by Lisa Samson
“Are you okay, Miss May?” Callie asked thirty minutes later as they sped down I-64 in the dusk.
“I was just thinking that there’s more than one way to waste a perfectly good life. Eli did it one way. I’m not going to pretend you don’t know. We both love your dad. But we both know what he did.”
“Thank you,” said Callie. “Everybody wants to hide it. They think they’re being mean to him in front of me if they bring it up. But I need to talk about it sometimes. I don’t really have anybody to do that with.”
“But there are more ways to waste a life.” She turned on the cruise control. “And that just makes me sad, Callie.”
“Me too,” she said.
“Your granny tells me you’re quite an artist.”
“I do love art.”
They pulled onto Mountain Parkway, the road a wide, flat plain taking them if they so chose deep into the heart of the mountains. Just to Beattyville for them, though.
“What are you going to do come June?” Callie asked.
“I don’t know. But maybe we could do it together? I’ll need your help to keep this farm.” Let her know how wonderful she was, so the message of the snot-nosed brats at school didn’t get through to her for good. May had always wanted to give kids like that a good punch in the nose.
Callie smiled a wide grin. “Okay! I’d like that.”
They were going to need each other, and May was fine with that.
• 20 •
April 1, 2004
Dear Eli,
An image change is underway. Callie and I went into town to Rose Brothers Department Store. As a Lexington girl, I’m used to Dillard’s, so I guess the Brothers Rose use the term department loosely. But never mind about that. I figured I’d get something a little more suitable than work clothes to build my business. It makes me a little mad that people don’t want what appears to be an indigent bag lady around, but hey, I remember enough from my advertising classes that sometimes it’s the image as much or more than the actual product … Claudius could go into Lexington looking practically homeless because he sold vegetables, and people expected a farmer from out east not to care about his attire. At least that’s my guess. But a young woman looking like she’s been living in the woods all her life? Nope, that won’t do.
So anyway, I bought two sundresses, a light cardigan sweater, and a pair of sandals. I decided to cash in on the Easter crowd who might have forgotten to buy Mom flowers, and I still need the money, so I clipped more daffodils and tulips, and I sat right there at Main and Broadway. I French braided my hair and wore one of Claudius’s mother’s old Easter hats, a wide-brimmed straw hat with violets on the crown. Honestly, I don’t think anybody recognized me, which was a good thing. I brought extra bouquets and sold out in three hours. Four hundred bucks! In Beattyville.
Sassy brought over a pan of lasagna last night! I hate to admit it, but after she left, I heated it up in the oven and ate half of it! A 9 x 13 pan. And you know what? I could have eaten more. I’ll tell you what, the lasagna at the hot food bar at the IGA can’t hold a candle to hers. I’d been getting a piece of that every week as a treat, but now I think I’m ruined. The pickled pigs’ feet may end up looking like an option soon if I’m not careful. And actually, the fried chicken wings are delicious.
Okay, so I’ve spent more time with Callie and, oh, Eli! She’s a beautiful girl. So tall and with all that dark blonde hair! She got all the good parts of you. Ha!
She’s so kind too. She carried in the lasagna and asked if I’d like it in the refrigerator, then sat at the table and listened while we talked. She took out a little sketchbook and created the most beautiful, whimsical flowers and curlicues with a pack of markers she took out of her purse. I’m getting her to design a business card! I know a good thing when I see one.
She’d laugh at Sassy’s jokes, and when she asked if she could see the animals, I gave her a tour of the farm. She thought my goat was funny, which racked up the points for me! You should be so proud of her. Sassy says she gets made fun of in school. Bullies seem to hone in on the nice kids and make them targets even if there is nothing at all odd about them. I’d say it’s jealousy on their part, because she is just something. If you want me to go down to the school and threaten those no-goods, I will.
She wants to come help me on the farm after school and will continue accompanying me to the farmers’ market on Saturdays. Thank you for that suggestion. We’re going to do well there.
