Resurrection in May

by Lisa Samson

  So anyway, I’m sorry for what has happened to you. Sister Ruth says you’ve decided not to appeal your sentence. I can’t say that I blame you. I know you’re not a monster, and I know you’re dealing with a lot of the fallout of being in a war. Believe me, I know what war feels like. But still, it’s got to be the worst kind of guilt imaginable. I don’t know exactly what happened, just the bare facts, but don’t feel you have to tell me one way or the other.

  Well, that’s enough for now, I guess. Feel free to write back. I’ve got loads of time here. My flowers keep me busy enough, and the animals, but other than that, my life is quiet.

  Sincerely,

  May Seymour

  It was common knowledge around town that Eli couldn’t come to grips with what he’d done. He’d fallen into a deep depression, not that anyone could blame him. May wondered how all those people who murdered their friends in Rwanda were feeling these days. Whenever she longed to go back there, she thought about all those murderers walking around, felt like she wanted to wretch, and realized she’d never return.

  At six she brought Louise and Flower the goat in from the pasture and settled them in the barn. Flower was looking a little rough around the edges these days. She was old, which was why she didn’t climb her way out over the fence. Her sister goat, which May had purchased with her, died several years before, and goats need another goat. That’s what Claudius always said. Poor little Flower.

  The chickens were clucking around in their run. They ran to the gate when she opened it, just as they always did, squatting down to receive her rub on their feathery backs. And then, when she entered the coop to make sure they had enough water, they chirped in the worried way that made them sound like old women at their bridge game talking about their wayward grandchildren.

  “Good night, ladies,” she said. “Thanks for the eggs.”

  Glen knocked on the front door at ten the next morning. “Got a package for you.”

  “Is it from Amazon?”

  “Nope.” He smiled. “Sister Ruth must be behaving herself.”

  May laughed, wishing she’d not chosen to wear the old red, black, and blue plaid shirt Claudius left behind. But she was missing him extra that morning. No ideas yet for moving on. Not a one.

  She took the package. “Thanks.”

  Glen cleared his throat. “I heard about what the church told you.”

  “From who?”

  He scratched his calf. “Word gets around. I’m really sorry. Do you know what you’re going to do?”

  “No. Not yet.”

  “A year’s a long time, right?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Well, good luck.”

  “I’m going to need it.”

  “We’re all pulling for you.”

  “Thanks.”

  “And if there’s anything I can do …”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” What could Glen possibly do? He was “eye candy.” Eye candy. May still wanted to laugh. Sister Ruth said she got an e-mail every day called Urban Word of the Day. She sure came up with some funny expressions.

  A minute later Glen was heading back down the drive, his tanned arm resting on the windowsill of the Jeep.

  “Well, all right,” she said, wondering what Glen could really do that she wasn’t willing to do for herself. At the very least he could help her load her stuff into Sister Ruth’s old Suburban for transport. She prided herself on the fact that it wouldn’t be much.

  She opened the box in the kitchen. From her dad, for her birthday. A short note sat atop wadded-up newspaper.

  Happy Birthday, May! May born in May! I still remember when you came early. Your mother was horrified. “We can’t name her May now. It seems so cliché!” But I said, “No way. She’s May. Just look at her. Ready to bloom into something beautiful and good.” And you have.

  I love you. Dad

  P.S. The community was given two of these recently, and we only need one, so we all agreed it should go to you. I guess you could say this is a Happy Birthday gift from all of us. Especially Abbess Mary-Frances. She prays for you every day.

  The Beloved Community called Mary-Frances, a deep caramel-colored woman who’d been to hell and back in her youth, their abbess, though they weren’t really an abbey or anything that official. Of course Father Xavier would have something to say about that, so at her request they never called her Abbess around him. But Mary-Frances was their spiritual backbone, leading them in their fixed-hour prayers and walking the streets of their London neighborhood every day.

  May riffled through the paper and pulled out a smaller box.

  A camera!

