Sweetgrass

by Monroe, Mary Alice

  She had to stop making comparisons, she told herself. Morgan was not like anyone else. He was himself. Today she would begin seeing him for who he was.

  She reached his side, and though she longed to reach out and hold him, his rigid stance held her at bay. “I thought you might be here.”

  He turned to face her, and she was shocked by the deep circles under his bloodshot eyes, accentuated by his dark stubble. He smelled of hard liquor and a hard night.

  “Are you all right?”

  He nodded. “Yeah,” he replied in a husky voice.

  “Morgan,” she began haltingly. “I’m sorry you had to find out like that.”

  He swung his head back toward the sea.

  She clenched her fists, unsure of what to say next.

  “I was wrong not to let you talk about Hamlin and his death and what you went through that day out on the water. I see that now.”

  He shied away. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “You have to. It colors everything you see, everything you do! And I have to let you talk about it. You and I, we’ve always turned away from even thinking about that day. The minute we felt sad or someone brought it up, we’d shut down. We wouldn’t go there. Just like we wouldn’t come here to Blakely’s Bluff because it was a painful reminder of what had happened.”

  He remained silent.

  “Maybe it won’t bring Hamlin back to life, but it will bring his memory back so that we can openly remember him. Talk about him. So we can remember the good times. Morgan, there were so many good memories.”

  Tears flooded his eyes and he looked away. “I miss him.”

  “I do, too. And I’ve missed you. Oh, Morgan. Sometimes I feel I lost both my sons that day.”

  Morgan lowered his head and his shoulders shook.

  Her throat constricted but she pushed out the words. “I’m your mother and I failed you. I let go of your hand. I’m sorry. Please, let me have a second chance.”

  “It wasn’t your fault, Mama,” he choked out. “It was mine. I’m no good.”

  “It wasn’t your fault, Morgan! It wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t even Hamlin’s fault. It was an accident. It happened. And if we try to blame it on anyone, even ourselves, we’ll never get past it. We’ll remain among the walking wounded and never get on with our lives.”

  She wiped her eyes and took a steadying breath, determined now to save her son.

  “We won’t drown in these tears, Morgan,” she said, grabbing hold of his shoulders, forcing him to look at her. “I’m glad you found those letters. Do you hear me? I’m glad! There’ve been enough secrets between us. No more! We need to talk to each other honestly, even if the truth hurts.” She laughed self-consciously. “Even if your cheek hurts.”

  He hiccupped a laugh and shook his head. “I crossed a line there. I’m sorry.”

  “Oh, Morgan,” she said, feeling a tremendous relief. “We’ve all made mistakes we’re sorry about. But we’re good people. I’ll tell you everything so that you can understand what happened. Why we made the choices we did. We love each other. We care about each other. That’s what family is all about.”

  “I do love you, Mama.” His voice shook with emotion.

  Her heart opened so wide she thought she could envelop him in it. She saw his blue eyes, vulnerable and daring to trust, his brown curls, matted, and the planes of his face coursed by tracks of tears. She thought of the boy, then quickly stopped herself.

  He wiped his eyes and sat down on the edge of the dock, then surprised her by tapping the wood beside him in invitation. She felt enormously grateful for this small offering and lowered herself to the warm wood.

  He didn’t talk for a while and she allowed him his peace. She sensed he wanted to tell her something more and bided her time.

  “I dreamed of Ham last night,” he said at last. He kept his eyes on the water, but she saw a muscle twitch in his cheek. “He was here.”

  She swallowed hard, believing him. “Do you want to tell me about it?”

  The tension fled from Morgan’s face and revealed his surprise that she’d ask him to speak openly about his brother.

  He began to talk then. Mama June dangled her feet over the edge of the dock and listened, relishing every word. When he was done, he was spent. She took her son’s hand and led him up to Bluff House, to the big bed that stood before the open window and the ocean’s breeze. She tucked him in and smoothed his hair from his brow.

  “Shh… You can sleep now. Close your eyes,” she told him, her voice calm and soothing. “I’m going to tell you a bedtime story.”

