Sullivans Island-Lowcountry 1 (63 page)

with herself.

By the time we got to Maggie’s, I was so far back in my

memory that I half expected Rascal to come bounding up,

barking and wagging his tail, to greet us. Instead, as I pulled in

the driveway, I saw a yard filled with cars. North Carolina plates.

That was Timmy! Georgia plates.That was Henry! All the lights

were on. My brothers had come early and we were going to

have a wonderful time. I could feel it.

Beth and I got out to raise the tailgate and unload the car.

Beth went on ahead of me.Typically, I tried to carry too much

and stumbled, packages going everywhere on the ground. I

could hear shrieks of laughter and greetings as Beth entered the

kitchen.The screen door slammed.

“Is this my sister? I can’t believe my eyes! You look like one

million. Net!” It was Henry, the tycoon of the family, coming

down the stairs to greet me.

“Yeah, it’s me, Brother Bucks! Gimme a kiss! They didn’t get

you for insider trading yet?”

“Why, you! I’m as pure as the driven snow, and damn grateful

my office isn’t wired!” He swung me around in the air in a huge

circle.

“Put me down!” I screamed.“Help!”

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The door swung open again. It was Timmy, the family psy-

chologist (and boy, did we need one) coming down the steps.

“Unhand her, you brute!” he yelled.

Finally, Henry put me down and the world was spinning.

“You’re nuts! Oh! My head!”

Timmy was picking up my packages and Henry helped too.

Henry, laughing to himself, went up the stairs with his arms filled.

“He’s crazy,” I said.

“Still crazy, to be accurate.You’re nice to indulge his repressed

childhood,” Timmy said, in shrink-speak.

“Whatever! So how are you? God, it’s good to see you,

Timmy.” I gave him a kiss on the cheek.“How’s my sister-in-law

and my nieces and nephews?”

“They’re responding to treatment well,” he said, deadpan.

“Very funny,” I said. “Come on, there are a multitude of

cocktails to be drunk!”

“Right! Think of all the poor sober people in China!”

I slammed the door of the car and, with a suitcase in each

hand, struggled up the back steps.

The kitchen was crowded with my family, shrieking, pour-

ing drinks and eating. I could hear Maggie in the dining room,

shouting to Grant.

“Put on that Shannon Gibbons CD! For Lord’s sake, Grant, if

I hear Kenny Rogers one more time, I don’t know what I’ll do!”

A wave of pleasure swept through me. I was so happy to be

here, with my brothers and my sister and all our offspring. I

wandered into the living room and the Christmas tree stopped

me dead in my tracks. Maggie had done it again. The tree was

covered in varnished shells from the beach, popcorn and cran-

berry chains, red plaid satin bows and white lights. I was alone

in the room and stood there for a few moments thinking about

how everything Maggie touched became beautiful and glori-

fied. I turned to see her standing beside me. Suddenly, I felt

emotional.

“It’s a beautiful tree,” I said.

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431

She threw her arm around my shoulder and squeezed me.

“It’s disposable. Just pull off the lights, that is, if they’re still

working by New Year’s.”

“How is it that you’re so clever and I’m not?”

“But you are. This has been a rough year, Susan, but it’s almost

over.You know, you’re surrounded by people who love you.You

should always surround yourself with people who love you. Life’s

hard enough without fighting every battle all alone.” She handed

me a tissue from her pocket.

“I surrender,” I said, wiping my eyes. “I’m fighting no one

from this day forward.”

“Okay, let’s go have us a Geechee Christmas and to hell

with the outside world.”

And we did. We ate our traditional seafood dinner with

riotous gusto, the noise level of the house at such a roar, I could

almost see Fat Albert, dead for twenty years, coming to the

house to arrest us all for disturbing the peace.We drank the six

bottles of rare sauvignon blanc that Henry had brought from his

cellar and we were cruising.We told Alice Simpson stories, Stan-

ley Rifkin stories, Livvie stories.We teased each other to death.

We made the pilgrimage to Stella Maris together for Mid-

night Mass. The night was clear and crisp. The tide was out, so

the sound of the ocean was like gentle background music.

Later, we had decaffeinated Irish coffee or nightcaps, and hot

chocolate with whipped cream for the children.We put the cups

and glasses in the dishwasher and turned out all the lights. I went

out for a look at the ocean. I just stood there thinking how lucky

I was to have such a great family, how different from each other

we all were but how we loved each other in spite of, and
because

of, our differences. Finally, I went inside and locked the front

door. Grant and Maggie were long gone to bed and the boys and

their families had turned in as well.The Island Gamble grew still

and my head rested next to Beth’s in an old double bed, under a

quilt and two blankets.

“Hey, Beth? You sleeping?”

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“What?”

“Hey, did Chris call you for Christmas?”

“He’s a jerk,” she said and began to snore softly. Beth’s cold

feet touched my legs and we curled up like two spoons. Mother

and daughter. I prayed silently for us, for all my family, for

Livvie, her Nelson, my momma and daddy, Tom and everyone

else I could think of who crossed my mind. I prayed that Beth

would learn how to handle men, but not too soon. I had not

spent the night before Christmas at the Island Gamble in de-

cades. I was astonished at how restful it was. The old Island

Gamble had begun a new life with Maggie and Grant’s family—a

happy one. She had left the past behind and begun again wel-

coming us all home.

Christmas Day came and went, the morning spent making

mountains of pancakes and many pots of coffee, opening pres-

ents and clearing away the wrapping paper and tissue. For the

next few days, we simply enjoyed each other, taking long walks

on the beach, cheating at cards and exaggerating family history.