Eli, please think again about your appeal! Don’t you want to stay alive to see how Callie turns out? I mean, don’t you want to see one of the good things that came out of your life? She’s going to do such lovely things someday; I just know it. I’m appealing to your emotions again with a heavy hand, but maybe it’s something you should think about, you know?
You’re right, of course, about not giving God the chance to explain himself. I’ve been thinking about that, which is why I’m going to church. I mean, it can’t hurt to let him try, right? I have to admit there’s something to your idea of God sending Claudius and Sister Ruth at just the right time. And maybe you’re right. The best way to try and figure out why he let Rwanda happen is to first figure out why he let it happen to me. That seems a little selfish, though, Eli, because those people in the village were my friends. They saved me from myself in so many ways. Well, at least temporarily.
I went to church again Sunday. Sister Racine actually invited me over for dinner, but I had to get to planning my beds. So we’re having lunch together this week. I’m going to talk to her about the farm and see if I can get her on board.
Glen’s about to get here so I’ll close and get a stamp on this thing.
Love,
May
May sat up late in Claudius’s chair thumbing through Violet’s old gardening journal. She had it practically memorized by now. It used to comfort her, make her feel as if she was just continuing a work, adding to it, maybe. Making it something more?
Yes. That was it exactly. She’d do what she could, build the business back up, and hope somehow she could convince Marlow to let her keep the farm.
Her eyelids grew heavy and she padded up the steps, looked in the nightstand drawer and felt the emptiness. No stole. But it was where it should be. And strangely enough, she realized, so was she.
• 21 •
April 7, 2004
Dear May,
I had a great idea! Start bringing in bunches of flowers to decorate the church on Sunday. Corsages too. How can the good folk of Harmony Baptist appreciate your flowers when they don’t get to enjoy them on a regular basis?
I always get updates from Sassy about Callie, but hearing it from your perspective, well, I haven’t been that joyful in a long time. It felt like Christmas at Grandma’s. Ugh! How corny is that? But I can’t help it, that’s the way it is. She is beautiful, isn’t she? And yes, I’m really proud of her. As far as staying alive for her, I see what you’re saying, but she’s young and vibrant and she’ll move on. I never was in her life much, especially after I got so drugged out. Poor Mother, I was living with her right after I got back from Afghanistan, and two months in, she had to kick me out. Less than a year after that, I murdered Faye and Roy.
Callie’s never had me as a father, May. Not at all.
I’ve been praying for you a lot lately. I’m not sure why, but I’m wondering if you’re okay. Are you? Father John told me the Holy Spirit will tune our hearts to pray for those we love, even if we don’t know what’s going on with them. You seem to be doing so well, it’s probably just stupid worry on my part. The weird thing is, I haven’t even seen you in years. Don’t get that I’m hinting at a visit. That’s something you have to want to do all on your own.
May 29 can’t come soon enough. The waiting these last months or so has been excruciating. I have to admit, I hope to see you making giant leaps by then. Have you thought about visiting your mother’s grave? That might help you heal too.
Your friend,
> Eli
Eli was right. She didn’t make it to her mother’s funeral, had never really laid to rest that lovely woman who played Yahtzee and made pumpkin pancakes and tried to make her into a good person. She’d done her best not to think about her.
The grave was bare. Back at the farm, Claudius’s grave was a riot of color right then—oh, how she was going to miss just walking up there and having a talk with him, if she couldn’t keep the farm—but her mother’s sat there like an island almost, so forlorn and deserted, in a sea of flowers.
ELISABETH MEADOWS SEYMOUR
She sat cross-legged next to the tombstone and leaned her cheek against it. “I was an idiot,” she whispered to her mother. “What was I scared of with you? What did I think you were going to ask of me? What did I think I was going to ask of you?”
She didn’t know, couldn’t answer.
