Sweetgrass

by Monroe, Mary Alice

  Mama June turned her head and looked at her friend. The strong angles of Nona’s face revealed the character of the woman. Mama June knew she could tell Nona anything and it wouldn’t leave this room. She was, other than Preston, the only living soul who knew all of Mary June’s secrets.

  “Morgan knows,” Mama June told her.

  It took a moment for Nona to piece together the meaning in her mind. She knew that Morgan was digging around in the attic, but there were so many secrets in this family, she wasn’t sure which one he’d unearthed. But when she saw the gravity in Mama June’s expression, she knew it had to be the big secret.

  “Maybe it’s time,” she replied.

  Mama June’s face crumpled. “When is it a good time to break your son’s heart?”

  “What happened?”

  With a steady cadence, Mama June filled Nona in on all the day’s details. It had been a morning of revelations and an afternoon of upsets. A day of extraordinary highs and lows. Nona’s expressive eyes shone as she nodded her head and dotted the conversation with exclamations of surprise and support.

  “I’ve never felt so old,” she said to Nona.

  “You are old,” Nona countered.

  “Look who’s talking!”

  “I know I’m old,” Nona replied with a wry grin. “But I’m not complaining about it.” She leaned back and studied the marsh. In their unspoken dialogue, they shared an exclusive shorthand. “He had a fire lit under him, that’s for sure,” she said, knowing that they were both wondering where Morgan was. “Hope he knows what he’s doing.”

  “There are days when I don’t think I know who my own son is,” Mama June said. “Of all my children, he was always the question mark.” She rocked back and forth, mulling the mystery over in her mind. “I always knew who Nan was.”

  “She’s the easy one. Nan was the princess,” Nona said wryly.

  “That she was. But she had a good heart and always tried to make everyone happy. And she’s bright as a new penny. Problem is, she likes pretty things and made some bad choices to get them.”

  “That child made her bed.”

  “Yes, but she’s not sleeping in it.”

  Nona shook her head, frowning. “That’s not good. She needs to finish what she started. Hiding out here at her mama’s house isn’t going to solve anything.”

  Mama June rocked a little faster, annoyed at the prospect of sending Nan home to her husband. “She needs a little time away from him,” she argued. “Besides, this is her home. Where else can she go?”

  “Not under her mama’s skirts.”

  “She’s not hiding. She’s thinking things through. Nan’s leaving Hank.”

  “Oh, Lord…”

  “It’ll be tough on her, not to mention the boys. She’ll need us.”

  Nona rocked but didn’t reply. A line of worry creased her brow.

  “Now, Hamlin,” Mama June continued. “He was easy to figure out. He was full of do and dare. But impulsive, too. Reckless. Like his father,” she added softly. Her face clouded and she lowered her eyes. “I’ll never know if either one of them might have outgrown that and matured into something quite special. But Morgan…”

  “Morgan’s special,” Nona said in a defensive tone.

  “Yes, of course. It’s just, I don’t know who he is. That’s an odd thing for a mother to say about her own child. He was always such a quiet boy. He never told me how he felt or what he thought about anything. I’d ask him a question and he’d answer with one word. Yes or no.” She shrugged. “I love him, of course. He’s the apple of my eye, you know that. But I worry about him. He never talks to me or to his father, either. He always shuts us out.”

  “He shuts you out?” Nona asked incredulously, her eyes protruding.

  Mama June heard the sharp tone in Nona’s voice and turned to look at her. Nona had stopped rocking and was sitting straight, the sharp bones of her face catching the shadows.

  “Yes,” Mama June replied hesitatingly. “Why are you looking at me like that? You’ve got something to say to me?”

  “Lord help me, woman, but I do. I can’t sit here anymore and listen to you go on about how that child shut you out. Mary June, the God’s truth is that you shut that boy out the day your other boy died! There’s no use you trying to deny it.”

  “Nona!” She began to rise.

  “You sit down, Mary June, and hear me out!”

  Mama June made a point of standing.

