Lowcountry Summer

by Dorothea Benton Frank

  This was our shrine of remembrance for her and it certainly did the job. I loved to come here with flowers, to change her pictures or to buff her plaque. I’d take a seat in a pew to meditate and just think about life. As much as I loved to hang around the dock, I think I did so mainly because of its proximity to the house. The fact was that there was no spot on our property so imposing as the bluffs that held the crypts of my great-great-great-grandparents and every relative who had gone on before us. But the crypts occupied the prime real estate. My first ancestors to be laid to rest in this country were positioned to catch the breathtaking sunsets and the breezes from the river. They could smell the breath of Oya, who hummed to them, sweet songs with easy words to help them rest.

  On many afternoons I had come here with Eric to share an apple and a story about our past. We would climb right on top of the enormous cement crypts and discuss the legacy of those brave soldiers from all the wars underneath the elaborate headstones or the babies in the tiny graves who had died from yellow fever or smallpox. When we ran out of facts, mindful of our southern heritage, we just made things up and entertained each other with whatever kind of fabrication we could invent.

  But there was no fabricating anything that night. Millie and I were there for a specific reason. We rolled the golf cart to a stop and sat there for a few moments.

  “I really should put some foundation lighting out here,” I said. “It’s as black as pitch.”

  “Yeah? How often you come out here at night?”

  “Almost never.”

  “Well then, save your money. Come on. Let’s go now.”

  “Well, you sure are snippy tonight!”

  “Humph.”

  Millie, who was the greatest stoic I have ever known, was unusually nervous.

  We approached the graveyard carefully, as the ground was very uneven. Millie and I held on to each other’s arm as we climbed the three steps to the gate, and I reached forward to push it open. It was stuck and moving it required me to put my weight against it. The stalwart gate, was so furious for the disturbance that it howled and screeched like a thousand owls from hell as I pushed it open wide enough for us to pass through.

  Great, I thought, they’re coming to get us.

  “I’ll remind Mr. Jenkins to oil this thing,” Millie said.

  “Yeah,” I said, “it needs it.”

  I wondered if an oiling would make the screech disappear. Around here, things had a way of howling when they felt like it. Inanimate objects were believed to have a spirit just as the warm-blooded creatures did. Part of the deceased continued to hover, meddling in your daily affairs when they saw a need or had an urge.

  We tiptoed around to my father’s grave, where Millie and I sat down on the brick wall surrounding it and read the headstone.

  James Nevil Wimbley II

  1927–1974

  Beloved Husband and Father

  “Sunset and evening star,

  And one clear call for me!

  And may there be no moaning of the bar,

  When I put out to sea.”

  —Tennyson

  “Your daddy always did love Mr. Tennyson. He surely did. And he loved my cooking.” Millie was choked up with emotion, or maybe her emotions, combined with worry and fatigue, were getting the better of her. The hour was growing late. She took a tissue from her pocket, blew her nose, and returned the tissue to the same pocket. She pulled a small conch shell from her other pocket and dug a little hole from the place on Daddy’s grave we imagined would be over his heart and she emptied the okra soup there, covering it up and patting down the dirt. “All right, Mr. Nevil, I’m taking a little dirt for a good cause and I hope that’s okay with you.” Then she scooped up some dirt with the conch shell and dumped it in a baggie.

  I could smell the river, plants rotting at their roots, fish decomposing, salt, and the smells of the water itself. Millie was drawn to it as I was, as surely as a magnet has to point north. We walked toward the old crypts together and stopped to have a look. Once we were out from under the umbrella shade of the live oaks, the light changed. The moonlight reflected on the water combined with all the stars made it seem like early evening. It was spectacular. Despite the great beauty all around us, Millie continued to fret.

  “I think we might be too late, Caroline.”

  “Too late to protect ourselves? Don’t you think Daddy is still looking out for us, too?”

  “Yeah, I do. Of course I do. But sometimes, when the wheels are already set in motion, you can’t stop ’em. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Yes. Can’t we enlist all these cousins and aunts and uncles buried here?”

  Millie looked at me and her face was forlorn and defeated. She knew something I did not and was not going to say it because we shared a superstition that verbalizing the terrible thought might bring it to pass. She turned back to the graveyard and held her arms open wide.

  “O Heavenly Father! O Mother of the World! All of you risen in the light of the Lord, hear my prayers! Have mercy on us now and forever and keep us safe from harm! Keep all of us, family and friends, safe from harm! Amen! Amen!”

  “Amen,” I said with a sense of dread and hope, my feelings wavering toward dread.

  Millie was obviously feeling very down, as though she believed that she had been unable to accomplish what she had set out to do. And beyond offering my company and moral support, I did not think that I had been particularly useful either.

  We decided to go into the chapel for a moment, just to check on Mother’s place. I used the flashlight, fumbling with my keys to unlock the door. We stepped inside and flipped the light switch that lit the brass chandelier that hung overhead in the middle of the chapel. It would not be right to come the whole way out here and not pay a little respect to Miss Lavinia. We were both surprised and unnerved to find her picture frame turned over behind the glass door. Maybe there had been a tremor or a strong wind, or maybe the arm on the back of the frame wasn’t that sturdy. I opened the glass door, picked it up, and was surprised to see that the picture was gone.

