolder and glow up the slope of Linden Hills. That window had given him a view of his land in the spring when the trees took on a pastel powdering of green; in the summer when the leaves were deep and glossy just before autumn turned them into bursts of red and gold. But there was nothing to compare to this beauty. The bright lights forming intricate patterns in the naked branches were the work of human hands, decisive not capricious, so it would be assured of always looking that way. There was a deep sense of comfort for him in that certainty. He wished that he could stand there all night and not have to turn and face the upheaval within his own home. This was the one season he looked forward to all year. A time to rest and tie up all the loose ends. To do nothing from now until January 6 but read all the books he had neglected, sleep until noon, and take long quiet walks away from the Tupelo Realty Corporation and the funeral home. His assistants dared not call him about anything short of an earthquake or flood during this time.

  In his mind’s eye the darkened rooms came alive with mellow candlelight and gleaming crystal. Swags of berried juniper draped the banisters and doors, their velvet bows sprinkled with rosewater and glitter. Tubs of small decorated cedars lined each side of the hallway. And there were wreaths everywhere: holly entwined with golden tansy from the front door, rings of purple-leaf sage and lavender for the windows, the punch bowl sitting in a crown of pennyroyal and rue. His father giving him small sips and later a whole cup of the brandy punch as the smell of roast goose and baked ham drifted from the back kitchen. Mountainous platters of molasses cookies and sweet potato buns, warm and moist from the oven. And once, even a molasses-cake house, whose roof lifted off to reveal cut rock- and ribbon candy. Long, unhurried talks with his father before the fireplace, knowing he wasn’t going to leave the house for days. There was nothing but a feast of time to work out the questions that puzzled him while the man was relaxed and the embers slowly burned down.

  Luther sighed and turned away from the window. The burning logs in his den seemed to highlight every empty space and corner that should have been filled with anything except darkness. The silent and shadowed room threatened to rise up and condemn him. But how could that be? He ran his eyes along the mahogany wainscoting, down the plastered walls, over the hardwood floor. The deep, open hearth of the fireplace, the blackened andirons. He knew every plane of that room, every irregular surface, each crack and stain in the wood. It would have been easier to separate the elements in his breath than to separate his soul from the material in that house, than to separate that house from that hill.

  He walked over to the rolltop desk and removed a folded gold case. The four portraits unhinged in his hands. This man had come to Linden Hills with only a cardboard suitcase and a dream. No one helped him to haul or smooth the logs for the shack that stood on this very ground. He ate nothing but wild turnips and cornmeal biscuits for six years—six long years—because the price of a brood hen was also the price of a load of bricks. And this man poured the cement for so many of the foundations up there with his own hands. And this one gambled every dime he had to keep this community afloat during the Depression. And this one personally hauled coal for his tenants during the worst blizzard in forty years, losing two toes from frostbite. Yes, they had hauled wood and coal, hauled every official of Wayne County into court, received no thanks, and asked for none.

  Luther’s blood pounded in his temples as he stared at his face again and again. He couldn’t imagine where he would be, or what he would do, if he wasn’t here. But he didn’t have to, because he was—again and again. So what was he to have done? To accept her child was to deny himself. He snapped the case shut as the past week reeled out in front of him. He truly didn’t know how much longer he could go on. If he could just touch what was wrong up there, crystallize it so it would be fought, he wouldn’t be afraid—regardless of how immense the opponent turned out to be. But he felt himself flailing at the wind. He couldn’t control this chaos forever by himself, and there was no son this Christmas Eve. No comfort. He felt old and tired. He was so very tired of the people up there. What good had he actually done this week? Winston Alcott was coming to Tupelo Drive and he would leave the same way Laurel Dumont had; Luther could already see it. Give Winston four or five years and he’d break down. So what had he accomplished by forcing that marriage? He had bought himself a little time, that’s all. He had temporarily filled another home. They didn’t understand the importance of a family, of life. All of those sacrifices to build them houses and they refused to build a history. Father, forgive me, Luther almost whispered aloud, but sometimes I wish you had left me another dream.

