Sweetgrass (30 page)

“You did?” Nan asked, sounding a little betrayed. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t want you to think your dear old mother was losing her marbles.”

“Well, what did she look like when you saw her?”

“Just as you described her. Only she wasn’t standing by my bed. She was right over there,” she said, pointing toward the window. “Just standing there looking at me.”

Nan looked over her shoulder at the window, eyes speculative. “It’s kind of spooky, isn’t it? Seeing a ghost, I mean. Were you scared?”

“Scared? Heavens, no. Unnerved, maybe, especially those first few nights afterward. I confess it was hard to turn off the light. But I haven’t seen her since. Beatrice has been in this house for three hundred years. Seems to me if she meant us any harm, she would have done it by now. No,” she said, her gaze wandering the room. “I think she watches over us somehow. Maybe she’s trying to tell us something.”

Nan’s brow furrowed and she wrapped the coverlet closer around her shoulders.

“You know Nona won’t spend the night under this roof,” Mama June told her. “She’s seen Beatrice a couple of times. And so did her mother.”

Nan looked up, her eyes sparking with tease. “But did they get gifts?”

Mama June tilted her head. “Gifts?”

Nan nodded and spread open her hand on the mattress. In her palm lay an antique brooch. The rich red-gold of the pin shone coppery against her skin.

“Where did you find this?”

“At the foot of my bed. When I turned on the light the ghost was gone. But I found this right where she was standing. I swear, Mama, it wasn’t there before.”

Mama June gingerly picked up the pin and examined both
sides carefully. It was as delightful as it could be, clearly a fine piece of nineteenth-century craftsmanship. The pin was centered with a glass-encased miniature of painted ivory depicting the house of Sweetgrass in a rural countryside scene. On the back, the initials BB were delicately etched into the gold.

“I’ve never seen this piece of jewelry before, never even heard it spoken of. And I would have.” She gave it back to Nan, somewhat awed by it all. “It’s very special. She must have meant for you to have it.”

Nan’s face grew thoughtful and she brought her hand close to her chest to study the pin. “Why me?” she asked softly.

Mama June wondered the same thing. “That’s a question you’ll have to ask Beatrice. But I should think it was because she felt you deserved it. Or perhaps that you need it. Why do you think?”

Nan closed her hands over the pin and brought it to her chin. She shook her head with such fervency that Mama June’s focus sharpened.

“Mama, I feel lost,” she said in a despairing voice.

“Nan!”

“I’m almost forty years old and I don’t know who I am. I don’t think I have for a long time.” Nan’s face crumpled.

“What’s the matter, precious?” she asked, leaning forward to rest a consoling hand on her knee.

Nan wiped her eyes with the sheet and leaned farther back against the pillows, her knees bent. “I’ve been so busy being Hank’s wife and the boys’ mother, driving and cooking and cleaning and arranging this or that for
them,
I’ve never stopped to consider what
I
needed. Now I’m just…so empty.”

“That’s normal at this point in your life,” Mama June replied, trying to be consoling. “Your children are grown and they’re not so dependent on you any longer. They want to branch out on their own. It’s a transition phase.”

“It’s not just the boys… I don’t know if I can explain.”

“Try. I’ll listen.”

Nan took a bolstering breath. “You see, when Daddy got sick, it was a wake-up call. For the past few months, coming home to help with Daddy, I’ve remembered who I used to be, back when I lived in this house. How it used to be between us. Part of it was just being here at home again. We’ve gotten closer as a family. That’s important to me. And I saw you with Daddy, how every day you come to sit with him and talk with him. After all these years, you still share something special and I…I don’t share that with Hank.”

“But you always seemed to have such a good marriage. A picture-perfect home.”

“I know it seemed like that, because that’s all I’ve worked for. I had this vision of what our family life was like before Hamlin’s death. In my memories, everything was perfect.
You
were perfect. But after Ham died, all that died with him. Everything just fell apart. I missed our life. I missed
our family.
So I thought—I tried—to bring that perfection back in my own family with Hank. I wanted to be the perfect mother and wife. Not just for me, but for you.”

“Oh, Nan…”

“But I couldn’t,” she blurted out. “I’ve failed in everything.”