  “What in the world?” I said to Millie. “Who would take Mother’s picture?”

  “Humph. Door was locked. Nobody been in here since I came last week to sweep and dust. Maybe that picture done walk out of here all by she self.”

  “Oh, Millie! Honestly.” How ridiculous, I thought. I took the frame, tucking it under my arm, intending to replace the picture with another.

  “Time to go,” she said. “Still got herbs to place and nails to drop and goofer dust to spread on the road.”

  We did all that with Millie muttering her prayers and then we walked away as though all our efforts were already tainted with futility. But we had done our best and we would have to wait and see what the morning and the forthcoming days would bring.

  Millie dropped me off, and to be honest, I hardly remember locking up the house that night except that I peeked into Eric’s room and he was there fast asleep, snoring like a cub. As long as Eric was there and sleeping, I could rest, too.

  Then in the morning the phone rang very early. I reached one arm out from under my covers to answer it while my face was still buried in the mattress. It was Rusty.

  “Hey! Do you still want to go down to Beaufort with me to get the puppy?”

  After last night with Millie, I had completely forgotten that I had promised her I would go. I groaned and said, “Oh Lord, Rusty! I’m still sleeping. Can I beg off?”

  “Sure! I’ll call you when I get back! I’m off to change Chloe’s life! It’s Mother’s Day, you know.”

  I smiled to myself and hung up, rolling back over to sleep. But you know how it is. The phone rings. You’re startled and unfortunately reenter the world by speaking. You lie back on your pillows. Your mind starts racing and you’re awake. That’s it. You’re as wide-awake as you can be, so you give in and get up, stretch, and look at the clock. It was only eight. On most days I would have already done ten sun salutations (all that w
as left of my once-vigorous yoga habits) to stretch out my bones, showered and dressed, and eight o’clock would find me in the kitchen reading the paper and drinking coffee. It was almost nine-thirty when I finally got downstairs, only to see Matthew’s patrol car pulling up in the yard. I knew right then something was dreadfully wrong.

  I opened the door and stood outside with my mug, watching him cross the lawn. Starched shirt, creased trousers, sunglasses, holster with gun . . . My stomach was rolling in distress and I struggled to stay steady and stave off the panic already rising in my blood.

  “I came to you first,” he said. “Ride over to Trip’s with me.”

  “What is it, Matthew? What’s happened?”

  “There’s been a terrible accident on Highway 17 . . .”

  “Rusty?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is she dead?” I inhaled in a gasp and my chest got so tight I could scarcely breathe.

  “On impact. That’s the only blessing. She never saw the eighteen-wheeler coming and I’m sure she never felt a thing. I’m so sorry.”

  “Oh, no!” I screamed.

  Within seconds my face was soaking wet and I didn’t even know I was crying.

  Once the wheels are set in motion . . . Had not Millie used these exact words?

  I left a note for Eric, took my cell phone, and left.

  16

  Rusty

  TRIP WASN’T HOME. HE WAS out fishing, which is what he did almost every Sunday morning. It was Trip’s way of practicing religion—drop a hook in the water, thank God for all the treasures of the beautiful Edisto River, and be at peace for a little while with his dogs, Mo and Abe. The girls were still sleeping, as was my Eric, all of them like fallen redwoods. There would be plenty of time for them to hear the news. It would be just as horrible and incomprehensible an hour from now.

  Matthew and I were in the kitchen, worried and shaken. There was nothing to do but wait.

  “I’ll make a fresh pot of coffee,” I said, pouring the muddy contents of that morning’s pot down the drain in the sink. It smelled of cinnamon.

  Rusty had a cup of this, I thought, her last cup of coffee on this earth was laced with cinnamon. I started to cry again as I poured clean water into the well of the coffeemaker and wiped away my tears with the back of my hand.

  “Rusty was the kind of girl who went that extra distance and tried to make everything just, well, special.”

  Matthew had no idea what I meant but he said, “Yes, she was.”

  I changed the filter, refilled it with ground beans, and pushed the start button.

  “Can you call his cell?” Matthew asked gently.

  “It usually doesn’t work. Out on the river, I mean. No tower. But that depends on where he is on the river.” I took my phone out and pressed four on speed dial and send. Almost immediately there was a recorded apology from his carrier. “There’s no reception.” I dropped my phone on the table and covered my face with my hands. “Oh God! Matthew! Why did this have to happen? She was so happy! They were so happy! This is going to tear Trip apart! I just know it! Oh God. They really loved each other, you know . . . ?” My voice trailed off and I was going to really lose it.

  “Come here,” he said.

  He pulled me close to him, put his arms around me, and I just wept and sighed and wept and sighed. Finally I spoke again.

  “Oh God! Don’t you understand? This is going to kill him,” I said.

  “Ain’t nothing killing nobody.” It was Millie, standing there in the doorway. “It’s Rusty, am I right?”

