by Lee Smith
What can I tell you of those final days? They were as full as all her days have been, perhaps more full. Maggie was in the midst of “doing Christmas” as she always called it. This process involved preparing the house for the arrival of our four children who had left it, with only Merry remaining at home in her final year of high school. All five children and their various mates would be with us for the holidays. Furthermore, Maggie planned to give our traditional “at home” on the 26th, Boxing Day. The invitations had been sent out the week before. I had more than once suggested to Maggie that all this might be too much for her, and had earlier offered the idea that we take them all someplace else for Christmas, such as Sanibel Island, for a change, a suggestion she had thoroughly pooh-poohed. She was feeling wonderful, she said, the best she had felt in years. The new medicine was terrific. Nothing would do but the traditional Christmas, and as she pointed out, she had “plenty of help,” something I, of course, made sure of.
Under her supervision, then, the house had been garlanded outside and inside. Our customary trees were decorated—one in the parlor, one in the library, and a magnificent cedar in the hall, easily twenty feet in height, all of them cut on our land. Maggie always did the stairs and mantelpieces herself, with greenery from our woods. She was known for her artistic touch. She and Princess had been baking for days; the rum cakes were lined up on the marble slab in the cold corner ready for distribution to all the people she gave them to each year: the yard men, her hairdresser, our minister, the girls at the bank, my foremen, an ever-expanding list of all those—not even family—who touched our lives. I mention these details in the hope of giving you a true sense of the fabric of her life.
The day of her death was as busy and productive as all our other days have been. I had awakened early to find that a promised ice storm had, indeed, arrived overnight. The farm was encased in ice—every fence rail, every twig, every blade of grass. I got up and made the coffee, as usual, and ate my cereal with Merry, who then left for school in the car we had just given her for her seventeenth birthday. Maggie never ate breakfast, as you may recall. In that respect, she had not changed. By the time I put her coffee on her tray and took it in to her, the sun was fully up, transforming the entire farm into a glistening fairy-tale landscape.
I put the tray down on the hassock and opened the draperies. “Maggie,” I said, “wake up.” Which she did, first rubbing her eyes and then springing up with delight. “Oh, Bunny,” she exclaimed—her old name for me—“oh, Bunny! Just look! Isn’t it beautiful?” As indeed it was. We stood together at the bay window with our arms wrapped around each other for the longest time. From that window, we looked past the sundial and the old garçonnière and Mr. Ruel Green’s house and the old store, past the white hedges down the long lane of icy pecan trees and across the shining fields. The sky was a deep clear blue. Having work to do, I moved to go, yet she held me to her a bit longer.
“Oh, Bunny,” she said, “help me memorize this moment. It’ll be all gone by ten o’clock.” As it was, and I have always been glad that I stayed with her there by the window until she glanced at the clock and gave a little cry, for she had planned to drive to Jackson for some lastminute shopping later that morning. I was out in the office at the time she left, but she gave me her customary toot of the horn as she rounded the circle, and I can assure you that the roads were perfectly clear of ice by that time. I did not think twice about her driving. Except when she was in her very worst periods—and that had not been for some years now—she drove herself everywhere, and enjoyed doing so. She always drove too fast, but I had gotten used to this over the years, and she was a very good driver.
I remember looking up from my desk to watch her car—a white Saab, last year’s model—as she flashed down the lane and out of sight. Something also flashed at the corner of my vision, something silver, peripheral. I stopped to rub my eyes and it was gone. But I have thought about it since. A lot of things will come back to haunt you in times like these. Mr. Green and I worked steadily until noon, when the state trooper car pulled up to the office and parked, with two men in the front seat. The minute I saw their faces, I knew.
