The Last Girls

by Lee Smith

  Courtney has already taken three rolls of film by the time she heads back down the hill toward the landing, but she can’t resist ducking into the old cemetery here to the right. Suddenly she remembers how her father used to ask, “Now who do you think is in that cemetery?” whenever they passed one on a car trip. And how she and Jean would ask, “Who, Daddy?” and then crack up every time when the answer came: “Dead people.” This was their daddy, that sweet old drunk. Courtney scarcely remembers him. Also Gene is a fool for cemeteries, they used to have cemetery picnics all the time. How he’d love this one, the most beautiful cemetery Courtney has ever seen. The old live oaks stretch out their long furry gray arms to form a canopy over an ancient little brick Episcopal church and all the old graves that disappear into the shadows there at the edge of the frame: click. White stones rising into consciousness like ideas, like memories, like ghosts; darker, older stones with names too faint to read, souls long lost to time. Click. Time has stopped dead in here, this high dim leafy tent where it’s always cool with a little breeze that makes a sound you can almost hear as it sighs through the Spanish moss. The trees are so tall that they creak, leaning toward each other, telling old, old secrets.

  Courtney stops to reload. Click, a wingless angel (“Louisiana Irony #2”). Click, a marble boy with his marble dog. Click, a marble tree cut down before its time, stump draped in a marble shroud, Louis Chenier, age seventeen years, C.S.A. Click, a marble rose that could be paired with a photograph of a real rose from one of these beautiful gardens, “Life and Death,” a study in contrasts. Gene said, “You can choose.” Courtney is the only live person in this cemetery, why is that? She needs to get back to the boat. Is it possible that they would embark without her—just steam away downriver leaving her forever in this poky backward town? Security is certainly lax on the boat, that’s for sure; nobody checks you off or on when they dock. So who would know? Her heart starts to flap in her chest like a bird at a windowpane. But she just has to have a drink of water before braving that sun again. Maybe the church is open. Her feet sink down in the long soft grass as she goes around to the front. Thank God, the red door gives inward; Courtney pushes it and steps inside the stone vestibule which smells like her own church, Saint Matthews, the very same smell as every other old Episcopal church in the world. Damp and holy and utterly familiar. But it’s dark as a tomb in here. Surely there’s a water fountain someplace. She finally finds it in the dimness, a silver cylinder against the wall by the coatroom. The water is icy and bracing. Well! That’s better. Courtney dabs it on her temples, too, and at her throat.

  She pushes the frosted pane of the door into the sanctuary, where all is light. Not bright light—there is no bright light anywhere beneath this canopy of oaks—but a soft, muted light which seems to rise from the polished shining pews curving in toward each other in a timeless embrace like the oaks themselves; from the white linens on the altar; the gleaming pipes on the old-fashioned organ; the white lilies and baby’s breath in the urns, very nice, she has to admit, being an old hand at the altar guild herself; the gold-and-cream-satin standard; the glowing golden cross. Before she knows it, Courtney has knelt and placed her hands on the cool brass rail. A rose glass window shines softly behind the altar. The side windows are stained glass arches depicting familiar scenes: the woman at the well, Jesus holding a woolly sheep. One of these windows has been opened at the top for ventilation, so that a shaft of light falls on Courtney’s folded hands. Her wedding ring flashes in the sun. Oh God. What is this, some kind of a sign? But signs don’t come to women like her, they come to tacky fat women in revival tents with scraggly hair and flip-flops. Courtney has run the Altar Guild and served on the vestry all these years because she felt she should, not because she was hoping for some kind of actual religious experience. Oh God. She remembers Gertrude Marshall, the totally innocuous old maid who served as Saint Matthews’s deacon for years, thin little Gertrude Marshall who nevertheless announced from the pulpit that she had had a vision and then proceeded to speak in tongues for the rest of her sermon. Later she started a woman’s prayer group named Sisters on Fire. Well! Gertrude Marshall did not last long at Saint Matthews. Episcopalians simply are not into that sort of thing, which is one reason Courtney is an Episcopalian.