Tears pricked. Why so much sorrow? Didn’t those men with machetes realize their actions didn’t stop on that day, with those people? Didn’t they realize that those acts were stones in the river of space, thrown, and broadcasting ring upon ring for years, until, never ending, they passed stars, galaxies?
“God, don’t make me become so introspective. Can I just move forward and worry about the whys later?” she whispered.
She gazed around her at the beautiful flowers planted in beds all around. She wondered if any of her posies had ended up here and figured they must have. So much color and life. And yet, death seemed to follow her. Her mother, Claudius. Eli was coming.
—I’m a walking angel of death, leaving people and villages in my wake.
Poor Claudius, to have found her by the road that day. That sure sealed his fate. It was a good thing Sister Ruth got out while there was still time.
She lay down next to her mother, folded her hands across her stomach, and fell asleep in the sun as she muttered “I’m sorry” over and over again.
Oh, good grief. This was too much!
May sat down in the middle of the carnage and cried. All her ladies were gone. Some had been killed by whatever it was that managed to get into the chicken run. The rest were missing. Probably eaten now back in the woods. Had she really forgotten to latch the door? She’d been taking care of them for years!
It was horrible. The three inside the run were half-eaten chunks of feather and bone. She couldn’t imagine what the noise must have been like.
Eloise. Bill the Mule. Girlfriend. Scout. Louise. Now the ladies.
Only that darn goat was left. And she didn’t do anybody a lick of good.
Was the farm itself telling her it was time to move on?
April 10, 2003
Dear May,
Sassy told me about your chickens and your subsequent question of whether this was a sign. Well, let me just offer another outlook. Maybe it’s a sign to make the farm your own. What would you do differently at Borne’s Last Chance if you weren’t worrying about preserving Claudius’s memory? Maybe that’s something to think about.
I’m sorry about your chickens, by the way. I know how much they meant to you. Why don’t you get online and see what kind of chickens you would like to try raising next? A friend of mine in elementary school had Araucanas, and they laid the prettiest blue and green eggs.
As the time shortens until my death, I’ve been praying especially for you, May, for strength to do what you have to do. Callie seems to be taken with you, and I’m grateful for that. She’s going to need you. God will help you.
Love,
Eli
May set down the letter on the kitchen table. Her life was just beginning as Eli’s was slipping away. She prayed, head down on the place mat.
It was time for it because this world was so beautiful and so horrible at the same time that to try and make sense of it on your own would land you on a farm for a decade. But nobody can make that a life, can they?
So May prayed for Eli. And she prayed for Callie and Sassy. And she prayed for Roger and Faye’s family. They’d probably heard about May 29, and if they were happy, she could hardly blame them. But she prayed for a peace to alight upon them before then, because she knew Eli’s death wouldn’t bring it.
—Oh, Jesus. Jesus, Jesus, Jesus.
Anger. Sadness. Frustration. Sorrow. Nothing straightforward or singular came over her. She stood up, agitated, and looked out the kitchen window toward the empty coop.
—Poor little chickens. They kept me alive this winter, and that’s the protection I gave them?
She gazed out on her little spread.
Make it your own, May-May. Her head resounded with the sound of Claudius’s voice.
When Marlow showed up, she gave him the last dozen eggs in the refrigerator and told him she was just leaving. She strode down the driveway to the river and watched the glittering curves as the water rushed through town.
• 22 •
May had taken the last five hundred dollars of savings and bought herself a small pickup truck. A little white Mazda from years gone by, the back of the driver’s seat had to be propped up by a milk crate, and the small cab had the general smell of thousands of hours of bodies stuck inside.
On Sunday morning she put on one of the sundresses, a black-and-white toile, and pulled her hair back in a bun. Pearls, those old heels, and a little perfume, and she was ready for church. Earlier that morning Callie, who’d been experimenting with floral arranging utilizing tips she’d read online, crafted a beautiful arrangement for Harmony Baptist. It sat next to May, perfuming the odiferous cab as she headed down River Road to the little white church.
