The Book of Marie

by Terry Kay

  The music from the jukebox. Old tunes salvaged from shelves of collectors, played softly for background, later turned up for dancing. Rock around the Clock, The Yellow Rose of Texas, Sixteen Tons, Whatever Lola Wants, Ebb Tide, Stranger in Paradise, I Believe. The old tunes had hypnotic power. The old tunes said, Remember when, remember when, remember when…

  The arrival of the crowd. In groups, as couples, as individuals, gathering at the sign-in table, pinning big-print nametags on their clothing, making jest with one another, laughing over the way time had mistreated them with applications of wrinkles and heft. Old girlfriends having fun with old boyfriends, and vice versa, with their spouses looking on solemnly, squeamish about being there.

  He would remember watching the gathering with the odd sensation of being suspended, floating ghost-like, and of thinking the room, itself, was crowded with ghosts—the youth of those who were there, the gray nothingness of those not there.

  It had been a curious thing, the meeting of classmates last seen a half-century past. Some were standoffish, not knowing what to say to him. Others teased he had lost his Southern accent and probably his Southern heritage. Way it is when you stay around Yankees, they said behind grins. You start sounding like they do and nobody below the Mason-Dixon knows what you’re saying.

  There were pictures made of members of the football team—Corey and Lamar and Art and Cole and Vic Walton and Donny Cummings—all touching a football with the 1954 season record painted on it in white liquid shoe polish: 6-4.

  It’s a wonder we didn’t get killed, Lamar had said, laughing. I still ache from it.

  Art had talked again of the Hoo-Doo, Voo-Doo, demonstrating it, and his pantomime of the play attracted a half-circle of onlookers, amused by his histrionics.

  In his memory of the night, he would think of the aura of gentleness that seemed to cling to Art, an aura that not even Sally— as hideously overdressed as Alyse had predicted—could destroy. Art had simply nodded to her, the way a gentleman would greet a lady on a street, and then had turned away.

  Cole had not been so fortunate.

  Well, look who’s here, Sally had said loudly. Big man on campus. You decide to see how the lowlife gets along without you, Cole?

  He had refused the bait of argument, had said to her, How are you, Sally?

  Better, now that I got rid of big Art, she had answered, smiling smugly. Wish my husband was here to piss him off, but he wouldn’t come. Said he couldn’t care less about anybody here.

  Cole had smelled the scent of alcohol on her breath. He had returned her smile and walked away. She had laughed a cackling laugh behind his back.

  Still, most of the exchanges had been friendly and he had been relieved. From the time he had received Alyse’s letter of invitation, he had harbored uneasy feelings about how he would be received, believing there would be questions about Marie.

  To his surprise, no one spoke her name. It was as though Marie Fitzpatrick had never existed.

  He would remember the dinner—a buffet of surprisingly tasty offerings, far different than hundreds of occasions he had attended—and the discordant music of silverware clicking against plates, of glasses tapped in the ceremony of toasts, of the muted babble of voices colliding across tables, peals of laughter—bass to soprano—and, in the background, turned low, the jukebox music of another time.

  And after the dinner, the formalities, Alyse presiding.

  Self-introductions by each class member—who they were, where they lived, what they did, how many children, grandchildren. Art speaking for Sidney Witherspoon, saying that Sidney sent greetings. You ought to go by and see Sidney if you can, he added. Lamar standing, raising his tea glass, saying, To Sidney. Glasses lifted, Sidney’s name echoed.

  Prizes.

  Stephen Willis with the most children—eight—and the most grandchildren—seventeen—awarded a blank photo album for his prolific accomplishment, and Lamar objecting, saying the committee should have been more generous, saying a vasectomy seemed more appropriate, and Stephen responding in a comic drawl, Been there, done that. Laughter exploding. Applause.

  Deborah Clark traveling the longest distance to attend—from Bellingham, Washington—receiving a laminated map of the United States, with a drawn-on line from a red felt-tip marker streaking across the map to connect Overton to Bellingham. Deborah Clark, so different in appearance, there were doubters that she was who she said she was. Didn’t have that chest in high school, Corey later confiding quietly among the men, taking a glance across the room—for safety-sake—at his once-pretty, now-pudgy wife. Lamar asking, How do you know? Corey answering, We went out a time or two. I just never talked about it.

