The Mermaid Chair (35 page)

“Your father was a charming man,” he said. “He had what I would call an imaginative sense of humor, and he used it even then. He told me with a grin that God once sent real live mermaids to his boat, which, he pointed out, was surely a sign that when he died, he should be sitting in the chair holding on to them. But mostly what he wanted was—” Dominic looked at
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Mother. “He wanted to sit in the chair because it needed to be a holy place for Nelle’s sake. I was supposed to be the officiant—

you know, preside over his dying, give him last rites, then absolve Nelle and the rest of us. I told him no at first. I was the last holdout.”

I was still trying to reconfigure my father’s dying—change the pictures, the accompanying feelings. I tried to imagine him sitting in the mermaid chair, staring into Mother’s face, slowly slipping into a coma. Had I been asleep in my bed while all of this happened? Had he come to my room to say good-bye? A fragment of memory hung in my head like a little green fruit that had never ripened: opening my eyes, seeing him standing by my bed. The whirly girl he’d peeled for me earlier that evening sat browning on my bedside table, and I watched him reach out and touch it with his fingers.

“Daddy?” My voice was woozy with sleep.

“Shhh,” he said. “It’s okay.”

He knelt on the floor and sliding his arm under my shoulders, held me against his chest, my cheek crushed against the rough nap of his corduroy shirt. He smelled of pipe tobacco and apples.

“Jessie,” he said. “My little Whirly Girl.”

I was sure I heard the soft sound of his crying. He sang my name over and over, soft against my ear, before lowering me back to my pillow, back into the fuzzy world of my dreams.

I’d always known these things had taken place. As a child, every time I’d sung my name across the empty marsh I’d known.

I’d just never understood until now that they’d happened on the night he died.

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I was holding the sides of my chair. I was trying to keep myself there.

“Why did you change your mind?” I asked Dominic.

“Joe was determined,” he said. “And not just charming but shrewd. He let me know he was going to take his life whether I helped or not, but that it would be so much better for Nelle if I did. I realized I could either stand on dogma and turn my back or I could take something terrible and inevitable and bestow a little mercy on it. I decided to try to help the situation.”

I started to say the obvious, that gathering around a holy relic, and Dominic’s absolution of Mother, hadn’t helped her much in the end, but how did I know? Maybe it had kept her saner than she would’ve been otherwise.

“The boat,” I said. “Was he even on it?”

Shem, who’d not said a word since we’d sat down, looked up at me with red-rimmed eyes. “He was on it. I took him to his boat myself—that old Chris-Craft of his—and laid him inside it. It was tied up at my dock.”

The
Jes-Sea.

It occurred to me suddenly that Shem had been involved not because he was a close friend but because he knew how to make the boat explode, to make it seem like an accident.

Shem looked at Mother, as if asking whether he should go on. The last few minutes, she’d been quiet and drawn into herself, sagged down into the chair. “Nelle?” Shem said, and she nodded at him.

I watched him take a breath. As he exhaled, his chin quivered. “Joe had already filled the bilge with gasoline and tied the steering wheel so it would take him straight out into the bay.

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That night after I laid him down inside it, I cranked the boat and left it in neutral while I disconnected the battery cable.

Then I throttled it up to ten miles an hour and untied the boat cleat. When it hit choppy water, the loose cable began to bounce around and threw a spark. The boat exploded before it got two hundred yards.”

“But why go to all those lengths just to make it look like an accident? That’s crazy.”

Mother glared at me like her old combative self. “That was the most important thing to your father. He wanted it that way for you, so don’t you dare say it was crazy.”

I walked over and squatted beside her chair.

It was a relief to me that she could be angry, that there was something left inside her.

“What do you mean, he wanted it that way for
me?
”

She tilted her face down to mine and I saw her eyes filling up again. “He said his dying would be hard on you, but living with his suicide would be a thousand times worse. He couldn’t bear your thinking he’d abandoned you.”

The room grew quiet.