  Immediately memories of wandering around campus, parks, the arboretum, flowed through her. Just she and her camera off on jaunts on nice spring mornings or autumn afternoons. Lexington was so photogenic. And she didn’t care what she looked like on those walks. Jeans, a T-shirt, a ball cap. It just didn’t matter.

  She lifted the box. Nikon D-40. May always liked Nikons. Most Americans preferred Canons, but her father always liked Nikons, so she did too. It was as simple as that.

  Digital.

  Digital?

  What was a digital camera?

  Sister Ruth would know.

  But for now, she had cleaning to do. Tomorrow that reporter was coming. For years he’d been writing to her, begging for that interview. And finally May had written back, and then talked to him on Sister Ruth’s cell phone.

  “Isn’t it a little late now?” she asked him. “It’s been years.”

  “Things this horrible never go away. People will always want to read about Rwanda.” His voice wasn’t overly deep, but a resonance vibrated around the edges. Not enough to be on the radio or anything. He sounded like somebody content to be behind his camera, behind-the-scenes in general. Just two little words, Eugene Damaroff, up at the top of the column of words he’d sweated over. She hoped for his sake all of his articles didn’t take this much persuasion from the interviewee.

  “Didn’t seem like anybody cared too much when it was happening,” May said. She’d been sitting on the front porch, legs folded up beneath her, braid falling down her chest to rest curled up on her thigh.

  “No. You’re right. But unrest is growing there again, and maybe a retelling would be good. I know you’ve been reticent, but it’s been nine years now. I was thinking about going from that angle. Talking about how you’ve been going about your life.”

  May wanted to laugh. “Come on down to Kentucky.”

  “Can you come to New York?”

  “You’re kidding me, aren’t you?”

  He laughed, and it was a warm, chuckly laugh that made her feel like she’d just stepped into the warmth of the kitchen after gathering the eggs on a cold morning. “Can’t hurt to try.”

  He was coming tomorrow afternoon at three, flying into Lexington and renting a car like a big person to drive over. She tried to picture what he would look like, and she realized he hadn’t aged in her mind for the past nine years he’d been begging for the interview. She always pictured him as one of those guys who still parted his hair in the middle and wore sleeveless down parkas. He probably no longer wore the imaginary ponytail she’d fashioned for him. Maybe he had a little gray at the temples. Of course he’d be wearing long pants, but in her mind his calves were every bit as nice as Glen’s.

  She grabbed the broom and began to sweep the wooden floors of the living room and kitchen, ready to mop them until they shone, reflecting the squares of the window and the open door.

  • 5 •

  The butterflies in her stomach annoyed May. Eugene Damaroff was an accomplished journalist who had won awards, traveled to dangerous places to get his stories. Sister Ruth had, of course, researched all about him on the Internet. Since May had at one time wanted to be a journalist, and had obviously cast that aside, he felt to her like the embodiment of an impossible dream.

  She shook her head. The embodiment of an impossible dream? Where did she come up with thi
s stuff? Obviously she wasn’t fit to write anything anymore.

  The embodiment of an impossible dream. Ugh! She shoved her foot into a pair of jeans, shimmied the fabric up her leg, then repeated the process with her other foot, more shimmying, up over the hips, a quick button … Okay, not so quick—she’d gained some weight.

  And not even a baby to use as an excuse.

  Surely there was something appropriate to wear on top. Sister Ruth brought her clothes from yard sales and thrift stores from time to time. “Honey, you’d wear Claudius’s clothes for the rest of your life if I’d let you.”

  “Well, they are comfortable.”

  And Ruth waved an impatient hand, accompanying it with a tsk.

  May slid the hangers over one by one. Sister Ruth preferred blouses, obviously, and May liked tops. She’d never cared for buttons, actually, even as a child. Her parents used to laugh at how much she hated buttons. But seeing them lined up, those little holes ruining their flat, pearly plane—yuck.