  Nona leaned forward. “You’re saying you don’t know who he is. Harrumph. That’s true enough. Saying he’s quiet and all. Morgan’s been right there under your nose all along. It’s time you took off those rosy glasses and saw your son for who he really is.”

  Mama June did not hear anger in Nona’s voice. That would have sent her walking. Instead she heard the unshakable veracity of a friend about to deliver a “come to Jesus.” Gripping the edge of the rocker, Mama June reluctantly lowered herself back into the chair. She had to stay. She had to listen. She couldn’t turn away. Nona had known Morgan since the day he was born and loved him as she did. If Mama June trusted anyone’s opinion, it was Nona’s. Still, she swallowed thickly. From the look in Nona’s eye, this was going to be hard to hear.

  “All right. I’m listening.”

  Nona shifted in her chair, settling in. “You wonder why he never talked to you?” She paused, giving Mama June the eye. “It’s because you never let him talk to you! I saw early on what was happening. When he was little, you and Mr. Preston were too wrapped up in your own grief to pay your boy mind. Preston, all the time he was out working in the fields or doing something with Sweetgrass. Only time he spoke to that boy was to give him orders.”

  “I know he could be hard on him.”

  “Don’t you start blaming him. You weren’t there for him, neither!”

  “How can you say that?”

  “Don’t go shaking your head at me. I was here! I’m the one who held that boy in my arms while he cried himself to sleep during one of your spells. I cleaned him and fed him when his mama couldn’t do the same for herself. I talked him through some mean moments when I thought my heart would break. Mary June, that boy hated himself!”

  “No, he didn’t!” It wasn’t a denial but more an exclamation of pain.

  “Yes, he did. Maybe still does. He blamed himself for his brother dying and him living. That’s too big a thing for a boy of eight to carry all on his own.”

  “Why didn’t I know?” Mama June cried, clutching the arms of the chair. “Why didn’t he tell me?”

  “You wouldn’t let him tell you!” Nona reached out and put her hand over the back of Mama June’s. “Honey, you were in a darkness so deep you couldn’t lift your head high enough to see what was happening in your own house. Those were sad times, Mary June. The saddest any mother can bear. We were all grieving, but none of us like you. I pray to Jesus every day I never have to know the grief you knew.”

  Mama June slipped her hand away to reach for the tissue in her apron. She swiped at her eyes and sniffed.

  Nona sighed and took a steadying breath. There was more that had to be said. “If you’re strong enough, if you love your boy enough, you’ll see that the plain hard truth is, in grieving the son you lost, you neglected the boy that lived. I’m not saying you meant to hurt him, but that’s the way it is, the way it worked out.”

  “How? I always loved him. I never blamed him! It was an accident.”

  “You didn’t blame him in words. That’s part of the problem, don’t you see? You couldn’t let him or anyone else even mention Hamlin’s name in this house. And Preston was no better. He shut tight like a clam in icy water whenever Hamlin’s name was mentioned. That silence festered and stank and made everyone in this family sick. You never let him deal with it. He kept all of it inside, tearing him up like a cyclone.”

  Mama June put her hands to her face as tears streamed down.

  “I’ll tell you who your son is,” Nona said in a low, steady
cadence. “Morgan has a kind heart. You see that in a child that is kind to animals. It’s in the way he pets them, or brings an injured bird home, or takes a dog out for a walk when no one else will.”

  Mama June nodded, remembering. Her face lost its tightness.

  “He looked out for this family, too,” Nona went on, more gently now. “He knows his family duty. He knows what’s important. You say he’s quiet? That’s because he’s watching. I’ve seen him watch the faces of you all while you’re talking or eating dinner. His eyes don’t miss a thing. He knows who’s hurting and he worries. He’s careful not to get anyone upset.”

  Mama June stopped rocking. “He was careful not to get me upset.”

  “Especially you. But Preston, too. And Nan. Morgan took for himself the burden for Hamlin’s death. He carried it for the whole family. It’s no wonder he had to leave. If he’d stayed, he’d have died under that weight. If I were that boy, I’d have run, too.”