  He closed his eyes. Immediately his jaw slackened.

  She sat in the old ladder-back chair near the bed and took a deep breath. It was, she thought to herself, never too late to tell one’s child a bedtime story.

  “Once upon a time,” she began, “there was a castle deep in the forest in a place very hard to find. The land around the castle was depleted and the people troubled because of the poor health of the king.”

  Morgan pried open an eye. “Is this Parsifal?”

  “You’ve heard it?

  “You told it to me a million years ago.”

  “Now, hush and let me tell it to you again.”

  He closed his eye.

  “Let’s see, where was I?” She thought a moment, then began in a fairy-tale cadence.

  “Parsifal was raised by his mother in the isolation of the woods. She didn’t want Parsifal to leave her, but Parsifal was true of heart, like his father, and wanted to be a knight. So, against his mother’s wishes, he left home without so much as a goodbye. He spent many years wandering in the forest. But, being pure of spirit, one day he was allowed to see the hidden castle of the wounded king, who was known as the Fisher King because he was a first-rate angler. Now, the Fisher King was also the custodian of the Holy Grail. The great king was dying, however, and had cruelly been struck dumb.”

  Morgan shifted, listening.

  “On entering the castle, Parsifal approached the Fisher King. But he was so overwhelmed by a strange vision that he failed to ask the king the one crucial question.”

  “What was the question?”

  “What ails you? Because of his failure to ask about the king’s suffering, when Parsifal woke up the following morning, the castle had disappeared. After many more years of wanderings, during which our hero suffered and endured many trials, Parsifal gained wisdom. Through his own merits, he was allowed to enter the castle again.”

  “What happened then?”

  “There are different endings to this story.”

  “Don’t give me that ‘you have to write your own ending’ stuff. I’ll never fall asleep thinking about it. Just tell me the ending you like best.”

  She chuckled lightly. “Well, I think Parsifal figured out that suffering was a part of life. When he was given a second chance, Parsifal followed his noble heart. He returned to the castle and asked the king the right question out of love and compassion. In doing so, he restored the king’s health and saved the castle’s fate.” Her shoulders lifted in a light shrug. “No matter who tells the story, ultimately Parsifal succeeds as king.”

  “Not a bad ending.”

  “I thought you might enjoy it.” She rose and drew nearer to place a kiss on his forehead. “Now, go to sleep, son. Rest. When you wake up, we’ll go home. Your father is waiting for us.”

  20

  “If we don’t change the way we grow, we will simply sprawl into the last remaining things we love about the coast. There aren’t just alternatives to sprawl—there are great alternatives to sprawl.”

  —Dana Beach, South Carolina Coastal

  Conservation League

  WHEN MORGAN RETURNED home, he went first to his father’s room.

  Preston was sitting in his wheelchair gazing out the window. One hand rested on Blackjack’s broad head, the whiteness of his skin a sharp contrast to the black fur. His face was pale and one side slackened unnaturally to the righ
t. Morgan saw his father as an ailing king, surrounded by the accoutrement of illness.

  When he entered, his father’s blue eyes brightened, matching the brilliance of the azure sky outside the window. His lips moved slightly and his left hand rose subtly in a faint gesture of greeting.

  Morgan drew near to his father and bent on one knee beside his chair so that they were face-to-face. His father reached out, placing his good hand upon his shoulder. The gesture was clumsy, but his grip felt like a metal clamp.

  Morgan looked into his father’s eyes and saw himself—a man, a son—in the reflection. Taking a breath, he asked the question that he’d rehearsed in his mind as he traveled along the lonely dirt road on his long journey from Blakely’s Bluff to home.

  The house smelled of boiled greens while outside the savory scent of barbecue had mouths watering. Nona and Mama June were cooking up a feast for family dinner—perhaps the last one they’d share at Sweetgrass. Chas took a real interest in the pig slow-roasting over the open-pit fire and was getting pointers on the fine art of making red sauce from Elmore. Meanwhile, Morgan and Harry shucked corn and kept wood on the fire. Nan and Kristina were giggling in the kitchen, making a trifle with the first batch of peaches.