  Nevertheless, she chose a blouse. With buttons. Just a simple, three-quarter sleeved white shirt designed to stay untucked. She shrugged it on, still trying to remember what you do when a man is coming over. Okay, no booze. She smiled. Opening her jewelry box, she lifted out her mother’s string of pearls, sent to her by her father after the funeral. She fished around and retrieved a matching pair of pearl earrings, just two big pearls on golden posts.

  Understated.

  Elegant.

  —Oh, boy.

  When she brushed her teeth, she cursed herself for having let her hair go gray. How hard would it have been to put a rinse on it? And Sister Ruth wasn’t coming by today, so she couldn’t ask her to run down to the Rite-Aid and pick up some Clairol.

  —Okay.

  She tried to summon the college girl in her who took an hour to get ready, who rubbed her skin soft with nice lotions, who wore perfume and eye makeup. Well, there was no makeup in the house, so she could forget about that.

  At least she could look classy! She clung to that. A lot of women, older women with money and horses and all, didn’t wear makeup, and they put their gray hair back into buns. Chignons! Always a good idea. And better than a long braid, right?

  She rebraided her hair, slicking it back with a black comb and some water, and wound it into a large bun at the nape of her neck. May found herself zinging a little bit in the pit of her stomach.

  Back up to her closet, she stared at her shoes. Work shoes, every pair. Her father had boxed up a few of her mother’s things and sent them on for memory’s sake. She dug through it. Not much there, but one pair of shoes her mom had worn when she was a young woman in college and May had worn for dress-up rested at the bottom. Elisabeth Seymour had bought them in a thrift store to begin with. Black patent leather pumps with pointy toes and midheight heels that whittled down to a dot. Very 1950s.

  May sighed. This was as good as it was going to get.

  Heels jiggling back and forth, wondering how she’d ever worn heels so much back in college, she put on the kettle to make some iced tea, then sat on the steps out back. How nice it would have been for the dogs to come running up just then. They’d know all that primping was to hide the fear that raged like a black spark inside of her, that she could wear a classy chignon and pearls but the story would remain the same. It would always be the same story about a girl who knew nothing, went to Africa, and came home a different creature with scars inside and out that refused to heal completely.

  Eugene Damaroff didn’t have a ponytail. He didn’t have any hair at all. His scalp sprouted a bit of five o’clock shadow, the tiny dots of freshly growing hair hinting at typical male pattern baldness. A pair of charcoal gray jeans encased a wiry bottom half, and a black shirt with gray stripes hid a slender torso. One of his loafers was supported by a thick sole, at least two inches higher than the other shoe. He’d sounded a lot younger on the phone.

  May liked his sleek black glasses.

  He was on his cell phone as he walked without a limp toward the front porch, and his mouth, surrounded by a white goatee, was smiling as he spoke. He stopped in the middle of the walk, set down his bag, and finished up the conversation, circling his hand as the person on the other end was obviously dragging out the conversation. May read his lips.

  “Great! See you then!”

  He shut the phone, picked up his case, then strode up to the door and knocked.

  May, peering through the curtains on the front window, waited some five seconds before opening the door. “Hello, Mr. Damaroff. Would you like a glass of tea?”

  He started just a bit, then smiled. “Hello, Ms. Seymour. Why, yes, thank you, I would.”

  “Do come in.”

  She swung the door open more widely and let him into her home.

  At the kitchen table they sat, and she told him her story, front to back, without a break other than to switch tapes. It took hours. She began the story the day Claudius found her on the side of the road. Eugene Damaroff didn’t say a word, but he looked her in the eyes, straightforward, and in them glittered the sympathy of a stranger.

  • 6 •

  Eugene Damaroff wiped his head with a bandana and turned off the tape recorder. “Thank you. I know that was unbelievably hard for you.”

  May stared over his shoulder as his words finally reached her as though they’d arrived in a little wooden boat through a heavy mist. She shook herself back to reality. Yes, she was here, in Claudius’s house.

  “I’m sorry it took so long.”