“Nan, you couldn’t have succeeded because perfection doesn’t exist! There’s no such thing in real life. We weren’t perfect, not by any stretch of the imagination. Least of all me. Oh, Nan, there’s so much you don’t know. We were just a happy family in a normal, everyday way. Then we were devastated. When we looked back on the good days, they became golden in our memories. I know, I did it myself. They shone brighter than they really were. Maybe we needed them to shine, to help us through the dark times. But, Nan, you can’t live my life for me. You have to live your own.”

Nan swiped the tear from her cheek and sat straighter, intent on telling her mother what she meant. “But that’s part of it, too. Being home again, I remember how
I
used to be, before I was married. I was popular. I was a leader. I was involved in everything at school. I had such dreams. I believed I could be anything I wanted to be. Mama, I don’t know what happened to that girl. Did she just disappear as I grew up? Is that what happens to that dreamer inside of us when we get older? Or does she just get pushed further down? When I’m here, I catch glimpses of her again and I wonder—did I leave that girl here at home?”

Mama June remembered that ambitious, joyful girl, too. She looked into Nan’s eyes, shining bright with intent. “I believe she’s still inside of you.”

“I think so, too,” Nan replied, hope entering her voice. “I like that girl. And I mean to get in touch with her again.”

Mama June’s lips eased into a smile as she took the pin from Nan’s hand. “Lift your chin,” she told her daughter, then pinned the brooch on Nan’s nightgown.

“It suits you,” she said, admiring it. “It belonged to a strong, pioneering woman. And now it belongs to you.”

Nan’s eyes glistened.

“Nan, it’s wonderful that you’re exploring who you are, but why must you leave Hank to do this?”

“Because I can’t do it with him. He’s not there to support me, Mama. He only wants me to support him. It’s like he considers it my job description. As long as I ran a nice home, raised his children and was a willing partner in bed, all was right with the world. We set up a pattern early in our marriage where I gave in to him on everything that mattered. He got stronger and I got weaker. It didn’t just happen, Mama. I let it happen, helped it happen, because I somehow got it into my head that that’s what a woman did if she wanted to be a good wife and have a good marriage.”

“Helping your husband
is
good,” Mama June said. “You want a strong husband.”

“Being a doormat is not good,” Nan countered. “Morgan was right when he told me to get some backbone!”

“But, precious, can’t you have a backbone in your marriage?”

“Of course I could, if I’d started earlier. But for me, it’s too late to change. The pattern is too fundamental in our marriage. And after what he did tonight—” She shook her head. “I don’t want to go back to him. I’ve made up my mind.” She paused. “I’m leaving him.”

Mama June did not move a muscle. She couldn’t quite believe she’d heard correctly. “You’re leaving Hank for good?”

Nan nodded. “I was going to ask you after dinner, but then all hell broke loose. I was hoping… Mama, can I come back home?”

“Of course,” she instantly replied, but regretted them the moment the words slipped out. She didn’t want to be instrumental in a rash action that might destroy a marriage. “But, Nan, are you sure? Let’s think about this a minute. This is an awfully big step. You should go to counseling or talk to a priest first. You don’t want to act rashly.” She hesitated, thinking the worst. “He didn’t hit you or anything…?”

“No, no, nothing like that. And it isn’t so rash, really. It’s been more a long, slow slide.”

“I didn’t see it,” said Mama June, deeply concerned now.

“You weren’t meant to.” Nan lifted her slim shoulders. “So here I am.”

Mama June looked at this daughter who was so very much like her. And it occurred to her that perhaps this was the first time she’d really seen her daughter since she’d been married.

“So here you are,” Mama June said. She wrapped her arms around her daughter and they leaned back against the pile of
pillows. “And here you’ll stay until you and Hank work this through, one way or the other.”

“You and Daddy have been married for such a long time. I suppose you’re disappointed in me.”

“No,” she replied gently. “Oh, dear child, you can’t ever know what goes on between a husband and a wife, not even when they are your own parents. Don’t compare your marriage to mine. Each marriage is as different as the people in them.”

Nan took comfort in her mother’s words and cuddled next to her. “Can I sleep in here tonight? With you?”

Mama June chuckled, thinking it had been a very long time since one of her children had crawled into bed with her. “Of course,” she said, and moved over on the mattress, tossing down the covers for her.

Nan crawled under the covers and fluffed up the pillows, feeling very much like she was eight years old again and coming to her mama’s bed after a bad dream.