  “Sounds like you girls are nipping a little too much of the brandy!” Nona called to them.

  The two women sang back for everyone to mind their own business and prepare to experience a little heaven on earth.

  Mama June heard that and smiled as she placed bowls of artichoke relish and watermelon rinds on the table. She felt she was already experiencing a little heaven on earth.

  The wind swept through the palmettos as her gaze captured her family. She tucked the image in her heart to bring out later, like a treasured photograph. She never thought she’d see the family laugh together again as they were now. Though it was hard to believe they might really be losing this place. Yet, if losing the land was what it cost to get her family back, then she thought it was well worth it.

  She looked up at the house, half expecting to see the ghost of Beatrice standing at the window, watching them as always. She felt a bond with the founding ancestor. Beatrice’s son, the first Hamlin, had returned from the war a broken shell, but she’d helped him heal by helping him to build Bluff House. When he died, she persevered, moving the family forward.

  “We’ve done all right in the end, haven’t we?” she said to her spirit. “We both raised our babies straight and true, and we both buried our young and had to carry on. Look at them,” she said, her gaze moving back to the lawn where her children and their children were gathering at the table. “They love one another and will watch out for one another. I guess we can’t ask for much more from life than that, can we?”

  “Mama June! Dinnertime!”

  The dinner was a finger-licking success, the trifle memorable. After the last of it was devoured and the coffee was poured, the family sat on the porch. Their blessings that day included a sea breeze that kept the mosquitoes at bay. When all were sated, Morgan at last brought up the topic that lay in the back of all their minds.

  “Here’s the deal,” Morgan began, leaning back in the wide wicker chair. “In a nutshell, the Chinese Partnership provides a means by which one partner can buy out the other, but the terms preclude her lowballing him. The partner entering the buyout bid has to make the terms fair enough that she would find them acceptable if the tables were turned.”

  “I don’t get it,” Chas said, scratching his head.

  Morgan held back his smile and took the question seriously. “Okay, let’s say you and Harry were partners and you wanted to buy out Harry’s half of the business. If you make an offer to buy him out, then he is forced to act. Harry can either sell his half or—and this is the good part—he can turn around and offer you the exact same amount of money you offered him. If he does that, then you would have to sell it to him.”

  “So my offer would have to be sweet in case I had to eat it, right?” he asked.

  “Exactly.”

  Harry spoke up. “Is that what Aunt Adele did?” When Morgan nodded he asked, “Then why don’t we just buy her half?”

  Everyone chuckled while Morgan rubbed the back of his neck. “See, that’s the problem. It takes time to raise that kind of cash. We might know what Adele is up to, but even knowing, I don’t know what we can do.”

  Nan looked at her father with worry, but his expression was unreadable. “Are you saying we’re going to have to sell? After all this?”

  He didn’t reply.

  Nona looked up, alarmed. “But what about the cemetery? We can’t be having nobody disturbing that.”

  “Don’t worry. The cemetery is well marked,” Morgan replied. “Even if the place is sold, they can’t move it.”

  “I’m not talking about the Blakely cemetery,” Nona replied, drawing back.

  Morgan was perplexed. “Then, what cemetery?”

  Nona glanced at Elmore. He nodded for her to go ahead.

  “See, there’s another cemetery. One out by the marsh, where the sweetgrass grows. It’s far, far back where no one hardly ever goes anymore. My mother told me about it, on account of her uncle ran a funeral home. She remembered walking in funeral processions there when she was little, usually at night. She took me there so I would remember where it was, too. And I take my children, and my children’s children.”

  “Who is buried there?” Mama June asked, stunned.

  “Why, the slaves, of course,” Nona replied. “And all sorts of black folks for a while after.” She paused. “My ancestors are buried there.”

  “My heavens, I had no idea,” Mama June said, her hand at her chest. “All this time and we did nothing to mark the grounds?”