  “Oh, my poor boy…”

  “He’s no boy!” Nona exclaimed, tossing up her palms. “He’s a man. You and Preston both have to face that. And the fact that this man is your last hope for salvation.”

  Nona rose slowly, feeling as ancient as the marsh. She put her hand to her back as she straightened, an old pain flaring.

  “Well, that’s all I’ve got to say about that.”

  Mama June couldn’t reply.

  Nona stood with her arms crossed, looking out at a squadron of pelicans flying low over the marsh. Mama June’s forehead was cupped in her palm.

  “Do you want some coffee?” she asked. “Maybe some ice water?”

  “No,” Mama June replied tonelessly. “Thank you. I’ll just sit out here for a while.”

  Nona looked searchingly at her face and found nothing there to alarm her. She looked again at the sky. The sun was full overhead. It reflected in the water in shimmering rays.

  An hour later, Nona went to the porch again to check on her friend. She found Mama June still sitting in the rocker, but she’d stopped crying. She was looking out again at Blakely’s Bluff.

  “Mind if I join you?”

  Mama June startled, and when she looked her way, her eyes were red-rimmed, lifeless. She sighed with resignation. “Of course not.”

  Nona lowered into her chair, then reached into the canvas bag beside her rocker. In it were her supplies and the basket she was working on. She pulled out a big coiled flower basket with a lovely wide handle. She was nearly done with it. She looked at the tight, even stitches of palmetto and the dark strips of rush interspersed, its thick blades giving the basket strength. She especially liked the big pieces. They showed up so nice and attracted the eye on the highway.

  Setting this one aside, Nona dug farther into the bag to pull out a skein of silky grass, strips of palmetto leaves, then some darker bull rush and pine needles. She turned toward her friend.

  “Mama June, I’ve given this a lot of thought.”

  Mama June stopped rocking and turned her way. “Oh?”

  “It’s time for you to begin a basket.”

  Mama June looked confused. “Me? Sew a basket?”

  “You heard me. You’ve been watching me all these weeks and asking all your questions. I was waiting on you to ask if you could sew one.”

  “I wanted to. But I just never thought I should ask. I mean, this is part of your culture. I didn’t think…”

  “Oh, I teach folks if they’re white or black, if that’s what you’re getting at,” Nona told her. “Don’t matter to me as long as I keep the art alive—and as long as you keep the rows straight,” she said with a light laugh. “It helps folks appreciate all the work and time that goes into making a basket. So, are you going to let me teach you?”

  “You don’t have to do this. I know you didn’t mean to hurt me.”

  Nona pursed her lips. “I don’t have to do anything! And who says I’m hurting you?” She smiled craftily. “Your fingers haven’t played with this grass yet.”

  When a smile reluctantly escaped Mama June’s lips, Nona continued more seriously.

  “Seems to me we’re coming to a fork in the road. There’s lots going on and I worry if we don’t do this now, we won’t have the chance later. What we put aside today are tomorrow’s treasures. And I think right now you need to make a basket, Mary June. Weaving these grasses together will do you good.” She paused. “Work through that nasty arthritis.”

  “I don’t have arth—”

  “See? I can still get you going.”

  A tremulous smile crossed her face, and hesitatingly, Mama June nodded. “All right. Where do we begin?”

  Nona grinned in satisfaction. “First we have to knot it,” she replied, gathering her materials together.

  Mary June leaned forward to watch Nona’s fingers work more closely. They sat shoulder to shoulder, their heads bent close. Nona twisted a bundle of pine needles, soft and pliable in her strong hands, holding the ends of grass in her teeth. She tied a rounded knot and began the coil.

  “You make it look easy,” said Mama June.

  “Been doing this a long time,” Nona readily replied. She lifted it for Mama June to see. “The knot is the very beginning of what’s to come,” she said. “It has to be strong to hold the basket together.”

  Next she reached over to take a handful of sweetgrass. The separate strands were slender, and even with her experienced grip some spilled out from the bundle to the floor.

  “You can’t help but lose some,” she commented when Mama June bent to pick them up.

