After a while, Soames and I drove home without her.
“You go right back up and get her,” said my mother. “And this time, don’t take no argument.”
Back we went and brought Miss Hagar home with us. We put her to bed on the old spring cot in the dining room. The rest of us tried to sleep upstairs. But even in our big open house, it was hot that night. Not a breath of air. Before long we were all up, changing beds, shifting around like corn in a popper. Soames decamped to the front porch with a quilt. Jessica and I set up two army cots in the yard. Mama padded around with a flashlight, like some busy household ghost, trying to make us all comfortable. By that time, a melted yellow moon had come up and there was thunder in the distance.
An hour later a wind began to blow and the rain came. The whole household rose up again and rushed around in the dark, closing windows and banging things. Soames ran out and drove my car into the corncrib. Mama sent Dad to put the washtub under the drain. The rain crashed against the house and the air turned cold. Since everyone was wide awake, we lighted the lamps and made hot cocoa.
“Goddamighty!” said Miss Hagar, grinning over her cup. “If this ain’t a sight on earth!”
After a while my father went out to the back yard. “It’s passing over,” he called. “Mighty pretty out here now.” I went out and stood beside him, barefooted in the wet grass. The rain had blown east, rolling the clouds in a heap beyond the orchard. Over the woods in the west, the moon hung white and cool, washed clean by the rain. Suddenly my father said, “Look, daughter!” and pointed to the east. There against the clouds stood a rainbow. It was pure white.
It was almost three in the morning, yet there was the ghost of a rainbow, arched over the woods. Under that soaring image of moonlight, the farm lay like a little crèche edged in silver. The white feathers of roosting chickens glimmered in the curved wet leaves of the peach tree. The dripping fence glittered. The new shingles made a silvery patch on the dark heap of the barn.
We called to the others to come out and stood hugging our arms in the cold air. My mother wore a white shawl over her head. My father shelled an ear of white corn, to keep busy, and the kernels glistened, dropping into a silver pan. For a long time nobody spoke. Behind us the wind rummaged among the leaves of the moonflower vine.
“Tomorrow will be a fine day,” my father said presently.
One by one the others went back to the house. Only my father and I were left, watching the moonbow. “Did you ever see one before?” I asked him.
“Never before. We are privileged,” he said.
When the last glimmer dissolved in the black air, we went inside.
That night I dreamed that my father died and we buried him in the vegetable garden. The dream woke me, and I lay for a while recounting it to myself. It seemed most natural to bury him, not under formal sod or a marble block, but among the carrots and onions, with his feet in the strawberry bed. It was a droll sweet thing, like some long-cherished family nonsense. As the garden reverted to its natural state, so would he, both of them changing slowly into pepper grass, mullein, and wild primrose. He would be at home there among familiar things; he would sleep peacefully.
3
“Girls?” Our father’s schoolbell voice clanged at the bottom of the stairs. “It’s late—better get up!”
“The gospel according to Matthew,” said Jessica, rolling out of bed. We ran to the stairway to say good morning.
“I’m loaded for bees—got the ax and washtub in the car. If you’re going to cut a bee tree with me, you’d better come on!”
“We’ll hurry.”
“It’s a beautiful morning,” he called as a parting shot.
I ran to the window and looked out. It was the prettiest morning I ever saw, and I’ve seen a lot of pretty ones in my day. I get up looking for them. We threw on our clothes, shivering in the delicious chill, and hurried downstairs. The kitchen was empty, but a fire mumbled in the woodstove and the room smelled of fresh biscuits. Sunlight bounced off the silverware and danced on the ceiling. Mama was outside, tidying up the moonflower vine. With a brisk unsentimental hand she stripped off the old yellowed blossoms.
“Have to get these out of the way, to make room for the new ones tonight. Gracious, baby, you’d ought to have a dress on. Aren’t your legs cold in them little short pants?”
“Yes!” I said. “I like it.” I stuck a marigold in her hair and ran down the path to the john.