Mama June reached over to turn off her bedside lamp. Immediately the room plunged into darkness, but soon after their eyes grew accustomed to the dim light.

“If you’re hiding out from ghosts,” said Mama June wryly, “this room is Beatrice’s favorite haunt.”

“Oh, I’m not afraid of her,” Nan said.

“Oh, no?”

“Really, I’m not. She spooked me. I’ll be honest about that. But—promise not to laugh—I got the feeling she was smiling at me. As if she was proud of me. Maybe even was glad I’m here. Does that sound crazy?”

Mama June smiled to herself and glanced over at the window. A slant of moonlight filtered through the panes. “No, precious, it doesn’t sound crazy to me in the least.”

THE NEXT MORNING
the sun was mockingly bright. Morgan rose early to sneak from Kristina’s house up to his room like a randy teenager afraid of getting caught. She’d kissed him soundly before he left and, looking clearly into his eyes, gave him not a single word of advice.

For that kindness, he’d be forever grateful.

He showered, shaved, put on a clean, ironed shirt and pressed khakis, and smoothed his damp hair back from his brow. Leaning his palms against the bureau, he stared at his reflection in the rectangular wood-framed mirror. It was the same mirror he’d stared into as a boy. The shape and bones of his face were different, but the eyes were the same. So, too, he thought, was the anxiety behind them. He straightened, adjusted his belt, then went downstairs.

His mother was waiting for him in the kitchen. Her eyes
brightened at seeing him, shining with nervousness. Nona lingered over her coffee, her dark eyes watching him. She knew what was happening, as usual.

Mama June offered him a cup of steaming coffee. He took a few gulps but refused the bacon and biscuits. He couldn’t eat.

“Your father should just be finishing his breakfast,” Mama June told him, wiping her hands on her apron. She glanced up at him then, her meaning pulsing. “Now would be a good time for a visit.”

Preston was sitting upright in his bed watching the morning news. Beside him was a tray with his mother’s favorite Blue Willow pattern china half filled with the remains of his breakfast. He was shaved and dressed in a soft blue cotton shirt that was a near match to his eyes. These lit up when Morgan stepped into the room.

“Hey, Daddy,” he responded.

Kristina swung her head up from her task at the sound of his voice. She came from around the bed to turn off the television. She moved briskly and with purpose, casting him a loaded glance as she passed on her way out of the room. Only Blackjack remained, his tail thumping on the floor beside Preston’s bed.

His father’s eyes fixed on his face.

Morgan looked around for a chair, and finding his father’s favorite wingback near the window, he went to drag it over closer to the bed. Sitting, he crossed one leg over his knee and leaned back, each moment as labored and artificial as though he were on a stage.

“Nice day,” he began lamely.

The business of a one-way conversation was excruciating. He’d spoken only two lines and already he felt exhausted, frustrated and ready to bolt. Where was his voice? Sitting
beside his father, he felt again like the frightened kid he saw staring in the mirror this morning.

Morgan closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He wanted his father to see him not as the boy he remembered, but as the man he’d become. What could he say? What could he tell him that would convey that image?

“I’m sorry I haven’t been in to visit much,” he began. He looked at his hands and gave off a short, bitter laugh. “I always seem to be apologizing to you for one thing or another, don’t I?”

He brought his leg down and leaned forward, closer to his father, intent on being heard. “I suppose you might be curious just what I’ve been up to these past years. Where I’ve been living, that kind of thing. Where do I start?” His fingers tapped his boot.

“Well, Montana is a nice-enough place. I have fifty acres, which is a spit in the bucket up there, but it’s all mine. I’ve got a couple of horses,” he went on, knowing his father would be interested in the livestock. “Tried goats for milk, but they were too much work.” He chuckled, pleased to see a quiver of a commiserating smile on his father’s face.

“There’s a cabin that I built myself. It’s not big,” he added modestly. “Only two bedrooms, but the well water is sweet and I’ve got a beautiful view that can sometimes take my breath away. Remember how you always talked about seeing the breath of God as it blew across His earth? I could feel that there, Daddy. When the wind whistles through the pines I swear I can hear the angels sing.”

He chuckled, a little embarrassed at his emotion. “Everything is so big there. The land stretches out forever, and the only thing bigger than it is the sky. A man can lose himself in a sky like that.” He paused, getting to the heart of it. “It’s a lot different from here, where there’s not a blade of
grass that doesn’t connect me to some memory. I reckon that’s part of Montana’s appeal for me. There’s not a lot in the landscape to remind me of home.”