  I nodded and Matthew gave her the details. For the first time in my life, Millie seemed old and a little shrunken. She had dark circles under her eyes. She probably had not slept a wink all night. She sank into a chair and listened, crying a little and wringing a tissue in her hands until it was just shreds of wet paper.

  “Oh Lord,” she said quietly. “This is so wrong. Just so wrong. She was so young. So beautiful. I saw it coming and I couldn’t stop it. Oh Lord! What has become of this world? I gots to call Mr. Jenkins. Call him right now.”

  Millie pulled herself up with considerable effort, went to the wall phone, and dialed Mr. Jenkins’s cottage. Yes, I thought, Millie is bone weary from disappointment and sorrow.

  All she said was, “Come to Trip’s. Right now. We got terrible trouble.” She hung up and said, “He’ll be here directly.”

  “What time do you think Trip went out?” Matthew asked me.

  “I don’t know. Usually he goes out on high tide. Not that it matters. Trip could navigate his boat through pluff mud. He knows every sandbar in the river by name. When was high tide this morning?”

  Matthew said, “Where’s the tide clock?”

  Trip had one in almost every room. I checked the one on the wall by the back door.

  “Tide’s going out. He’ll probably be home soon. And then what? Then his life falls apart. Oh my God! What a terrible day this is! What are we going to do? Oh my God. Oh my God.” I could feel myself starting to hyperventilate, something I had not done in ages.

  Millie, who was still seated at the table, looked at me. “Caroline Wimbley? Get her a glass of water, Matthew, please? Caroline? You listen to me, ’eah? Time for you to put on some Lavinia. Right this minute! Your brother’s going to need a lot of love this day.”

  “I know, Millie! I know. But this just breaks my heart, too! You know?”

  “Yes, but I’m sorry, it don’t matter. You gotta rise. Worry about your heart tomorrow.”

  I shuddered, considering the weight of her words.

  The back door opened. “What’s happened here?” Mr. Jenkins said, standing just inside the doorway. “Where’s the chillrun?”

  Millie was so upset she was struggling to calm herself, but at the sight of Mr. Jenkins, she burst into tears again. “Sleeping in they beds, Jenkins. It’s Miss Rusty. Jenkins, it’s Rusty who’s gone. Gone home to God. Oh, merciful Lord!”

  “What? Sweet Jesus my King! Say it ain’t so!”

  “It’s so, Jenkins. It’s so.”

  “She was killed in a terrible car accident,” I said.

  “Oh, no!” he said.

  “Oh Lord above! My boy, Trip.” Millie almost wailed. “His Rusty is gone, and oh, this house is gone be a house of sorrow now. A house of sorrow now!”

  “I found this in the roses,” Mr. Jenkins said quietly.

  It was the crumpled picture of Mother.

  “The roses at my house?” I asked. I felt a rush of goose bumps all over my arms.

  “No, Miss Caroline,” he said, as somber as could be. “It was in the roses from Miss Lavinia’s garden that we transplanted here.”

  “Oh Lord! Miss Lavinia was coming to aide her child!” Millie said. “Oh Lord!”

  Mr. Jenkins seemed to age in front of my eyes, as though with this discovery he had now seen it all. He kept staring at Millie from the doorway. Seeing the tenderness and the deep concern in his face, Millie began to really weep, letting it all go.

  Old Mr. Jenkins hurried over to her, put his hand on her shoulder, took her other hand in his, and leaned down. “Come on now, my sweet Millie. Please don’t cry. You’ll break this old man’s heart. Come on now.” He reached into the back pocket of his trousers and produced a perfectly laundered handkerchief and handed it to her. “Come on, my girl. Let’s pull ourselves together.”

  His sweet words confirmed the depth of their devotion to each other to me. In the midst of all our sorrow and pain, I had happened on an affirmation of their love. And I had learned that Mother was all around us, knew what was happening, and had tried to be a source of comfort. It only made me cry more. None of us were ready to stop crying and figure out how to deal with the truth. Even Matthew choked back tears.

  Matthew put a mug of fresh coffee in front of each of us and the mugs sat growing cold. After a little while, I got up and went out to the porch to watch for any sign of Trip.

  “Do you want to go down to the dock to wait?” M
atthew said. “I can go with you.”

  “No, it’s probably best if he ties up the boat. Matthew? Where did they take Rusty?”

  “County morgue. Gonna have to identify her, I’m afraid.”

  “Oh, dear Lord. Is she, I mean, was she . . .”

  “Not too gruesome. Her chest was crushed by the steering wheel and that caused her instant death.”

  “Oh, I just hate this.”

  “Of course. I do, too. She was a great lady.”

  “Yes. She really was. Do you know she was on her way to Beaufort to get a puppy for Chloe?”

  “No. I didn’t know that.” He shook his head. “What a sin this is. What a terrible loss. I always say that road is a death trap.”

  “It’s the worst. Makes me a nervous wreck to drive it.”

  “It’s lethal. I think this is the sixth or seventh fatality on that road this year.”

  We waited and waited for what seemed like eternity. The girls were not stirring and there was no sign of Trip until at last I heard the motor of his boat in the distance. I waited until he was on the dock and tying the rope to the last cleat before I called to Millie and Mr. Jenkins.