While we were eating breakfast, Mama dug out some old lace curtains for us to wrap around our heads. Protection from the bees, she said. About that time, Soames came in and announced that the barn roof was shingled.
“You finished!” Leonie jumped up and threw her arms around him. “You’re a good boy! Now aren’t you proud? Doesn’t it give you a good feeling to finish something? Next time you start a job, you just remember this wonderful feeling of satisfaction!”
“I don’t know why you’re makin’ such a fuss,” said Mama. “I knew he’d finish it—he said he would.”
“Yes, but he doesn’t always—”
“Well, he did this time. You girls hurry up now and wash the dishes. Soames honey, bring Grandma the picnic basket out of the smokehouse. Let’s get started.”
“I think I’ll make cookies!” said Leonie.
Mama, Jessica, Soames and I turned on her of one accord. “Now?”
“A reward for Soames!” said Leonie.
“Aw, Mother!” he said.
“Some of those little ginger cookies you’re so crazy about.”
“Ain’t it a little late?” said Mama.
“It won’t take but a minute.”
Mama looked at her and glanced over at us and kind of smiled. “Well, go ahead. We’re not in that much of a hurry, I guess.”
“Oh, good! I’ll have ’em done in two shakes.”
Jessica looked at me and winked. “Let’s paper the kitchen before we go.”
“And piece a quilt!” I said.
“It won’t take but a minute.”
Leonie looked around with a hurt innocent face.
“We’re teasing you, hon.” Jessica gave her a little hug. “You go ahead with your cookies. We’ll help you.”
We banged around the kitchen with rolling pins and pans, and Jessica put on a lace curtain and sang “Here comes the bride.” We were making so much noise we hardly noticed that the dog was barking his head off.
“Now what’s the matter with him?” Jessica said, glancing out the window. “Oh, shit!”
“Jessica!” said Mama.
“Here comes the preacher!”
“Oh my goodness, he’ll stay all morning!”
“Run and hide—he’ll think we’re gone!”
We ran for the front room, pulling Mama with us. “We hadn’t ought to do this,” she protested.
“Sh!”
“It ain’t right.”
But she stood there as the dog barked himself into a frenzy and the preacher came up, paying him compliments in a bold voice. He knocked at the back door, waited a moment, and knocked again. “Good dog,” he said. The barking tapered off and the dog’s tail beat a tattoo against the house.
“Brother Soames?” called the preacher. There was a long wait. “Anybody home?”
“We ought to let him in,” Mama whispered.
There was another knock, a long wait, and a halfhearted tap. The preacher went down the steps. “Git,” he said mildly to the dog.
“Poor little thing,” Mama said. “It’s like Jesus knockin’ at the gate and won’t nobody answer. I’m going to let him in.” And she marched off to the kitchen. “Hoo-hoo?” she called. “Oh, Brother Mosely! I thought I heard somebody.”
“Good morning, good morning! I didn’t think nobody was home.”
“We were all in the front,” Mama said. It would not be her fault if he thought she meant the front yard. “Can’t you come in for a minute?”
“Or an hour or two,” Jessica whispered.
&nb
sp; “Thank you,” the preacher said. “I hope I caught your good husband at home.”
“Yes, he’s around here somewhere. Come on in here where it’s cooler.” We made a dash for the front door, but she caught us as we hit the porch. “Oh, come in, girls,” she said, as if we had been outside the whole time. “Here’s Brother Mosely—you remember Brother Mosely.”
We filed back in and shook hands. The preacher, a meager young man, sway-backed in the pride of his calling, blessed each of us in turn. “Glad to see you again, God bless you, mighty pleased to see you.” He passed a few witticisms on female charm and, having dispatched that duty, arranged his features in a solemn look.
“Well, I’ve come on a sorrowful mission,” he said, and there was a weighty pause. “Sad news, I’m afraid. Brother Corcoran has gone to his long home.”
“Ah!” said Mama, putting her hand to her cheek.
“He’s at rest now. His sufferings are over. The boy’s in jail in Clinton.”