  Hawk gave her this ring in August after the raft trip; they married in September, at Saint Matthews, of course, in a much smaller ceremony than they would have had if she had been somebody else, somebody more suitable, or if she had stayed in school to graduate. But Hawk was a boy accustomed to getting what he wanted, and right then he’d wanted her. And Hawk loved her, he really did; she didn’t force him into anything. Even Miss Evangeline seemed pleased, or at least she had borne her disappointment bravely, promising aloud to “do all in her power to uphold these two persons in their marriage,” as exhorted by the Book of Common Prayer, which has a service for everything. Your whole life is covered by the Book of Common Prayer.

  Courtney didn’t mind not finishing Mary Scott either; she’d had enough school by then anyway, and she’d certainly never needed that degree. Oh God. How many times has she knelt at an Episcopal altar, how many times has she received communion? And yet, as now, she has always been thinking of something else—who to invite to dinner, what to wear, whether she can get a plumber on Sunday afternoon, the little things of life that are holy, too, or so she has always thought, oh, how she loves to set the table with Miss Evangeline’s heavy silver, for instance—she sets the loveliest table in town, and it gives her great satisfaction to do so. Gene Minor said her life is a lie, but it’s not a lie, it’s just complicated. Him and his crazy New Age ideas, his ridiculous demands! Her ring shines like a headlight into the shadows.

  Here in this dim old church, everything becomes very clear. Courtney’s husband is ill; she needs to fly straight home on Saturday to take care of him. She folds her hands, then bows her head, then stands. Strangely enough, the words come to her in the voice of Gertrude Marshall, who had this little lisp that used to drive Courtney crazy: “The Peath of the Lord be alwayth with you.” Courtney turns and walks back up the aisle and out into the oak grove which strikes her now as yet another church, a big leafy cathedral. She feels dwarfed by the giant scale. She reaches for her camera, but stops. This is a picture she can’t take, because she’s in it. But suddenly she sees herself in the frame anyway, a tourist in a hat, a silly woman in a silly hat in a large, serious landscape—a little figure whose only function is to show perspective, to demonstrate how big the trees are, how ancient it all is, how insignificant she is, we all are. She’ll have to call Gene, too.

  AT THE CEMETERY

  praying hands

  crosses

  hearts, vines, roses,

  doves, lambs,

  even a dog or two

  the tree cut down

  in the prime of life

  draped with a shroud

  and angels

  angels everywhere

  fat cheeked cherubs

  angels on urns

  archangels

  angels with trumpets

  (you are my angel, he said)

  Beyond Care

  Friend To All

  He hath come and gathered his jewels.

  Precious Memories

  Our Darling At Rest

  Beloved Brother

  To forget is vain endeavor,

  Love’s remembrance lasteth ever.

  Blessed be the pure in heart

  for they shall see God.

  (But do they want to see God?

  He scares the hell out of me)

  In Loving Memory

  In the Bosom of Abraham

  At Rest

  I was once

  as you are

  and as I am now

  you also shall be

  TIPPLING

  Mama keeps that little jelly glass

  with her all day long

  it’s never empty

  it’s never full

  When we wo
rk in the flowers

  it nests in the grass

  When we go in the car

  I hold it for her

  When she reads in the sunroom

  it casts rainbows on the wall

  pink yellow purple red

  It makes everything

  pretty

  FOR JEFF

  He’s so good

  he makes me want to

  do bad things

  shout bad words

  put a cherry bomb

  in the crèche

  shoot off guns

  the way we used to do

  on Christmas

  NECESSITY

  ashes to ashes

  dust to dust

  come on baby

  we must we must

  OLD SOUL

  Mama said, There’s nothing

  wrong with Ricky

  He gets it, that’s all

  Ricky is an old soul

  You are too

  Now be a dear

  and bring that jelly glass

  over here

  CAMERA OBSCURA

  How do you do,

  Ricky Ballou?

  You never knew

  How I grew.

  The eyes of the dead

  are red.