  The tall balsam fir stood naked and alone in the center of the room. The sharp pungent smell of its needles scratched at the back of his throat and he swallowed hard. At least he would have his tree for the holidays. He had driven fifty miles to get it. He couldn’t understand why people substituted those hateful plastic imitations for this. Christmas began with a trip to the woods in search of just the right balsam: symmetrical branches, a healthy bark, and firm needles, his father always said. But times had changed. He had gone to a tree farm, which was the closest he could get to a patch of woods. He had fixed his purchase into the iron, three-legged stand he’d brought down from the storage room along with the wooden boxes of ornaments. Yes, they were the same as he remembered so his tree would be exactly as he remembered. And there would be three pairs of hands to decorate it, two dark and one fair. When it was finished, he could sit back in his chair and not have to think about whose hands they really should have been. That wouldn’t come to him unless he allowed himself to think about the lack of aromas from the kitchen, the lack of a child’s voice and his own answering in return. He could spend the holidays in his chair and know that at least one thing hadn’t changed.

  Luther brought in the bowl of brandy punch and arranged three cups around it. This one recipe he knew by heart: one part lemon and orange juice, one part cognac, two parts dark Jamaican rum, three parts peach brandy. He had doubled all the ingredients and added apple and pear slices. He would have this and cheese and crackers for dinner. He paused before drinking his third cup. Cheese and crackers for Christmas Eve. Did she know what she had done? He took the fourth cupful back to his chair, sat down, and stared at the fire. Cheese and crackers for Christmas Eve. And strangers in his home. Strangers handling ornaments that belonged to his family. He wanted to go down those stairs and just shake her. Did she know what she had given up? His blood was warming rapidly. They were the fifth generation of Nedeeds in this house, the fifth, and the first not to have a Christmas Eve together. There was no reason for this, none. She could have come up long ago. He had forgiven her. It was his fault anyway; he had chosen that woman and was willing to accept the responsibility of that choice. It was an error in judgment, one that his father would never have made, but unfortunately, he had. But it wasn’t irretrievable; it’s just that the child had died. Luther frowned and sipped slowly. He had truly never meant for it all to get so out of hand. This compounded feeling of futility was new to him as he wavered between self-pity and anger. Anger won out. He was not going to sit there brooding; the past was gone. And if he had to do it all again, he would do nothing differently. He had every reason in the world to act as he did, and under the circumstances, he had been more than just. The boy wasn’t a Nedeed, that’s all there was to it. And there’s only so much a man can be expected to take.

  But it was cold down there. The thought came from nowhere as Luther drained his cup and ran his finger
s along the rim. And she was just as alone as he was. There was something so terribly wrong about people being alone on Christmas Eve. But he just couldn’t let her up now. It was too soon after the child’s death. By the new year, yes, definitely by then, she would have fully understood how very precious life was. He wouldn’t have his family ending up like the Dumonts, who were totally lost to Linden Hills. Her husband could never be persuaded to come back, to start again, after such tragedy. The thought depressed him. If his own wife died, could he start again? He would have to—the whole laborious process—because there must always be Nedeeds. There must always be Christmas and celebration. There must … Luther got up from his chair and headed for the kitchen. He turned the water valves on under the sink full force before pressing the intercom: “It’s Christmas Eve, Mrs. Nedeed.” He sighed, and then went to answer the doorbell.