“Poor boy. Papa?” she called, seeing my father pass the window. “Mr. Corcoran’s dead.”
“Is that right!” Dad came in with an ear of corn in his hand. “Good morning, Brother Mosely.”
“God bless you, Brother,” said the preacher.
“When did it happen?”
“Yesterday afternoon, late. I was with him at the time.”
“I’m glad the old fellow didn’t die alone.”
“I’ve been going over to pray with him every day,” said the preacher. “I hope I give him some help.”
“I’m sure you did,” said my father.
“Brother Corcoran wasn’t much on church.”
“I’m afraid not. Don’t know what church he rightly belonged to.”
“No, but he ought to have a funeral like anybody else, and I’m aimin’ to preach him one.”
“Yes, we must give the old soul a Christian burial. I presume we’ll have to arrange for a plot.”
“No,” said the preacher, “he already had one, I found out. Down by Cole Camp.”
“Clear down there!”
“Yes, he come from down there, and we’ll take him back. But I thought the services ought to be at Renfro, so what friends he had could come. Won’t be many there, I don’t reckon.”
“Not many.”
“Just you folks and a few of the neighbors. I’m dependin’ on you for the music.”
“Yes, I’ll arrange for a choir. When are you planning to have the funeral?”
“About three-thirty,” said the preacher.
There was dead silence.
“Three-thirty,” said my father.
“The body’s comin’ in on the three o’clock train.”
“Today?”
“There didn’t seem no reason to keep him.”
My father and mother looked at each other. They had tried so hard to protect this day. Right or wrong, they had held out against neighbors and duty, friendship and pity. But there was no holding out against death. My father turned back to the preacher.
“I’ll be there,” he said.
“We’ll come,” said my mother.
“Fine,” said the preacher. “I knew I could count on you folks. I must run on now and get somebody for pallbearers. Shall we have a prayer?”
We bowed our heads, and I counted backwards from a hundred.
“…and keep us in Thy way, O Lord. Help us to walk in the path of righteousness for the sake of Him who give His life for us…” Finally the young preacher pronounced a solemn Amen and picked up his hat.
“Oh, shoot,” said Mama, as he went through the gate. “It’s such a pretty day!”
“Yes,” Dad sighed.
“And buried away down at Cole Camp! We won’t even get home in time for the moonflowers!” She looked wistfully at the picnic basket. “I reckon we wouldn’t just have to go—it ain’t like he was a real close friend.”
“No, but there won’t be a handful, counting us. I’d feel bad if we weren’t there.”
“I guess I would, too.” Mama sighed. “Well, no use brooding about it. You get out your suit, Papa; I better press the pants. And you children—” She turned to us in defiant tenderness. “You children don’t hardly know him at all. You go on with your picnic. You don’t have to go to no funeral on your last day home.”
“That’s right,” said Dad. “The moonflowers will open before we get back. You stay here and have a good time.”
My sisters and Soames and I glanced at each other. It would be lovely in the woods today, and twenty buds hung on the moonflower vine, ready to bloom.
“Nope,” said Jessica, “it wouldn’t be fair. If you have to go to a funeral, we’re going with you.”
So there went the picnic. We put away the basket and pinned up our hair and rushed about pressing dresses. Somewhere along in there, Leonie finished her cookies.
“One of you run up and tell Miss Hagar,” Mama said. “She’ll want to go, sure, and I reckon we can all squeeze in the car.”
“Soames and I can go in mine,” I said.
Mama glanced out at the red sports car. “Well, I don’t know—won’t it look a little out of place at a funeral?”
“Take it!” said Jessica. “It’ll jazz up the procession. Try to get right behind the hearse.”
“Oh hush, Jessica, I’m tryin’ to be serious. I guess you’ll have to take it, Mary Jo. But wear something on your head!”
“Like what?” I said.
“Like a hat. You’ve got a hat, ain’t you?”
“Not with me. I didn’t bring one.” None of us did.
“Well, you can’t go to a funeral without a hat.”
“Everybody else around here does.”