  Photographs

  of catastrophy.

  WATCHDOG

  Jeff brings out

  the bitch in me.

  I try to keep her locked

  behind the chain-link fence

  where she paces

  back and forth.

  She’s worn a path

  in my yard.

  When he comes over,

  she goes crazy—

  charging the fence

  leaping over,

  tunneling out.

  She goes straight for his throat.

  THE TRIP TO FRANCE

  She passed away

  is what we say.

  But in point of fact

  she died drunk

  in a wreck

  on Highway 43

  heading for Mobile

  with her lover.

  She left a note behind.

  It said she loved us.

  Also she loved flowers,

  peignoirs, shoes.

  Once she had lived in France.

  He always drove too fast.

  Hit a tree

  just south of Demopolis

  doing ninety.

  Mama died instantly

  her neck snapped

  just like that.

  Today he’s a restauranteur

  in Boca Raton, Florida.

  She didn’t even make it

  across the county line.

  Mama, you slut

  you darling

  Mile 265.5

  St. Francisville, Louisiana

  Thursday 5/13/99

  1015 hours

  SOMEHOW HARRIET HAS GOTTEN on the wrong bus. Here she is taking the Rosedown and Myrtles tour without anybody else from their group. They must have taken the other tour or the shuttle into town. Somehow she misunderstood. But it’s oddly relaxing to sink down into this blue plush seat all by herself, nobody next to her. She doesn’t have to talk. It’s an enormous relief. All this talking and talking is too much, this is why she feels so hot in spite of the air-conditioning, in spite of her hysterectomy. It’s hard to go from living alone to being part of a group—no wonder she’s exhausted. Or maybe she needs to have her estrogen adjusted. Maybe she’s taking too much. This might account for her silly reaction to the attentions of the Riverlorian, for instance. She knows it’s not a big deal, he’s just a widower looking for a little company. She tries to pay attention as they tour Rosedown, which really is lovely, especially the gardens, twenty-eight acres in all. Fanciful topiary boxwoods (a duck, a dog, a bell) line a crushed-shell lane winding down to a lily pond ringed with roses. By this time the sun is killing everybody, but the roses love it, you can tell, thrusting their red faces greedily up for more. This part of the garden makes Harriet think of Alice in Wonderland; she scurries back to the bus. She hated the Red Queen.

  The Myrtles, also antebellum, is much better, smaller and less grand, set on a gentle hill. It is furnished with French antiques, including a chair that once belonged to Napoleon. Harriet doesn’t quite get its bee motif needlepoint upholstery; what did bees have to do with Napoleon? Yet they seem appropriate here, where real bees buzz in and out of the open windows and butterflies flit about the garden just outside.

  Harriet lets the tour go on ahead of her. She wanders into the grand hall, empty now, though voices sound like music, or echoes of music, from other parts of the house. She’s drawn to the spiral staircase. Soon she’s up on the first landing, looking down through the little leaded panes at their silver bus, then she’s up on the next landing where she can see the river. A cool breeze comes from somewhere. It lifts the hair off the back of her neck, it touches her skin in a way which is both intimate and familiar. Someone is here. Harriet does not move. The light through the diamond panes grows brilliantly, blindingly bright until it’s like an explosion. Harriet whirls around, but she sees nothing. Though someone is still here, very close to her, and then not. Harriet puts her hand on the wall to steady herself while she waits for her vision to clear. Down below they’re calling her name. But again her eye is drawn upward, where she perceives a kind of shimmering brilliance, a white radiance on the top landing. The single door beyond it closes silently. Immediately Harriet can breathe again. She can see. She runs down the steps like a girl. In the wide hall below, she almost collides with one of the Myrtles hostesses, a tiny trim silver-haired woman who stares at her curiously out of shiny black eyes like seeds. “Are you all right?” Her voice is sharp.

  “Yes,” Harriet says after a minute.

  “You’re not supposed to go upstairs.” The woman comes closer. Her minty breath is overpowering. “Did you see something?”