Everyone praised the arrangement, talked about the cheerfulness it brought to the old church. And Marlow just fumed, preaching on “sowing seeds of discord.”
May had no idea what he meant until the next day, when he showed up on the farm. She’d already let him in and seated him in his chair in the living room when he pounced.
“Don’t think I don’t see what you’re trying to do, young lady.”
“I’m older than you are, Marlow.”
It felt good to call him that out loud.
“Be that as it may—”
“And I know exactly what I’m doing. In fact, I’m doing exactly what you think I’m doing.”
“I want you off my farm!”
“Your farm?” She shifted in her chair; he shifted in his. “Look, Pastor Marlow, there are forty acres here. Surely we can subsist side by side.”
“But the roadside view …”
“We can work with that.”
“I don’t know.”
“Just give me a fighting chance! Do you have to be so pigheaded about it?”
“That does it.” He stood up. “Find another farm. It would be easier for us that way. We’ve got plans.”
“What does the congregation think?”
“They’ll do what I say.”
—I wouldn’t be so sure about that, May thought as he stormed out.
She picked up the phone and called Sister Racine. “I just want ten acres, Sister Racine. And I’m prepared to pay full price.”
“How? Not that I’m against it, baby.”
“I haven’t figured that out yet.” She squeezed the receiver. “But I will! Can you help me?”
“I’ll do what I can.”
“Is this going to cause problems in the church?”
“Honey, there’s always problems in the church. The fact is, Pastor Marlow has been doing too much too soon. Us older folks have been left in the dust. Now it’s not that we can’t see the future needs tending to, but where’s the love? That’s what I keep asking.”
“I don’t want to cause a rift.”
“Oh, you won’t. Trust me. I’ll just grease the wheel for you. But I think you’re going to have to turn it yourself with that offer. That’s got to come from you.”
April 12, 2004
Dear Eli,
I don’t think Marlow is going to budge. My only course of action is to buy the land, and I have almost no money. B
ut I’ve been thinking about what you’ve said about making the farm my own, doing what I’d like with it, and, well, I want to share it. Not only with the church, but with the people I love. I don’t know what that will look like yet, but we’ll see what I can come up with. Ideas appreciated.
Here it is, my last-ditch effort to get you to appeal. You have six weeks left. I have to give it one last shot. I thought of an old Rwandan saying that I think fits both of us. “You can outdistance that which is running after you, but not what is running inside you.” Can’t you find some reason for your life to go on, Eli? Callie loves you. Sassy loves you. And you’ve helped me to figure out my own life. Please, please, please appeal! Is a life that’s free the only one worth living? Can you possibly be so unimportant, so non-vital because you are locked up, that you have nothing to offer anybody? It’s just not true! I can’t tell you how hard I’m praying you change your mind. So is everybody else that knows you.
I’ve got to go. Callie’s coming over. I’m going to teach her how to make Violet’s biscuits, and then we’re going to walk the farm and see where our dreams take us.
Love,
May
Sassy combed the last of the brown tint through May’s hair. She’d picked May up earlier and brought her to their home, a tiny clapboard house clinging for dear life to a hillside in town. “I had to use three bottles of Clairol on you, May! You have a lot of hair, despite the twelve inches we cut off.”
Callie nodded from where she sat near the bathroom sink, a pink porcelain square set with a stainless steel rim in a sparkly white counter. She’d done the cutting herself, and now it rested about halfway down May’s shoulder blades.
“Callie, you did such a good job,” May said. “You are so talented.”
It was true. Callie was one of those girls who’d try anything crafty or handy or artistic. She could already sew throw pillows and embroider napkins. She could make jewelry out of wire and hardware (which she sold at one of the gift shops in town) and whip up a pan of brownies from scratch. Eli should be proud.
While Sassy was a wonderful grandmother, the fact that Callie would be, for all practical purposes, parentless come May 29 tugged down at May’s heart and soul. But what could she do?