  “Used to be we only used sweetgrass to work up the basket. I do love the look of it and the feel of it in my hands.” She sighed and her smile was bittersweet. “When I hold this grass in my hands, sometimes I imagine that I’m sitting with my mother and my grandmother, and all the women who sewed with this same grass from this same field. All of us sewing in the old way taught at our mother’s knee. My kin—generation after generation—are buried in that field of sweetgrass and their spirits flow into these blades of grass in my hand. It’s my blessing to weave us all together, to bind us tight with these strips of palmetto.”

  She paused to look Mary June in the eye. “It’s all a woman can do,” she said. “We take hold of all these blades of grass in our hand. Some are soft and sweet like sweetgrass. Some are strong and tough, like the rush. And some are pliable but weak, like pine needles. Each blade is special. Each of them is needed for the basket.

  “We women are the weavers. We take them all in our hands, then bind them together best we can, hoping to build up something beautiful.” She sighed. “It’s all we can do.”

  Their eyes met and held.

  Nona smiled again and pulled out a small leather pouch from her bag. It was creamy-colored and soft with age. Inside was the hammered and filed handle of a teaspoon. Its patina was burnished with age. She held it in her hand as if it was spun glass.

  “This was my mama’s ‘bone.’ That’s the old word we use for the tool we sew with on account of the old-time sewers made a tool from real bone, like a rib of a cow. Nowadays, though, most like a teaspoon handle. I couldn’t sew without this one,” she said, holding it fondly between her fingers. “Don’t know what I’d do if I lost it. I make all my baskets with it. Hope to pass it on to Grace someday.

  “And this,” she said, handing over another teaspoon handle with baroque filigree, “is your bone. Elmore hammered it smooth just for you from an old silver spoon he found lying in the sweetgrass field. Don’t know how it got there. Coulda been left on a grave. Coulda been a hurricane.” She cackled mischievously. “Maybe ol’ Beatrice left it there.”

  “It wouldn’t surprise me if that old ghost was throwing the silver around,” Mama June said, venturing a laugh. The smile quickly disappeared. “Thank you, Nona,” she said more seriously, taking the spoon in hand. “This means a lot to me.

  More than I can say.”

  “You’re welcome.” Nona handed her one of the small coils begun by Gr
ace. “This will be a good start.”

  Mama June took the sweetgrass coil and fingered it, thinking of the young girl who’d sewn it, remembering her as a baby in her arms, and now a vivacious, bright adolescent filled with the dreams Nan was talking about just the night before.

  “How come we’ve never done this before?” asked Mama June.

  “Time wasn’t right before,” Nona replied readily. She handed her a skein of grass. “Now, take a small bundle of grass. That’s right. Now, feed it into the coil, like I do.”

  Mama June watched as Nona expertly fed strands of grass into the coil as she wrapped it with the thin strip of palmetto.

  “You’re sewing it like thread,” Mama June interjected.

  “That’s right. Now, you try it.” She watched as Mama June struggled with the thin grass.

  Mama June’s fingers felt clumsy and the grass slid between her fingers. “You make it look so easy.”

  Nona chuckled. “Don’t let it slip. You be the boss of that basket!”

  She leaned over to closely watch Mama June’s progress, stopping to guide her hands as she darted her tool into the grass to make a space for the binding strip to pass through, pulling it back through, feeding more grass and then wrapping the bundle tight before the next stitch.

  Time passed as the two old women sat weaving side by side. Row upon row, the circle expanded, growing wider and wider, the stitches radiating outward like the spokes of a wheel.

  19

  “Footfalls echo in the memory

  Down the passage which we did not take

  Towards the door we never opened.”

  —T. S. Eliot

  MORGAN DROVE AIMLESSLY all afternoon. He drove north up Highway 17 to Bulls Bay, passing lines of blue sewer pipes being laid and bulldozers that lay still, like great beasts in the field, waiting to devour still more sections of precious wetlands. He cruised through his old haunts in the Old Village and then Shem Creek, where he saw college kids and young executives carouse at the bars that littered the docks beside the few remaining shrimp boats. Finally he crossed the old, rusted Grace Bridge that spanned the Cooper River toward Charleston.