  He unplugged the recorder and lifted it from where it sat between them on the kitchen table. The windows framed a moonless night.

  “When will the article appear?”

  “In a couple of months. I’ll let you know.”

  She stood up. “Would you like to stay the night?”

  He looked at her, gaze snapping up. “Um, Ms. Seymour …”

  “I mean sleep here. In the other bedroom. You’re not flying back to New York tonight, are you?”

  He shook his head with a nervous laugh. “Sorry. Leave it to me to jump to conclusions. No. There’s no red-eye out of Lexington. But I have friends I’m staying with.”

  “Oh. Of course. Sorry. It was a little silly of me to think otherwise.”

  “Why? It’s Kentucky.”

  “Who knows anybody here, you mean?” She smirked.

  “Exactly.”

  She sat back down as he packed up his computer.

  “Do you ever miss Lexington and your life there?” he asked, wrapping the cord around his charger.

  “Sometimes. But no, mostly not.”

  “It’s a beautiful little farm you’ve got here. But not beautiful enough to never leave it.”

  “How did you know that?”

  “I’m writing a story on you.” He slid the computer into a black leather case. “You don’t think you’re the only person I’ve interviewed, do you?”

  “Sister Ruth?”

  “Ruth Askins?”

  “Yes.”

  “Uh-huh. I did.”

  “Lordymercy.”

  “That sums it up. She’s quite the character.”

  “Oh, you’ll find plenty of characters here in Kentucky.”

  He clicked the latch. All set to go. “That you will. I also talked to your advisor at UK.”

  “Dr. Clausen? I haven’t thought of her for years.”

  “She said you showed great promise as a student. Why didn’t you mention your love of journalism when I contacted you?”

  She shrugged. “I didn’t love it by then.”

  “Fair enough. You think you’ll ever get it back?”

  “I may have to.” She didn’t feel like explaining further, and he didn’t ask. Guess somebody had told him about her ticking clock.

  She walked him to the front door.

  “Thank you, Ms. Seymour.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  They shook hands. He turned to go, then hesitated, turning back. “Ms. Seymour
, may I make a suggestion?”

  “All right.” She didn’t know what else to say.

  “Find a priest, a minister, somebody.”

  “What?” The only person that came to mind was Marlow.

  “That’s all. I’ve talked to your old high school religion teacher too. Wasn’t there a time you seriously thought about being a religious sister?”

  May laughed out loud. “Oh, Mr. Damaroff. It was one of those school assemblies, emotions were high, the nun who came to speak was young and pretty. We all considered the possibility for at least five minutes.”

  “She said other things about you too. At least go to church. What could it hurt?”

  “I’ll think about it.” She would not.

  “Have a good evening, and thanks again. I’ll be in contact.”

  The next day Sister Ruth sat down on the edge of the bed. “I’ve taken care of all the animals. You think you’ll be all right tomorrow to get the flowers ready for the market?”

  May, curled on her side, heard her. But all she felt like doing was staring, eyes straight ahead, right into Sister Ruth’s cherry-silk-covered stomach.

  “You had anything to drink since he left? Anything to eat?”

  May shook her head. “I just can’t get up yet.”

  “All right. I’m bringing something up to you. A sandwich or something. And some juice. You just stay here today. I’ll see to everything.”

  “Thank you.”

  May hadn’t told Eugene anything she hadn’t thought about over the years. But assembling those memories together like a string of beads made it easier to put them around her neck, and now here she lay, feeling strangled, just trying to breathe.

  She closed her eyes, the story unraveling itself over and over and over behind her eyes. Father Isaac dying over and over and over again. She missed him every bit as much as she missed Claudius.

  She opened her eyes again as night was fading. A turkey sandwich rested on her nightstand, accompanied by a glass of orange juice. May sat up against the headboard and ate.

  What did that journalist mean by telling her to find a priest? How could he begin to think he knew what she needed? Why should she want to find a priest? If she found a priest, she’d find a church, and she already knew that wouldn’t do her any good.