  Remembrances.

  Art reciting names of the deceased—Wormy, Craig Gibson, Emily Murray, Oscar Thornton, Joyce Hill. Art asking for a pause of silence—a sacrifice of time offered by the living for those suspended in the eternity of death—and after the pause, Art saying, Dear God, thank you for accepting our friends and classmates into your kingdom. We remember them with love.

  The prayer had impressed Cole with its simplicity.

  The dance.

  Love Is a Many-Splendored Thing, Alyse’s choice for the lead-off tune.

  Reluctant couples—men especially—moving like old people awakening from sleep, cautiously stretching muscles, and the humor of it lodged in grinning faces, in whispers, in feigned expressions of pain.

  Alyse taking his hand, pulling him from his chair, directing him to the dance floor, her body fitting close to his body, close enough to cause a blush, and around them, the teasing:

  Good moves, Cole.

  Where’s Corey? someone had asked, reminding everyone of the dances when Corey and Alyse were inseparable.

  With his wife, Corey’s once-pretty, now-pudgy wife had countered good-naturedly.

  They’re juveniles, Alyse had said to him. Don’t listen.

  I’m not, he had replied.

  Did we ever dance when we were in high school? Alyse had asked.

  I don’t remember. Probably, he had answered.

  I loved those days, she had said. I loved being young.

  He would remember that she had placed her face against his shoulder and had whispered, I’m glad you’re here.

  And he would remember answering, Me, too.

  He would remember the groupings, the women with the women, the men with the men—the women sharing photographs of children and grandchildren, the men swapping tales of their ailments, from enlarged prostates to arthritis. Standing among the men, he knew the tales were meant as a one-upmanship of humor, and if there had been a prize for it, Roger Carter would have won hands down with the accounting of his two-year-old heart surgery, describing how the doctors had instructed him to stay away from sexual activity until he could climb two flights of stairs. Roger saying, I got to where I could do that walking on my hands. All a man needs is a little motivation.

  Roger’s story had caused a smile, remembering his own doctor’s advice about having sex after implanting the stent, his own doctor telling him, Just don’t over-do it. He had been grateful the advice had been private and not offered in the presence of his sisters or Tanya Berry—especially Tanya.

  He would remember how the smokers drifted outside to smoke, returning to the room with the lingering scent of cigarettes on their faces and clothing, the same as fifty years earlier.

  Jukebox music played.

  He had danced again with Alyse, and in his memory—as he had promised in his letter—once with Marie. The song was I Believe. Another dance was with Greer and another with Deborah Clark, who had seemed jittery and eager to leave, saying to him, I wish I hadn’t come back. I don’t remember anybody, and they don’t remember me. I thought it would be different.

  We’re the strangers now, he had told her.

  I was a stranger when I was here, she had said bitterly. I don’t know why I thought time would change that.

  And he would remember the assault of ugliness.


  The door opening and Hugh Cooper stepping inside, dressed in his rough clothing, wearing his Confederate flag cap, a lopsided grin on his face, holding a bottle of bourbon in his hand.

  The room falling suddenly silent. Only the music playing. Ebb Tide.

  Well, goddamn, Hugh had said merrily.

  Lamar, who was near the door, had stepped to Hugh, taking him by the arm, saying, Come on, Hugh, let’s go outside.

  Hugh had jerked away. You go, he had snapped. I just got here. He had turned to the staring, nervous crowd. Mailman must of lost my invite, he had said in a loud voice. Good thing I heard talk of it.

  And then he had lifted his bottle high over his head, and had called out, Anybody want a little drink for old time’s sake?

  Come on, Hugh, put the bottle down, Lamar had said quietly. You’re gonna scare people, acting like that.

  Hugh’s grin had stayed on his face. His eyes had wandered from Lamar to Art. There’s Art, he had said. Hey, boy, how you doing? He had stepped back, a stumble step. Where’s our quarterback? Where’s Cole?