He cleared his throat, reining in his emotion. “I manage a herd of bison for a big ranch. They’re some rich movie folk who come by from time to time. They’re nice enough and leave me alone to do what I’m hired to do, which suits me. I don’t have many friends, but then again, I never felt I needed more than a few true ones. I wish I could tell you there was some fine lady back home waiting for me. I know Mama June wishes there were. But there isn’t. I’ve had my share of lady friends. But it never seems to work out very long. I reckon it’s my fault. To a one they tell me there’s something missing inside of me, something that keeps me from being able to commit.”

He closed his eyes. “I don’t know, Daddy, but they may be right.”

Opening them again, he saw his father looking at him intently, without criticism. Morgan knew without doubt that he was being heard. It was a far cry from the one-sided conversations they used to have. It was, in fact, a new experience in their relationship, and he felt the coil inside himself loosen more, freeing his tongue.

It was ironic, he thought to himself. All that time spent alone on a mountaintop trying to look inside himself and he saw nothing. And here he was peeling away the layers under the silent gaze of his father. He wondered if this was how the sinner felt in a confessional.

“I don’t blame them for things not working out. I blame myself. It’s hard to love a good woman the way she deserves when I can’t see beyond just getting through each day,” he continued. “I’m good at my job. I don’t cheat my employer of a dime I know they can afford to lose. I pay my taxes even
though I believe it’s highway robbery. I go through the motions of living, day in and day out, year after year. But I don’t feel a lot of joy in it. I can’t remember the last time I did.”

He paused, knowing that wasn’t entirely true. He could mark the day—eighteen years earlier—when the joy in living ended, but he didn’t want to go into that with his father now.

“I’m not a mean man, Daddy. I care about people and animals and the earth we live on. You taught me that. But I am an angry one. I struggle to keep that blackness from roaring out. Trouble is, I’m not always strong enough. After a time, the anger always wins out. It begins with a sinking low for no specific reason, then the hurt starts howling. The only way I know how to douse the pain is through drink.

“I thought that if I stayed away from home it would be easier on everyone. I always seemed to fail you somehow, and I just had to stop trying. I don’t like living angry. It makes me feel small. And I sure as hell didn’t want to fight with you any more. So I stayed away.

“But then you called me on the phone.” He lowered his head and shook it. “That threw me for a loop. I never did find out what you wanted to tell me that night. I keep wondering what could have been so important that you’d pick up the phone after all those years to tell me.” He felt his throat thicken. “That night you called…I know it was the night of your stroke. I looked at the phone bill and it was right about the time you had it.” He felt his voice waver and struggled to maintain composure. “I got to wonder, Daddy, what the hell did I do that time to cause this?”

His father’s left hand lurched out toward him, grasping his shoulder and holding the fabric tight. His strength surprised Morgan as he drew him closer. Their eyes met and it startled him to see Preston’s eyes glisten with tears. Morgan surrendered to the pull and leaned forward, putting his head against
his father’s chest. His father’s hand moved to his head, shaky with emotion.

Morgan squeezed his eyes tight. He felt his father’s forgiveness. In that moment the final layer peeled away and he laid himself bare, vulnerable, his underbelly exposed.

“Daddy, I’m sorry I wasn’t here for you when you needed me. I know how hard it’s been for you to keep this place going. I know what it took. I should have been a better son.”

For a while his father’s hand rested on Morgan’s head. Then he leaned back in his chair, and Preston’s hand slid to the mattress. Morgan reached up with both hands to smooth back his hair, then mop his face with his palms.

“There’s more. I wasn’t sure I should tell you this but Mama June insisted.” He cleared his throat and rubbed his palms together.

“When I came home after you got sick, Mama June asked me to stay and help her bring you back here from the hospital. She’s a tough little lady under that delicate shell. We both know that.”

Preston blinked his red-rimmed eyes twice.

“Well, sir, my job was to work out the financial situation while she took care of you. That was the deal. I like to think we were making progress. You’re looking better. We’re all happy about that. You’ll be walking around giving orders again in no time.”

They both knew that a long series of battles had yet to be fought by Preston, but it felt good to sound the battle cry.