  Willa’s sleep was deep and dreamless. Arms folded under her head, face muscles relaxed, she breathed in. In, past the brain cells, where memory mingles with desire and night images are formed. In, past the heart tissues that beat out the rhythms of human limitation. Well past the bottom of the lungs that are only involuntary slaves for continuing existence. She breathed in to touch the very elements that at the beginning of time sparked to produce the miracle some called divine creation and others the force of life. An unconscious journey in toward the power of will that had crept alone in primordial muck eons before being clothed with fins, scales, wings, or flesh. Then she breathed out. Out, past cells that divided to form ovaries, wombs, and glands. Out, past the crumbling planetary matter that formed the concrete for that room. Out, toward the edge of the universe with its infinite possibility to make space for the volume of her breath. She breathed in and out, her body a mere shelter for the mating of unfathomable will to unfathomable possibility. And in that union, the amber germ of truth she went to sleep with conceived and reconceived itself, splitting and multiplying to take over every atom attached to her being. That nucleus of self-determination held the tyrannical blueprint for all divisions of labor assigned to its multiplying cells. Like other emerging life, her brain, heart, hands, and feet were being programmed to a purpose.

  It was a birth accompanied by the sound of thunder from the metal sink in the corner. She stretched her arms and arched her back while fluttering her eyelids to awaken full grown into a sphere defined by the words It’s Christmas Eve, Mrs. Nedeed. Not dissimilar from the bursting of other larvae that are immediately affirmed into a season and a direction: moths uncurl and begin to fly, tree crickets to chirp, army ants to march. Willa rose from those stained and rancid bedcovers to begin keeping house.

  She stripped the sheets and blankets from the cot, shook them out for a quick airing, and then remade her bed. She smoothed the sheets and tightly folded and tucked the blankets into the corner. Gently, she lifted the child from his cot and placed him on hers, careful not to wrinkle the surface. Then she started on his bed. Yes, she was Willa Nedeed and so this was the end of the month. It wasn’t the most perfect existence to begin with, or even the best time of the year. But it was all she had. She held the cereal bowls and spoons under the running water until the crusted food was soft and then scraped them clean with her fingernails, drying them on the hem of her dress before stacking them on the metal shelves. She moved without hesitation or any sign of stumbling, her mind locking into the point of the universe she was positioned in. She awoke Willa Prescott Nedeed on Christmas Eve. And after she straightened the basement, she was going to start on the rooms upstairs.

  “Gentlemen, come in.”

  As they stepped over the threshold and Luther closed the door against the freezing wind, Willie breathed in the heated air of the long hallway. The walls were unadorned, the hardwood floor shellacked and covered by a simple runner that led straight ahead toward the staircase. Their coats and knitted hats were hung on a petaled coatrack, the dark mahogany matching a small tea table in the corner. No wreaths, no flowers, no pictures. He had hoped there might be family portraits on the wall, but they were probably upstairs or in the darkened rooms to his right.

  “I appreciate your coming in spite of the weather. I believe the temperature has dropped terribly outside.”

  “It sure has,” Lester said, his face red and lips trembling, “and there’s a mean wind.”

  “I anticipated that, so there’s something in here to warm you before we begin. You don’t have to worry about getting back, I’ll drive you both home.”

  “That’s real nice of you, Mr. Nedeed.”

  As they walked down the hall toward the den, Willie was certain that no matter what Nedeed said, his family had been gone for a long time. He didn’t miss perfume or cooking odors, but the scents that are carried from the sparks of light switches going off and on, the oil from fingerprints left on door frames, the friction of leather soles against wood, static electricity on a comb, breath on a mirror. Those things brought living smells to a house that took months to fade. And this hallway and those darkened rooms smelled empty.

  Luther’s den was another matter. The high stone fireplace, the heavy walnut tables, the fringed Oriental rug, the leather furniture. The air definitely came alive, but Willie felt out of place. Not because of any excessive luxury—the furnishings, while meticulously preserved, were still scarred and worn, but they seemed to suspend him in another time. Why, it was like walking into a movie set for Wuthering Heights.

  “Gentlemen, please.” Luther handed them each a small cup of the brandy punch, enunciating each syllable of the address as if he meant just that: gentle men. And this was a room for heavy murmured voices, tweed cloth, and aged tobacco. Even the huge aquarium with those strange ugly fish couldn’t dispel that.