Maggie had stopped at our little Sweet Springs post office in town to pick up the mail, then stayed to have a cup of coffee with Rhoda Frye, the storekeeper and postmistress, a great old pal of hers. Maggie was in very good spirits, Rhoda said, joking about President Clinton and other things and describing the new curtains for Melissa’s room which she planned to pick up in Jackson, along with the completed portrait that Roland Hart had painted of her—this was to be my Christmas present, and I am looking at it now as I write. Painted in the somewhat impressionistic style for which Hart has become justly celebrated, it depicts Maggie leaning out one of the windows of our antebellum carriage barn, wearing the tan suede jacket we bought in Spain. Her face is turned to the side, almost in profile—you can’t see what she’s looking at—and she is laughing. He has captured her perfectly: her animation, that sense of constant movement framed by the splintery silvering wood of the ancient structure. I hope you will come to visit El Destino again one day, Harriet, so you can see this lovely likeness for yourself. I believe you will see she was still your good old friend after all these years.
After visiting with Rhoda for twenty minutes or so, Maggie got back in her car and drove out the old Houma road instead of just taking 115 up to the interstate, which would have been a faster route but far less scenic, I suppose, and she had mentioned several times to Rhoda what a pretty day it was for a drive. The Houma road winds through a wood, then becomes a causeway through the swamp where anyone would agree, it is picturesque all right, the stark white trees, the black water, all the birds. Then it climbs up through what we call the “red hills” before it crosses the Houma River and joins up with the interstate maybe twelve miles later.
Maggie never made it across the river. She drove off the shoulder of the bridge going approximately sixty miles an hour, rolled off the rocky embankment into the river, a seventy-foot drop, taking the guard rail with her, crashing upside down into that giant rock which marks the old swimming hole that every kid in this county knew about, including myself. Many’s the time I jumped off that rock, which is as big as a small house, hence its name, House Rock. The car’s tremendous momentum caused it to flip off the rock into the Black Hole, as they call it, the broken windshield allowing the car to fill with water and sink instantly. She might not have been found for days were it not for two teenaged boys who were skipping school to smoke a little morning marijuana on the river bank and reported the accident.
Harriet, what more can I tell you? What more beyond this? She died instantly, as best anybody can figure. Was the accident due to a patch of ice, shady and unmelted on the steep approach to the bridge? Or due to a crucial second of inattention on Maggie’s part, as she turned her head for a moment to see the river, or look at a flying bird? We will never know. I will never know. I will tell you this, however: no man ever loved a woman more than I loved Maggie Mahan, nor has any woman ever been so mourned. The hole she has left in my life, and in the life of this community, is incalculable—even now, as I write to you five months later. So many people came to her funeral on that gray, drizzly day that some of them had to stand outside in the cold. I wanted you to know that. Her ashes were not buried in the church cemetery as is customary here, but were sprinkled over El Destino by Mr. Green and myself as per the instructions in her will, which upset her brothers, yet I enforced her wishes to the letter, as I believe that I do now in sending a small portion of them to you.
I want you to know also that the children are doing as well as can be expected. I thank God that Merry (Meredith Troy Mahan, our youngest, of course) is still here with me, though she has been accepted to Mary Scott, as you may already know, for the coming fall. I will give you an account of the others, as follows: “Mac”, or Charles MacFarland Mahan IV, our oldest, is in the sugar business in New Orleans, doing well, with a wife and two little boys who
were the apples of Maggie’s eye. She thought the sun rose and set on those little boys, as do I. “Richie,” Richard Ballou Mahan, is a stockbroker in Atlanta, married, too, last year, no children yet; Melissa (Melissa Mills Mahan) is up at the University in Oxford, working toward a postgraduate degree in psychology. Our youngest son, Ross (John Ross Mahan), will graduate from Auburn University next year. He plans to come back here and join me in working this farm, for which I am most thankful, as I consider this place a trust as well as a living. I also want you all to know that the children and myself are establishing a full scholarship at Mary Scott in memory of Maggie. And you know you will always be most welcome, Harriet, should you care to visit me here at any time. This goes for the other “girls,” too. Please give them my very best, and my deepest thanks, for helping me to fulfill her wishes. It makes me happy to think of you all on the river, together again.