“I don’t care, it don’t look nice. Run upstairs and get that box on the chifferobe. You’ll just have to wear one of mine.”
I brought down the box and we tried on the contents—summer hats, winter hats, old ones and new.
“Maybe I could get by with this one.” Leonie scowled at herself in an Empress Eugenie.
“It’s moulting,” said Jessica. “You’ll have to take off the feather. This one doesn’t look bad on me.”
“You’ve got it on backwards,” said Mama.
“It looks better that way.”
“Then wear it backwards. But hurry up, all of you. And stop acting so silly!”
By a quarter till three we were ready to go. Jessica and Leonie and I put on Mama’s hats and, feeling like the Three Weird Sisters, marched out to the cars.
“You’re kidding!” said Soames.
“I didn’t hardly reckonize you,” said Miss Hagar.
“You look sweet,” said Mama.
“All right, all right, come on,” said my father, “it’s getting late. Soames, you stay behind me.” He didn’t want Soames hotrodding on the way to a funeral. Soames and I grinned at each other as I climbed in beside him. Dad drove off sedately, and as sedately as we could, we followed. We crept up the hill past the Old Chimney Place. Doves, sitting sweet and stupid in the middle of the road, barely bothered to get out of the way. The little car chugged and lurched, unaccustomed to the petty pace.
“I’ll never get out of second!” Soames complained.
“Ho hum,” I agreed, settling back.
The road to Renfro wound in and out, past Latham’s broomcorn patch; smack through the middle of Barrow’s property, between house and barn; past Bitterwater School, where my father used to teach; across a bridge spanning Little Tebo. The planks clattered alarmingly, loose as ever. It was all so familiar. In all those years nothing had changed but the names on some of the mailboxes. Now that I thought about it, I doubted that I had changed much either. I had tried; I had run away as far as I could. Yet here I was on the same old road. And it didn’t make much difference that I rode now in my own car, my bright symbol. I was still following my father, keeping the pace he set.
“Here comes your dog, Aunt Jo!” Soames’s voice brought me out of my reverie.
I l
ooked over my shoulder. Here came the hound, ears in the air, tongue trailing like a banner. He had followed us half the way to town.
We stopped and Soames threw a rock, but he might as well have saved the effort. The dog paid no attention. Wild with joy, he caught up with us, bounded into my lap and covered my face with kisses. This was the story of my life. I was the beloved of all things lost, strayed, misfit, and unwanted. They followed me, like my background. I couldn’t lose either one.
“What’ll we do?” I said, pushing the dog out.
“Take him with us,” said Soames.
He dumped the dog back in my lap, climbed under the wheel, and took off for town like a bat out of hell. We didn’t slow down till we hit the square.
“Watch it, Jackson!” Soames slammed on the brakes, missing a pickup truck by inches. “Hey, I thought we were going to be the only ones here.”
We stared up the street. All the way to the Methodist Church, the street was parked solid. There were cars clear around the square. Everyone in the county, it seemed, had turned out for the funeral. We had forgotten that old Mr. Corcoran had not died a natural death. He was murdered, and murder had made him famous. The churchyard was jammed with people, children ran back and forth. Except for the presence of the hearse, it looked like a basket dinner. Death is always a social occasion, and this one was a jubilee.
Soames pulled in beside Dad’s car and I tried to hide the dog.
“Good night!” said Jessica, climbing out. “We could have stayed home and never been missed.”
“Yes,” said my mother, “but most of these folks just come out of curiosity. That ain’t the right way. Can’t you children park that car somewhere out of sight—My land! What are you doing with that dog!”
We backed up and drove around behind the church, squeezing in close to the wall. Soames tied the dog to the car with his necktie. We couldn’t find anything else.
The church was crowded by the time we got in. My father went up to the choirloft, Leonie to the piano. The rest of us had to sit in the front pew, staring into the casket. Old Mr. Corcoran lay a few feet away, stern and disapproving against the cheap satin, his long bristly nose pointed upward in contempt.
The Moonflower Vine Page 5