  “It wasn’t meant to be found,” Nona said somberly. “Long ago, most slave cemeteries were in faraway spots where the land was poor and the plantation owners didn’t care about it. Most likely in swampy areas or among trees and thick shrubs in the middle of fields where the value of the land was low.”

  “I’ve heard about slave cemeteries being found around these parts,” Nan said.

  “Child, there are old slave graves hidden all over the South. Over time, that land by the coast shot way up in value. It’s been bought up and the graveyards were closed, same as the sweetgrass fields. Families weren’t allowed to bury there no more or ever visit them again. I can’t see letting that happen here.”

  Morgan leaned forward on the table. “Are you sure there’s one here?”

  “’Course I’m sure!” she said, looking at him as if he was a fool. “Not only on Sweetgrass, but in the sweetgrass. It’s right where we do our pulling. Only a handful of us know about it. It’s not written down nowhere. We know about it mostly through the stories. I’m not sure even Elmore is clear on where all of it is, exactly, and he knows that piece of land better than anybody. See, graveyards like these were used for generations by tradition. You won’t find them in deeds or in other legal papers.”

  “How big are we talking about?” asked Morgan.

  Nona looked questioningly to Elmore for an answer.

  Elmore’s long face had deep lines that coursed down the bones and planes of his face like dried rivers through canyons. He scratched his jaw with his slender, gnarled hands. “Oh, I couldn’t say, exactly. A few acres, maybe. I seen pottery and mirrors here and there scattered all through the sweetgrass fields. And shells, like the Gullah use. Snakes, too. Lord help me, there’s plenty snakes in there.”

  “Elmore’s afraid of snakes,” Nona confided.

  “I am,” he said loudly and without apology. “I hate them critters. Especially the rattlers. They shake that ol’ tail.” He shook his head, frowning.

  “What do the mirrors and shells have to do with it? I don’t understand,” asked Mama June.

  Nona spoke up first. “Those are grave markers. These people came from Africa. They weren’t Christian. They didn’t have the same beliefs or religious practices. And the plantation owners didn’
t care one whit where the slaves were buried as long as it wasn’t in good land. They sure didn’t offer them fancy headstones, neither. Tombstones are rare. Back in Africa, when somebody was buried, their kin put some of their favorite items on the grave and let nature carry on. So that’s what our people did.”

  “If there’s a cemetery out there, then that’s sacred ground,” Mama June said. “It has to be preserved. No matter what happens to the rest of the property.”

  “Could a cemetery be enough to stop Adele?” asked Nan, rising up in excitement.

  Morgan tapped his lips, wondering what he could do with this information. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Now, I’ve heard of land development projects being stalled by claims of burial grounds in place. But often it’s only a stall. Usually they work out some sort of legal compromise, like moving the bodies or partitioning off the area. South Carolina has laws protecting cemeteries, but they’re unevenly enforced. I’ll check on it tomorrow but I doubt it will do much good in the long run. A few graves won’t stop Adele.”

  “A few?” Nona asked, eyes rounding. “There’re a whole lot more than a few in there. Son, we’re talking about generations of slaves. Time was, this was a big working plantation. I reckon there are a couple a hundred graves in there!”

  Everyone looked at her in hushed shock. Morgan couldn’t comprehend that many graves on the property without anyone having recorded it. But even through his shock, he knew it could very well be true. From grade school on, Morgan knew that slaves died by the thousands in the Carolinas and Georgia. Especially children. He figured that there had to be many unmarked, unprotected slave cemeteries all along the coast.

  “Can you take me there?” he asked, trying to tamp down his burgeoning excitement.

  Elmore put his big hand on the table and spoke solemnly. “I can. I’ll do whatever we can to ensure our ancestors rest in peace.”

  The following day, Morgan marched into the kitchen carrying a suitcase and moving with the swift, forward movements of a man on a mission. His trip to the cemetery earlier that morning had renewed his hope. The suitcase hit the floor with a thump, and in a swoosh he opened his arms and scooped Nona up into them.