I remain your faithful,
Charlie Mahan
For a minute, nobody says a word. The Belle slides under the Huey P. Long bridge, an arch of lights above them. Then, “My God,” Anna says, “he’s smart, isn’t he? Charlie Mahan, I mean. I had no idea. I mean, he’s a farmer, for God’s sake. But I have to admit, that is a brilliant letter. Very moving.”
“He called her Maggie.” Harriet speaks up involuntarily. “As if she were a different person from the one we knew.”
“Maybe she was,” Catherine says. “But he really loved her, obviously.”
“I sort of thought she’d killed herself, didn’t you?” Courtney asks.
Anna nods. “But now I don’t think so. He’s convinced me. And it actually sounds like a wonderful marriage.”
But it’s always the storyteller’s story. Harriet knows this from her COMEBACK! students.
“Well, you never know,” Catherine says softly, sensibly. “I mean, who ever knows what anybody’s marriage is really like? Or what’s going on in anybody’s head? But it certainly doesn’t sound like she killed herself. I guess it really was an accident, don’t you think so?”
“Yes,” says Courtney firmly.
“Absolutely,” says Anna.
“Sure.” Russell stands up. “Okay. Great. Let’s get it over with, then.”
But Harriet can’t open the box—she just can’t. She holds it out toward Russell who takes it from her and opens it with the key and then hands it back to Harriet where she stands now against the rail.
“We have to say something.” Courtney sounds very definite. “We can’t just throw her in the river without a word.”
“Why not?” Russell asks. “Sounds to me like Charlie said everything there was to say in his letter. And this is what she wanted, presumably, according to her husband. And he doesn’t give us any instructions for a ceremony.”
“Only thing to it, is do it,” Harriet whispers. Of course Baby killed herself.
“What? What did you say?” Russell asks.
“Nothing.” Harriet clutches the box.
“At the very least, we have to say the Lord’s Prayer. I just can’t stand it if we don’t,” Courtney declares.
“Well, I certainly don’t care,” Anna says. “Whatever. Whatever you all want to do.”
“Let us pray, then.” Courtney clasps her hands together and bows her head. “Our Father, who art in Heaven,” she begins.
“Wait!” Harriet practically screams. “Wait. I mean, how am I supposed to do this? Just throw the whole box overboard? Or empty it over the side? Or scoop it out bit by bit? Or what?” Close up, Baby’s ashes are not like she expected, not all like powder, but some of them grainy, like kitty litter.
“Poor Harriet. Here, we’ll help you. We should all do it anyway, shouldn’t we? I mean, we’re all in this together.” Catherine comes over to scoop out a bit, then Courtney, and finally Anna, holding her breath, averting her eyes. They line the rail with Russell standing just behind them. The lights of New Orleans rise in the distance ahead.
“Well, look who’s up here!” exclaims Bridget, as she and Leonard appear in the stairwell. Pete stops them at the top.
“Our Father, who art in heaven,” Courtney begins again, “hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.” They’re praying straight into the wind. “For thine is the power and the glory, for ever and ever, Amen.” They fling their open hands to the river and let her go. Harriet throws the box in after her, for good measure. What would she ever do with it, later? It vanishes into darkness; the water is too far down to see it sink.
“Oh my God! She’s coming back. Oh no!” Whirling, Anna swats at her skirts as a little puff of ashes floats back like smoke on the wind.
“Well, shit!” Russell bursts out laughing.