Somewhere in the mangled remnants of childhood that were left inside me, I knew that what my father had done had been for
me,
for his Whirly Girl, and I didn’t know how to bear the weight of that—the merciless blame of his sacrifice.

I closed my eyes and heard my father singing my name soft against my ear. Singing his good-bye.

Jessie Jessie Jessie.

As long as he lived, he did not forget my name.

I dropped my head straight down onto my mother’s lap and sobbed my grief into her thin cotton skirt. I could feel the hard, t h e m e r m a i d c h a i r

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lacy border of her slip press against my forehead. This was supposed to be about Mother emptying out all the dark pockets inside and sorting the contents. It was supposed to be about her remembering things and maybe somehow putting her broken self back together. And it had come to this. To me bent over her lap, her maimed hand coming up to rest on my head.

When we stepped outside onto the sidewalk, the dark blue haze of dusk was everywhere. The mermaid chair’s procession had already coursed along the street onto the dock. Climbing into the golf cart, I could see the crowd massed along the rails. I imagined the shrimp boats passing by out on the water with colored lights wound along the raised nets. I pictured the mermaid chair perched on its scrap of coral rug in all that soft, glittering light, freshly splashed and blessed.

Mother sat beside me in the golf cart as we drove through the falling darkness and did not remember she had left her finger on the counter in the store.

C H A P T E R

Thirty-four

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In May the tides went to work hauling away the dead marsh grass. It drifted along the salt creeks like a constant flotilla of rotting, hay-brown rafts. Early in the mornings, when I knew I would be alone, I stole out to the dock in the rookery. I would stand there with the light soaring across the marsh, filling my nostrils with the egg and sperm smell, and watch the great floating exodus, the immaculate, scouring way nature renews herself.

After I’d learned how my father had died, there was a lifting away of sorrow. I can’t explain that, except to say there’s release in knowing the truth no matter how anguishing it is. You come finally to the irreducible thing, and there’s nothing left to do but pick it up and hold it. Then, at least, you can enter the severe mercy of acceptance.

Mother seemed relieved to have the truth come out of its long hibernation. She went on confessing pieces of it to me, usually in the evenings when the day turned dark and grainy and sifted past the windows. She told me that Kat and Hepzibah had boiled batches of the plant leaves and chunks of the root, cooking them down to the consistency of pea soup. My father had in-t h e m e r m a i d c h a i r

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sisted on drinking the brew from one of the chalices used during mass. I’m sure he was trying to help my mother understand that dying is a sacrament, too, that there was holiness in the sacrifice he was making, though I’m sure she never understood it.

I’m not at all sure
I
understood it completely. I didn’t know if my father had horned in on God’s territory and cut the thread that belonged to the Fates . . . if he’d usurped what wasn’t rightly his—the terrifying power to say
when.
Or did he only usurp God’s deep heart, laying his life down as a sacrifice, wanting only to take away our suffering? I didn’t know if it was hubris or fear or courage or love or all of them.

In the night I dreamed of whales thrusting their sickly bodies onto the shore to die willful deaths. At first I stood there bewildered, screaming for them to go back to the ocean, but in the end I simply walked among them, running my hands along their mountainous backs, easing them toward the mystery they’d chosen.

Mother said my father had held the chalice with both hands and gulped quickly. Later Dominic had sent the cup with Shem to be placed on the boat, fearing that the poison might never be washed out of it. She told me that as he drank, she started to sob, but he’d gone on swallowing until there was no more, and then, looking at her, said, “I didn’t just drink my death, Nelle.

Try to remember that for me. I drank my life.”

What I most wished was that my mother could somehow have remembered that, as he’d wanted her to.

Hepzibah showed up at the door one day with the jar containing Mother’s finger. Mother placed it on a lace handkerchief atop her dresser, between the Mary statue and the photograph of
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Dad on his boat. Gradually other objects appeared around it—

three scallop shells, an old starfish, a sand dollar. It began to look like a small shrine.