  “I suppose you plan to spend the rest of the evening with your families. You, Mr. Tilson?” Luther sat down and sipped his drink.

  “Yeah, and it’s gonna be good to rest after this week. I worked my … I mean, I’ve really worked quite hard.”

  “And you, Mr. Mason?”

  “You can call me Willie.”

  “Fine,” Luther said. “And you can call me Mr. Nedeed.” He waited, and they supposed he wanted them to laugh, so they did.

  “Yeah,” Willie said, “I’m going to my mother’s place. We have a big family. I guess you’ll be alone for the holidays, huh?”

  “Yes, I will;”

  “That’s too bad. Will your wife be back for New Year’s Eve?”

  “I’m hoping so.”

  That was the second question, and Willie realized that Nedeed wasn’t going to volunteer any information beyond exactly what he was asked. This was a man you just didn’t get personal with, and a third question on the same subject would be considered rude and followed by a pointed evasion, letting him know that it was none of his business. And if he couldn’t bring himself to say, Hey, Luther, old boy, exactly where is your wife?—how could he find out what he wanted to know most of all, her name? Lester would be the one to ask that right out if it ever occurred to him, but he was sitting there busily slurping his punch.

  “Hey, this stuff is pretty good,” Lester said. “Mind if I have another? Your cups are kinda small.”

  “Please help yourself.”

  While Lester went to the sideboard, Luther seemed quite content to sit and watch Willie.

  “Your fireplace is nice.” Willie got up to avoid Luther’s eyes. “You don’t often see them this big.”

  “It was built along with this house. At that time carpenters were still allowing for the fact that some families actually cooked in them.”

  “Yeah, I’ve seen that in magazines.” Willie put his hand on the mantel and stared at the burning embers. A log crackled and broke, sending up blue and orange sparks. There was a hollow hum to the pulsating air as it spiraled up the chimney; it sounded like the beating of a human heart. There is a man in a house at the bottom of a hill. And his wife has no name. When he took his hand from the mantel there was a light film of dust on his fingers. Willie rubb
ed his thumb slowly over his index finger to remove it. For some reason, the texture made him want to cry.

  “Now, this one is truly a prize.” Luther gently held up a gilded cornucopia. The gold paper cone was netted with silver threads and trimmed with lace. Incredibly tiny glass-blown fruit and nuts filled the center. He extracted an apple on the tips of his fingers. “I’ll have to hang this one myself.”

  It was about the twelfth time he’d said that in an hour and Lester winked at Willie. Luther had handled most of the glass figurines that now adorned the tree, only trusting them with the tin snowflakes and papier-mâché peacocks. Even then he told them exactly where to position the ornaments on the branches, often going over to move something a fraction of an inch forward or back.

  Willie held one of the exquisite birds in his hand. The brilliant colors were finely drawn and the spun-glass tail fanned out over his palm. “Where do you want this one, Mr. Nedeed?”

  “Oh, anywhere, anywhere.” Luther intently unfolded a miniature steamship from tissue. “You have a good eye for balance, Mr. Mason. I trust you.” He looked up and smiled. “What do you think of this?” The embossed cardboard boat was an exact replica of the original. Tiny silver chains, strung from the deck to the stacks, had silk flags attached to them, and he fluffed out the cotton simulating smoke.

  “It’s unbelievable.” Willie shook his head. “I’ve never seen a tree like this.”

  “That’s because the world is in love with plastic today.” Luther hooked the steamship on a branch. “Through no fault of your own, you were born into an existence of the cheap and prefabricated. Each one of these ornaments took hours to create and a lifetime of craftsmanship to perfect. So of course, it’s extraordinary.”

  “My tree at home doesn’t look too bad,” Lester said, “and we’ve got green balls just like this.” He bounced the globe on his palm.