Sweetgrass (34 page)

She was terribly worried when Morgan didn’t return home. She’d wanted to rouse the family to go out searching for him. But Nona’s words had held her back.
He’s not a boy. He’s a man! You and Preston both have to face that.

So she waited for the dawn in her husband’s arms, gathering strength. When the first pink rays tinted the walls, Mama June crept from Preston’s bed, careful not to disturb him, and went stealthily to her room. She dressed in the dark, putting on whatever she grabbed first, and slipped her bare feet into
tennis shoes. She knew in her heart where she was going. There was only place Morgan could be.

The morning air was cool when she stepped outside, and she lifted her face to the dawn. She felt her resolve crystallize as she crossed the damp lawn to the old woodshed. She pulled out her old red bicycle. The paint was rusted and the old wicker basket was ratty, but the tires were full. She didn’t want to wake the family with the roar of a car engine, so she hopped on her trusty Schwinn and began pedaling down the dirt road that led to Blakely’s Bluff.

Her legs pumped as her tires skimmed along the edge of the marsh. Dragonflies, as brilliant a green as the marsh, darted among the tangles of vines and shrubs devouring mosquitoes. She recalled another time she’d pedaled with the same sense of urgency toward Bluff House. History repeated itself—she personally experienced this—and it struck fear in her heart.

“Please God, let me find him safe. And when I do, help me to find the courage to speak.”

As she pedaled, her mind carried her back to the days she’d spent at Blakely’s Bluff, not with Tripp, but with his son, Hamlin, and Morgan and Nan, and most of all, with Preston. She could think back on those happier times now and not shrink back. She and Preston had created a good family. From the ashes, they had forged a strong marriage. How happy they’d been! They couldn’t know tragedy would strike twice.

She’d been stuck in a sorrowful pattern for too long. Not that she’d ever forget or expect the pain to be gone completely. But she wasn’t afraid of the pain anymore. She supposed that meant she was healing. And getting old. Perhaps with age you didn’t get all the pleasures you had when you were young, she reasoned, but at least you understood them better.

Her legs were tiring and her heart pumping hard as the road curved and she broke through the tunnel of heavy
foliage. Straight ahead the blue-gray waters of the ocean stretched far out to where the deep water become cobalt and boldly met the sky at the horizon. It was a cloudless sky and the sun was still rising. Already light dazzled like diamonds on the water.

She’d forgotten how beautiful it was at the bluff. Or how much she loved it.

Mama June pushed back a lock of sweat-laden hair from her forehead, then heaved her weight against the pedal to ride the final yards to the house. As she approached, she saw that the weather had done a fair job of splintering the house’s gray wood and peeling back the white paint from the front porch. It would have looked more dilapidated were it not for the house’s strong, uncompromising lines and the cheery hanging pots dripping with blooms of geraniums and petunias on the front porch. She rested the bicycle against the porch railing and stepped foot on the stairs of Bluff House for the first time in more years than she could remember.

Inside, the airy, sparsely furnished rooms of the house were surprisingly tidy. The floors and cobwebs had been swept clean, and new candles were ensconced in shining hurricane lamps. Stepping into the kitchen, she saw that the old, chipped porcelain sink had been scrubbed. Small clay pots of herbs lined the windowsill. It had to be Kristina, she thought, and felt a gush of tenderness toward the woman for her thoughtfulness.

“Morgan!” she called out. “Morgan, are you here?” There was no answer. She couldn’t believe he wasn’t here. She’d been so sure. The windows were wide open. Unnerved, she went to the window and called out again, louder, “Morgan!”

“Out here!”

Her heart pumped with relief as she followed the sound of his voice back outdoors. A motion caught in the corner of her
eye and she turned her head toward the long, weathered dock that extended far out over the marsh to deep water. She spied the unmistakable shape of her son standing at the end of the dock, barefoot, his shirttails flapping in the breeze and his pants rolled up above his calves. She waved. He didn’t wave back.

The dock seemed to stretch forever as she made her way along the splintered wood toward her son. He turned his head to look out to the sea, a gesture of pique, but she pressed on. She’d always thought he looked so much like Preston, but in profile, she saw her own outline in the narrowness of his jawline.

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 morn
ing, 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.”

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 right. 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 gener
ations 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.

“Give me a kiss, sweetheart. This old boy is heading north!”

When he bent to kiss her, he was enveloped in her familiar scent of vanilla. Nona clucked her tongue with surprise as he gave her a sound kiss on the cheek. “Just where’re you going?”

“I’m off to Columbia to try to convince a bunch of bureaucrats to start an official investigation of that cemetery right away.”

Maize, who had come by to visit her mother, looked at him skeptically. “Why would you do that?” she asked suspiciously.

He looked her way, grinning. “Hey, Maize. Well, first off,
it’s the right thing to do. Second, we’re about to lose the right to have any say in the matter. An offer to buy this place is on its way even as we speak.”

“You think it’s just some graveyard,” Maize replied. “Well, think again. There are organizations we can call that preserve old cemeteries. I’m going to form a committee to take legal action to return this cemetery to the community. Nobody is going to bulldoze our ancestors’ graves!”

Mama June walked in carrying Preston’s tray. Her eyes were round as she glanced uncomprehendingly from face to face.

“Hold on there,” Nona said to Maize. “Nobody here is talking about bulldozing graves!”

“Actually, she’s right. It
is
a threat,” Morgan said honestly. “There are cases where houses have been built right over grave-sites. I’m hoping they’ll send some archeologists out here.”

“So you figure that the cemetery will act as a stall?” asked Maize.

“At the very least,” he replied unapologetically. “When I was in Montana, we managed to hold off a major development project because an old Indian burial ground was discovered on the land. If it turns out that there are as many graves here as your father thinks there are, the state will likely designate that part of the land as historical property. That will mean you and others who have family buried there will be able to pay your respects without worry about someone building over them.”

“You don’t care about the cemetery,” Maize countered. “All you care about is saving your land.”

“That cemetery is important to us, too,” Mama June interjected.

“Maize, your family and mine have been entwined together for hundreds of years,” Morgan said to her. “I’m not
proud of all that’s transpired in that history, but I’ll tell you this. Fate is having the last laugh, because all these years later, both of our families are about to lose this land for the same reasons—taxes and family members wanting to sell. We’re all about to get screwed.”

“He’s right,” Nona said. “Our family bought our piece way back for fifty cents an acre. We’re worried about hanging on, too, and wonder what’s going to happen if family members want to sell.”

“This property is a linchpin,” said Morgan. “If it goes to development, so will other big pieces like it. Then the threat will turn to all the smaller communities like Hamlin, Six Mile and Seven Mile till there’s nothing of the old Lowcountry left. It’ll disappear from the landscape, just as the sweetgrass did.”

“I’m talking about saving a graveyard,” Maize said. “You’re talking about saving a community. How can we fight that kind of change? Developers are powerful people.”

“That’s the beauty of the American system. We’ve got to get folks fired up. Sitting back feeling helpless is what they’re counting on us to do. They won’t expect us to fight back.”

Maize’s expression changed from one of doubt and suspicion to reflect a spark of interest.

“Come with me to Columbia,” he told her. “You’re a banker. You know the system. We need your voice to represent your cause. Speak for your family, Maize.”

“All right, I’ll come. For my children’s sake,” she declared. “But so help me, Morgan Blakely, if you don’t keep your word on this, I’ll come after you so hard you’ll wish you were buried in that cemetery.”