I didn’t ask her what it meant—it seemed wrong, somehow, to intrude—but I felt she was, in some obscure way, offering her finger to the ocean, hoping it might be transformed into something else, the way Sedna’s fingers were.

One night, as the breezes off Bone Yard pulled the scent of the sea through the open windows, I went to Mother’s room to say good night. She sat at the dresser, gazing at the finger jar. I let my hand brush across her thumb, touching the scar on her index finger. “I wish you’d tell me why you felt you had to do this to yourself,” I said.

When she looked at me, her eyes were as clear as I’d ever seen them. She said, “Last February, right before Ash Wednesday, I found dead finger growing on the side of the house by the water spigot. I smelled it from the porch. Two little plants. The next day there were three of them. I’d
never
had it grow in my yard once since Joe died, and then there it was. I couldn’t stop thinking about it, Jessie. I dreamed the leaves were growing through the windows into the house. I had to do something to make it stop. To make everything stop.”

She lifted her hand to Dad’s face in the photograph, and her eyes welled up. “I wanted to make up for what I did. To undo it.

I just wanted him back again.”

That was all she said about it. All she would ever say.

She wanted to undo it. She wanted him back.

I don’t know if I’ll ever understand it. Whatever it was she was trying to do by planting her finger in the rose garden and adorning the jar with sea trinkets, it was more than a sad gesture t h e m e r m a i d c h a i r

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of atonement. It was a last, desperate reach for him. I believe that what she wanted was to regrow him from all the cleaved, tortured places inside, to re-member him the way he’d been, the way
they’d
been, before everything happened. She wanted to make the guilt and longing stop.

During those days I compulsively painted my father as I imagined he looked that night sitting in the mermaid chair having just drunk his death and his life. Using the photograph on Mother’s dresser as a model for his face, I painted him with squinting eyes, his face engraved with weather lines, browned and tough as boot leather—that “old salt” look visible on so many island faces. He sat very tall and regal, as if on a throne, holding the winged mermaids on the chair arms and gazing out at me.

Directly beneath the chair, at the bottom of the canvas, as if down in a subterranean realm under the floor, I painted a rectan-gular chamber, a secret, magical room. Inside it I painted a little girl.

I worked in the living room and occasionally on the porch, unwilling to hide what I was doing from Mother, who would sit for hours and watch with squeamish wonder as his image came forth, as if observing the birth of a baby.

I felt that way, too, but for different reasons. What I realized was the amazing degree to which my life had been shaped around my father, around his living and dying, the apple peels and the pipe. I saw it clearly as he streamed out from my brushes: Joe Dubois, the hidden, pulsing nucleus around which my life had taken form.

“Who’s that in the box under the chair?” Mother asked, peering over my shoulder at the painting.

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“I suppose it’s me,” I told her, slightly irritated at her use of the word “box.” I hadn’t thought of it quite like that, but I saw how true it was.
The little girl was not in a magic room, a lovely
room. She was in a box. The same girl who would grow up to express herself through diminutive art boxes.

When I was finished with the portrait, I hung it in my bedroom, where it became almost iconic in its presence, in its ability to speak to me of invisible things. It had never been a secret that I’d idealized my father, that I would’ve done anything to please him—to be the apple of his eye (to use the worst and most obvious cliché)—but what I didn’t quite get until the painting was the sadness of all that trying. I hadn’t understood the small, pow-erless places it had taken me. But even more than this, I had never completely realized how this same thing had gone on with Hugh. I’d accommodated myself to him for twenty years without any real idea of what it was to have possession of my own self. To
own
myself, so to speak.

I felt as if I’d found the fairy-tale pea hidden under the mattress, the thing that had kept the princess tossing all those nights, that had quietly made her black and blue.

I would sit cross-legged on the bed staring at the painting and listening to my tapes on the Walkman, thinking what an ideal father Hugh had been, not just to Dee but to me.
God,
to me, too.