  Cole would remember the quick touch of Alyse’s hand on his arm, a warning, a begging.

  I’m here, he had said.

  Well, damn, Hugh had replied, laughing. Told you I’d be seeing you, didn’t I?

  You did, yes.

  You got your colored girl with you?

  He would remember the rush of anger, the hard heartstroke of it. He would remember pulling away from Alyse’s hand and crossing the floor toward Hugh. He would remember the look of surprise that flickered in Hugh’s face.

  I have no idea what you’re talking about, Hugh, he had said. But you seem determined to make an issue of it. If you’ve got something that upsets you about me, you and I should talk about it.

  Hugh had shifted his weight for balance, narrowing his eyes on Cole. Everybody in here knows you a nigger-lover, he had said. We got the picture to prove it. Remember that, boy. We got the picture.

  Cole would remember thinking of The Photograph, of the blood of Etta Hemsley dripping from his face. In her letter to him about the killing of Etta Hemsley, Marie had written, There are still many things in your path, still many surprises, before this is finished.

  The finishing time had arrived, and he was calm in knowing it.

  I know you’ve got it, he had said to Hugh, and he had heard exhuberance rising in his voice, the same exhuberance of being in a classroom. It used to bother me that it was such a big issue here, but now I’m glad it was. Everything I said about that day was true. I was just there, just watching. It was nothing more than that. I used to think it was the worse moment of my life—what happened there and what happened here. But, Hugh, the newspaper story Ben Colquitt wrote was wrong. It was wrong, and it was irresponsible. It caused a woman’s house to be burned. It left her son with scars. And it caused me and my family a lot of pain. One story did that, Hugh. Yet, I would guess that almost everyone who read that story, believed it, and that includes a lot of people who are here tonight. I do understand it, though. I do. I’ve been hiding from it for years, but when I go home—back to Vermont—I’m going to have a copy of that photograph framed and I’m going to hang it in my bedroom. And when I look at it, Hugh, I’m going to think of you. I’m going to remember how wrong you are.

  He had paused, waiting for a response, but no one had spoken. The grin in Hugh’s face had curled to a snarl.

  Then he had said, You remember Marie Fitzpatrick, don’t you, Hugh?

  Hugh had forced the grin to return. The Kotex Queen? he had said.

  That’s right, Cole replied. Remember what she said at our graduation? Look around you, Hugh. It’s happened. All of it. That picture was just part of it.

  Hugh had held his grin, had let his eyes wander over the crowd. She here? he asked.

  No, Cole had answered. She couldn’t make it.

  What’s she doing? Off somewhere teaching little niggers? Hugh had said smugly.

  No, Hugh, Cole had replied after a moment. She’s dead.

  He would remember the ending of the reunion.

  Lamar and Art leading Hugh away, outside, Art driving him home.

  The silent wandering away of the crowd, some speaking to him, expressing regret over the way Hugh had behaved; most avoiding him, not knowing what to say.

  The quiet ride to Alyse’s home, and his understanding that she had questions to ask of Marie, yet was reluctant to ask them.

  In her home, she had made coffee, had talked of Hugh, taking the blame on herself for what had happened.

  I should have sent him an invitation, she had said. Maybe Art could have talked to him. Maybe he could have kept him sober for one night. It terrified me, seeing him like that. I had no idea what he would do. He’s always got guns in his truck and from what I’ve heard, he brags about using them.

  Cole had thought of Jake’s handgun underneath the seat of his car and realized Jake had heard the same stories.

  It’s all right, Cole had told her. It was a good night. I’m glad I was here.

  It’ll be the talk of the town, she had said. In a week, there won’t be a shred of truth to any of it.

  At his leaving, standing at the door of her home, she said, Before you go, I want to know something.

  What? he asked.

  Do you remember our kiss?

  He thought of his writing about the kiss.

  Yes, he answered.