“As for me, I’ve been digging around best I could, making ends meet. And I’ve been working on a plan to get a conservation easement on the property. There are lots of benefits that I believe you’d like. Most important being the tax breaks that would allow us to hang on, awhile longer, anyway.”

His father jerked his head in a nod of approval.

Morgan rubbed his jaw, groping for the right words to tell him the rest. “But things have suddenly changed.”

His father’s brows lowered in caution as Morgan reached down beside the chair where he’d placed a manila envelope. Bringing it up, he pulled out the papers that bore the heading of the legal firm employed by Adele Blakely.

“Last night,” he began, “Adele delivered these papers. They outline a loan you got from her in 1989 after Hurricane Hugo. Do you remember?”

He saw Preston’s eyes searching, as though he was trying to remember.

“It was for five hundred thousand dollars. The expiration date for the loan has passed. She won’t even discuss further terms. See, what I don’t understand is her claim that there’s some kind of a partnership agreement that she entered into with you. According to the partnership terms, if the loan defaulted, or if you died or were incapacitated, it would trigger a buyout clause. Does this ring a bell?”

His father appeared confused and didn’t make any response. Morgan had a feeling of dread, but he pushed on, thinking it was better to get it all out in one fell swoop.

“The bottom line is Adele is preparing an offer to buy us out even as we speak, and we have no option but to sell.” Morgan began to lose heart. “She’s acting on this, Daddy, and it looks binding. Mama… We thought you should know what was happening.”

Preston’s gaze suddenly sharpened and his shoulders tightened. He began making strange noises, working his mouth as though trying to say something.

Morgan drew back, confused by the force of his father’s reaction. Beside the bed, Blackjack began whining.

“What, Daddy? What?”

Preston’s eyes pleaded with him as he held eye contact. Shaking with the effort, he raised his left hand high. Then, with a swift slash in the air, he slammed it down upon the tray, scattering the china.

Morgan leapt to his feet. His mouth was dry, but he pushed out the words as guilt cut deep in his gut.

“I’m sorry, Daddy. I know I failed you again.”

In what looked like fury, Preston kept bringing his hand down again and again on the china, breaking a cup, drawing blood.

“I’m sorry,” he cried again. Morgan’s heart beat hard and perspiration beaded on his forehead. He tasted salt, not knowing if it was sweat or tears. “I’m sorry.”

Mama June felt sure her knees wouldn’t hold her as she ran. Her heart was beating wildly. She didn’t know what she’d find as she followed the sound of Preston’s eerie screams. Was he having another stroke?

Entering the room, she saw Preston’s arm flailing and his face colored beet-red, as if he was having a fit. She’d been taught that outbursts could occur, usually because of anger or frustration, but she’d never expected this.

“Hush, Blackjack!” she ordered sharply. The dog stopped barking but panted and whimpered as he ran from person to person then back to Preston’s bed.

Kristina ran into the room and hurried around her to go directly to Preston’s side. She put her hands gently on the corded muscles of his shoulders and softly urged him to relax.

Mama June looked sharply at her son. “Morgan, I think you should go.”

Morgan swung his head toward Kristina. She didn’t interfere with the family dynamics, but in her eyes he saw her opinion shining bright and clear.
Stay!

“No,” he told his mother. “I’m staying.”

Mama June looked at his face, surprised by his decision. “Then hold on to that dog,” she told him. “He’s not making things better.”

Mama June locked gazes with her husband and slowly approached him.

“Preston, it’s me, Mary June,” she said, trying to quiet him. “Hush, now. It’s all right. You have to stop this. Stop it right this minute. You’ll hurt yourself. And you’re breaking my china!”

Preston began to quiet. Even though his breathing remained ragged and his hands still trembled with agitation, she could see that he was working hard for control. He was bathed in sweat.

“Are you all right?” Kristina asked him. She was massaging his shoulders and spoke calmly. “Are you in pain?”

He jerked his head no, but all the while he stared fiercely at Mama June. While looking directly at her, he raised his hand and slowly, painstakingly, brought it over the tray, then let it fall, crashing onto the china. The bowl clattered against the plate, chipping the rim.

“Have you lost your mind?” she exclaimed. “That’s my mother’s china!”

He lurched forward, reaching out to hit the china again.

“Whatever is the matter? Is this something to do with my mother?”