  Harriet pulls back. “Why?” she manages to ask.

  “This house is haunted, everybody knows it,” the woman says matter-of-factly. “Sometimes, certain guests . . . well. We have the ghost of a young woman from New Orleans forced into an unwelcome marriage to the son of this house, who died here mysteriously on her wedding night, whether murdered or killed by her own hand or the hand of God we shall never know; yet she is seen from time to time about the house and stairs, dressed in her wedding gown. Now, did you see her? Did you? Is this what you saw?”

  “No.” Harriet pushes the little woman aside as easily as if she were a curtain, and rushes out into the day.

  “Miss,” the woman calls from the door.

  But Harriet swings up into the bus whose doors close behind her in a pneumatic wheeze as they pull out.

  “Some people don’t even consider the rest of the group,” a woman’s nasal voice says acidly.

  “Hey, are you okay?” somebody else asks.

  “I’m fine,” Harriet announces, which is not true. She’s all wrought up. She crumples into her seat. Of course she would be the one; of course it would know her. It is her, the way this trip keeps forcing her back again and again to stand outside that door. Perhaps, in a certain way, she even knew this would happen if she came. Miles pass in the steady rumble of the wheels beneath her feet. Voices rise around her; a man laughs. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Come on, baby, we must we must. Holding her breath, closing her eyes, Harriet pushes the door open.

  SHE’D GONE BACK to school a few days early in the fall after the raft trip, to set up the Redbud office and help with registration, one of her scholarship duties. Courtney was already married. Anna was still in West Virginia, teaching drama to kids at some arts program. She’d be back tomorrow. And Baby? Nobody had heard from Baby since New Orleans, and Harriet still hadn’t figured out exactly what she’d say to her when she saw her again. Didn’t she sleep with that civil rights guy in Natchez? Didn’t she?

  And why hadn’t she called? Or written—at least a postcard? As least to let them
know when to expect her. Honestly, she was the most spoiled, most irritating, the most prima donna person Harriet had ever heard of. Harriet hadn’t heard from Jeff either, but at least he had a good excuse. He’d been on maneuvers. She wondered when he’d be back, and what would happen next.

  HARRIET HAD WAKED abruptly that night at about 2 A.M. from a sound sleep to see Baby silhouetted against the yellow rectangle of light from the hall door. She knew something was different, something had changed, just from the way Baby stood there, hip cocked, leg thrust out at an angle.

  “Hey. Are you asleep? Harriet? Are you asleep?” Baby whispered fiercely, tiptoeing forward.

  “No.” Harriet sat straight up. “I mean yes, I was, but I’m not now.” Then she did exactly what she had promised herself not to do. “Oh, Baby, why didn’t you write me back? Or call me? Did I do something, say anything, to make you mad? I didn’t know what to think.”

  “Oh no, oh not at all, oh sweetie, I’m so sorry.” Baby dropped her bags on the floor and sat down on the edge of Harriet’s bed. “I’m sorry, I should have called, but I wanted to see you, to tell you in person.”

  “Tell me what?”

  “Don’t hate me,” Baby said in her little-girl voice. “You’ve got to promise you won’t hate me.”

  “Hate you! What are you talking about?”

  Baby grabbed Harriet’s shoulders, hugging her hard. “I broke up with Jeff.”

  It was funny how Harriet was not surprised. What was it that her mama used to say? “Waiting for the other shoe to drop . . .” In a way, Harriet realized, that’s what she’d been doing for some time. Waiting for the other shoe to drop. “When?”

  “Last week. I called him when he got back to Richmond from his little war games. I knew before that, but I couldn’t get in touch with him to tell him. I knew since the raft trip, actually.” She held Harriet tightly to her. “So don’t hate me.”

  “Oh, Baby,” Harriet whispered into her smoky hair. She felt that she would burst, literally explode with feeling, yet she couldn’t tell, honestly, what emotion it was. Fury? Pain? Hope? A tiny piercing light started burning a hole in her brain. She struggled to get free from Baby, to stand up.