  She smiled. I’ve thought about it since I got your letter that you’d be coming to the reunion. It’s one of the best memories I have. If Corey and I hadn’t made up the next day, I would have been following you around like a puppy, even with Marie occupying your life.

  It’s a good memory for me, too, he said.

  She stepped close to him, embraced him, placed her head against his chest.

  Do you know what I miss most about my husband? she said. I miss being touched. I miss the feel of someone holding me. She moved her face on his chest, and she laughed softly. I read in a magazine that senior citizens miss being touched more than anything in their life. It’s what kills some of them. Not being touched. They die from need.

  It makes some sense, he said quietly.

  She tightened her embrace. I’m adding years right now, she said in whisper. She lifted her face to look at him. But I want a new memory. I want you to kiss me, Cole. Would you mind that? Would you mind kissing a senior citizen?

  He did not answer. He leaned to her, touched her lips with his. Her hand moved to the back of his neck as it had fifty years earlier, pulling him to her, her fingers kneading him. Her mouth parted and her tongue touched his lips, moved between them. Her body shuddered against him. She held the kiss and he could feel a bloodrush surging in him. And then she pulled back, looked at him, moved her hand from his neck to touch his face.

  I hope you don’t regret that, she said.

  No, he replied. No, I don’t.

  When are you leaving? she asked.

  Tomorrow, he told her.

  Do you mind if I write to you?

  I’d like that, he said. I was going to ask the same question.

  Will you tell me about Marie? Not now, but one day, she said.

  He paused before answering: There’s very little to tell. I never saw her after we were graduated. We corresponded occasionally, but that was all.

  A smile crossed Alyse’s face. I don’t believe you, Cole, she said gently. If that were true, you would have told me about her death when I wrote to you. When a person can’t admit someone has died, that person wants to hold on. Whatever your reason, it’s fine with me. But I don’t want to talk about that now. I just want you to know I’ve never forgotten her. What she said at our graduation changed my life. I knew she was right, but I was too afraid to admit it. I even have her speech in a vault at the library.

  You do? he said in surprise. How?

  Marilyn Pender gave it to me when I came to work at the library, she said. Marie left it on the podium that night and Marilyn
took it. She said she thought it needed to be preserved for historical purposes.

  He thought of the copy of the speech Marie had sent to him in one of her letters. He had read it many times, had marveled over her courage and wisdom. That Marilyn Pender had thought it important was, to him, stunning.

  You’re the only person I’ve ever told about it, Alyse said. Someday, I’m going to display it. Before they force me out at the library, I’m going to make it public again.

  I think you should, he said quietly.

  But I won’t do it unless you’re here to see it, she added.

  I would like that, he said.

  It was late when he returned to his sister’s home, and his sister and brother-in-law were asleep. He went quietly into his room and removed a remembered letter from his Marie collection, one dated June 10, 1963.

  Dear Cole,

  Last night I attended a lecture by a woman with the arrogant name of Ebony Neismith (a change from Sissy Williams). She’s a black woman from Louisiana, and because of her name and because of my cynical nature, I half-suspected a comedy routine by someone who works strip joints for spending money, but I was wrong. She’s a smart lady, Cole. She has her doctorate in philosophy and it’s more than a piece of paper to her. She has spirit, a fire raging in her soul. She may be the only person I’ve ever met that I would gladly swap lives with, given the chance.

  You know what she talked about, Cole? She talked about Tennessee Williams’s play, “The Glass Menagerie,” and, of course, I thought of my mother and of you. Do you remember how you used to scold me for making fun of my mother’s love of the theater? The truth is, I was a little envious of her, I suppose, and I do remember being in awe of her when I saw her perform the role of Amanda in that play (I was very young, maybe twelve, but I never forgot it). It’s a magical play, really, a little dated now, but still magical. Of all the lines in that play, it was Tom’s closing monologue that got to me, Tom calling out to the memory of his sister, Laura, saying, “Blow out your candles, Laura. For nowadays, the world is lit by lightning….” You had no reason to know it, but that was the line that inspired the speech I made at our graduation, the speech that embarrassed you and my parents, and surely made me an enemy of the people.