The thirty-first of December dawned. Maggie and I were in

the kitchen preparing for the picnic we’d planned for the eve of

the new millennium. Even my macho brothers and their lazy

wives helped to pack the coolers. One held shrimp, crab claws,

turkey salad and ham salad sandwiches and the other was filled

with wine, beer and sodas for the kids. We had bags filled with

corn chips and salsa, cheese and crackers, grapes and apples, and

the traditional chocolate, marshmallows and graham crackers for

s’mores.

It was going to be spectacular. Special permits had been

issued for bonfires to burn every hundred feet on every beach in

Charleston County. It would be low tide at ten o’clock and the

weather was clear and perfect.

Two huge barges had been anchored in the middle of the

harbor for a massive fireworks display. And another two barges

were positioned in the Ashley River for the other side of the

peninsula.

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433

Stella Maris had a special Mass planned for ten-thirty, giv-

ing us all enough time to attend Mass and not miss the fire-

works.Then Stella Maris would join every Christian church in

the world by ringing her bells for three hours. I showered and

put on my rust pants and sweater, spraying myself liberally

with Maggie’s bottle of Allure. Maggie came in the room, all

dressed for the festivities in black velvet pants and a red sweater

embroidered with firecrackers, martini glasses and champagne

bottles.

“Hey, you about ready? Grant’s got the bonfire going on the

beach and he wants us to watch it so he can change clothes,” she

said.“You look great!”

“Thanks! Sure, I’ll be right there. Uh, Maggie, one thing.”

“Sure, what?”

“Where on God’s earth did you find that sweater?”

“Catalog. Like it?”

I just shook my head and said,“Yeah, I love it.”

We walked to Stella Maris as we had done as children, the

Hamilton parade of Island veterans, past the dark looming forts

to our beautiful little church. Even my heathen brothers had

decided to come.

“Who’s on the altar?” Henry asked as we walked.

“You won’t believe it,” Maggie said. “Remember Ben

Michaels?”

“The guy who ate thirty hot dogs on the Fourth of July?

The pinball wizard? The shag king of the Isle of Palms?”

“Yep, same one. Went to Catholic University, became a

priest, did ten years in the Amazon as a missionary and then the

bishop gave him our parish,” Maggie said.

“Holy shit,” Henry said.

“ ‘Holy shit’ is your uncle’s idea of prayer,” Timmy said to

Beth.

“Don’t make jokes,” I said,“the guy’s a brilliant priest. Stella

Maris has over seven hundred families.”

“Hold on, Susan,” Henry said.“You still going to Mass?”

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“Yeah, and lightning’s gonna fry your bongee butt when

you walk in the door,” I said.
Bongee
is the Gullah term for the

ridiculous or the stupid.

At ten-thirty we filed into Stella Maris and it took three

pews to hold all of us. Over one hundred people couldn’t even

get in and had to watch the Mass on a TV monitor in the church

hall next door. There were people in church whom I had no

idea were even remotely religious.

Henry and Timmy probably hadn’t even been to Mass since

their children were baptized. The idea of voluntary attendance

to church was beyond them now. Henry was so “of the world”

and Timmy was so “out of the world”—searching for clarity of

man’s psyche. But, once we were gathered together as a family

going to church together, we all got into it.

Father Michaels watched us file in and rolled his eyes at

our numbers. He shook each family member’s hand soundly,

welcoming us. He was a tall man in his early fifties. His salt-

and-pepper hair was beautiful and his paunch was an indication

that the widows on Sullivan’s Island saw to it that he never

missed a meal. Every member of his flock knew he loved a good

dinner. It was a small earthly indulgence for the man who

guided the spiritual lives of so many.

We sang with the choir, off-key of course. Our ungodly

sounds sent ripples of giggles through the children. There was

the predictable snoring from some of the men who had been

overserved at dinner and the occasional wail of a child.

Father Michaels’s sermon was mercifully short. He had a rep-

utation for three-minute homilies, tightly written, provocative

and insightful. His words centered on the true meaning of

Christianity.That it was all about love. Love of God, love of self,

love of family, love of community. Love was a gift. He talked for

a minute about compassion, and what constituted a gift, coming

back again to his theme of love. In closing he wished us a future

filled with hope and love. My heart began to ache for Tom and

I prayed harder than I ever had for his recovery.

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435

Father Michaels turned back to the altar to begin the sec-

ond part of the Mass.

“Look!” an old man cried out. “The Virgin Mother is

smiling!”

“Hush! Look!” an old woman called. “She’s smiling at all

of us!”

I looked up to the painted plaster statue of Mary, the

Mother of Christ, over the altar. I had been in the midst of try-

ing to cut a deal with my maker on Tom’s behalf. I couldn’t see

anything unusual in the statue at all.

A small group of dazed old people began to make their way

to the center aisle of the church. Their arms were raised and

tears streamed down their faces.They appeared to be in a trance.

As they approached the altar, Father Michaels, who was bewil-

dered by the whole scene, stopped them short of coming on the

altar. The church was so silent his whispering voice could be

heard in the choir loft.

“Tell me what you see,” Father Michaels said to the group.

“She’s beautiful,” the old man said. “She’s smiling at me, at

all of us.”

Father Michaels turned again to face the statue. The altar

boys shrugged their shoulders and looked too. I saw nothing. I

looked at Beth, Maggie, Henry, Timmy and Grant. They shook

their heads. Did we really expect the Blessed Mother to show

herself to us? The notorious Hamilton clan? No way.

“Mother of God, pray for us!”

Father Michaels fell to his knees and began to say the Prayer

Before the Rosary.There was a lot of rustling as women dug in

their purses and men in their pockets for their rosaries. The

entire church—including the Hamilton clan, rosary-less, slightly

terrified and sinful—prayed with him.

We began the Joyful Mysteries, following Father Michaels’s