Courtney dusts her hands briskly together. “That’s that, then,” she says. But she really should have brought along the Book of Common Prayer herself so that things could have been done properly; she should have known Harriet wouldn’t be properly prepared. There’s the deep froggy tone of a tugboat off to their right now, and then another, why for heaven’s sakes, they’re coming into New Orleans already. And Courtney won’t even have a chance to see the city. First thing in the morning, she’ll go straight out to the airport, having given up her expensive hotel room to that little twit Harriet. She hears Gene’s voice singing “Heartbreak Hotel” in her ear. She sees his face, his house, his room, his bed. She knows she will never meet anybody else on this earth who is racing wisteria. She sees his crazy cat clock, his kitchen, his wild garden in contrast to her own garden at Magnolia Court which has been so carefully maintained, it has been preserved, right next to the antebellum cemetery where even now the magnificent Berry monument rises from its square marble base straight up to the sky. On one side of it are listed the accomplishments of John Berry, architect and statesman, holder of many offices and winner of many honors. On two sides are carved the names and dates of the Berry children of whom there were eleven in all, though four of them died before childhood’s end. On the back side is engraved the name of John Berry’s wife, Cornelia Branch Berry, the dates of her birth and death, and this legend, SHE HATH DONE WHAT SHE COULD, in capital letters, which strikes Courtney suddenly as awful, as too sad to bear, though it’s not, of course, it’s admirable. So why does Courtney feel this terrible sense of desolation sweeping over her suddenly, there on the deck of the Belle, when all she has ever done is the right thing? She closes her eyes and sways in the wind and sees the Berry monument standing white and pure and straight as any arrow against the evening sky, above the surrounding tombstones and the dark encircling trees. Courtney turns away from the rail as the loudspeaker crackles again. That’s that, then. She takes out her camera.
“Speaking of the songs of my life!” Russell says into Catherine’s ear as the theme from A Summer Place fills the air. “Let’s dance, shall we?”
Catherine wipes her hands on her skirt and comes toward him, putting her left hand on his shoulder where it goes. She touches Russell’s ear, his hair, his beard, that little place on his neck right below his ear where the hair doesn’t grow and his skin is smooth as a baby’s. She looks out past Russell’s bristly neck and watches New Orleans come closer and closer, all those colored lights.
“Excuse me!” Anna’s trying to push her way across the crowded little deck but they’re all dancing now, Russell and Catherine, Leonard and Bridget, and that awful Toastmaster couple from Tennessee—dancing at a funeral! Anna is horrified. In her novels she always makes it rain at funerals or the sky is somber and leaden or the day is drear. Everyone wears black. Though it is true that when Lou died, she and Robert chartered the schooner Wolf and sailed out into the ocean and cast his ashes over the side (still in their silver urn, of course, not blowing all around, for God’s sake). Anna said, “Good-bye, my love,” while Robert held her. Then the sun did that wonderful thing it does just before it sinks into the ocean off Key West, it sort of spread out at the bottom and swelled up bigger and bigger until its rosy light filled the e
ntire sky and kept the undersides of all the puffy clouds lit up while the schooner tacked and sailed back to Key West, into its dock at the bight. Now that might not have been traditional but it was certainly very moving and appropriate for Lou, what a guy. To her distress Anna finds herself sobbing right out loud on the deck in the middle of all these dancers. It’s true that when anyone dies, the other dead rise up and die all over again. She sees Lou’s dark liquid eyes, his sideways smile. “Hey, baby,” he says. “C’mere.”
But it’s only Harriet hugging her, only Courtney patting her arm. They think she’s crying for Baby. What a joke. Everyone always made so much of Baby while she, Anna, was the talented one. She has published thirty-four books; she has been translated into fourteen languages. Baby never published a word. And he loved me, not her. For just one awful moment, Anna entertains this thought: what if she had not listened outside Mr. Gaines’s door on that Saturday morning so long ago? What if she had taken that fellowship and gone on to Columbia in her ignorance and had consequently never married Kenneth Trethaway? What then? Doubt and confusion envelop her like a dark cloak. She should never have come on this trip.
“Anna, my goodness,” Courtney says, embarrassed by such large grief.
But Anna can’t stand to think these things. Finally her mantra comes into her mind: que sera, sera. What’s done is done; whatever should be, is. Touch, see, smell, hear, taste, feel. Be here now. This is her mantra, and how could she ever have forgotten it, even for a moment? Anna wonders as the Belle makes her way into the crowded harbor past the giant Port of New Orleans sign. The whistle gives two piercing shrieks. Bells clang. People throng onto the decks below them, lining the rails. Through her tears Anna sees the lights of the city ringing the harbor on every side.
Huckleberry turns to Francesca as the changing light makes shadowy patterns on the snowy sheets. “We’re coming into port,” he says.