Sweetgrass (6 page)

And yet…a persistent voice in her mind told her that she’d not been imagining anything at all. She knew what she’d seen in the floating mist—or rather, who.

It was the ghost of the family’s first matriarch, Beatrice. And she’d been smiling.

MAMA JUNE’S HANDS TIGHTENED
on the steering wheel of her ’95 Oldsmobile sedan as she leaned forward and squinted, focusing on the steady flow of traffic that whizzed past. Her heart beat like a wild bird in her chest.

The private road to Sweetgrass was accessed directly from Highway 17. In colonial days when Sweetgrass was a plantation, the roadbed was called Kings Highway and was a major artery for planters. In the twentieth century, it grew to become a sleepy highway for people traveling between Charleston and Myrtle Beach. As construction of housing developments, shopping malls and tourism burgeoned, however, the traffic roared by.

Mama June didn’t care much for driving in the first place, and it was no time for daydreaming if she didn’t want to get clobbered just trying to get out of her own driveway.

There was a break in the traffic and Mama June eased her great rumbling sedan onto the highway, earning a nasty honk from a speeding car that careened over to the left. As the car passed, the driver gestured rudely, yelling. Mama June smiled sweetly and returned the wave.

Most likely a tourist, she thought, her smile falling hard. She was smugly gratified to see the out-of-town license plate as it sped past. Mama June smoothed her hair, feeling both indignant and embarrassed. No one local would be so rude as to honk like that, or yell such things, she thought. Especially not to an elderly woman.

“What’s becoming of this town?” she muttered as she gradually eased her Oldsmobile up to just below the speed limit. She didn’t want to go so fast that she’d miss the stand. It ought to be coming up right soon.

The rickety wood stands that bordered both sides of the four-lane highway had been there for as long as she could remember. Beginning in Mount Pleasant and progressing clear up to Georgetown, African-American women could be found sitting in the shade beside their basket stands. They’d sit weaving the indigenous sweetgrass into baskets, patiently waiting for some local or tourist to stop alongside the road and purchase one of their works of art.

In bad weather, the lean-to stands stood stark and empty. In good weather, however, soft yellow-and-brown baskets by the dozens dangled from the wooden slats, some with bright red ribbons affixed during the holidays, some with paper price tags dangling gaily in the wind. All kinds of baskets were available: some with handles, some with tops, some large and flat and others with curves and twists. Mama June slowed down, her eyes peeled for one basket stand in particular.

Mama June remembered the day, so long ago, that her
mama drove this same road to Myrtle Beach. It was her eighth birthday and her mother was taking her on a special holiday—just the girls. There would be swimming on the long stretch of pearly beach, shopping and eating out at restaurants. Oftentimes, her parents went off to the Grand Strand, giggling like teenagers. So this time was very special. She’d packed her new yellow dress with the stiff pastel crinolines that made her feel like a princess and shiny patent leather shoes bought specially for the trip.

Her mother had to make a stop in Charleston, so afterward they drove north along Highway 17. It was the first time she’d seen the many rickety, wooden stands that lined the road. In her child’s mind, she’d thought they were ramshackle houses and had felt sorry for the poor people who lived in those lean-tos. How her mother had laughed at that one!

Her mother had pulled over the big red Buick alongside one of the stands, Mama June recalled as if it were yesterday. Being young, she was nervous about approaching the two African-American women who sat in a companionable manner, weaving. They were kindly and took the time to show her how they wove the narrow strips of palmetto leaf through the sweetgrass to create a basket.

Mary June was mesmerized. As she watched the women’s strong fingers twist the yellow, sweet-smelling grass into shape, her own fingers moved at her sides. Impulsively, she begged her mother for a basket, saying she’d rather have one than a trip to the Strand, a comment that made the weavers roll their eyes and chortle. Because it was her birthday, her mother let her choose any one she wanted. Mama June still had that basket in a place of honor on her dining room shelf. It was the first of many baskets she’d collected over the years.

Mama June smiled at the memory, then shook her head, focusing on the road. She didn’t have to drive far before she
spotted a basket stand that had a large number of more intricately designed baskets than most of the other stands held. Mama June pulled over to the side of the road and cut the engine just as an eighteen-wheeler pushed past her, causing even her large Olds to rock.

“Heaven, help us,” she exclaimed, holding tight to the wheel. Coughing lightly from the dust, she peered over her shoulder before pushing open the car door and scurrying out from the sedan to safety. As she approached the stand, Mama June’s experienced eye recognized the evenness of the stitches, the uniform rows of sweetgrass and the clever, subtle shift of color from the golden sweetgrass to the coffee-colored bull rush. To her mind, this weaver was a master.

One woman in a dull brown skirt and blue patterned blouse sat in the shade of a sprawling live oak. The woman’s hands stilled and her face lifted in expectant welcome. She had short, steel-gray hair worn in tight curls around her head, a straight nose that flared wide, bold cheekbones and a jawline that could have been carved of granite. Her appearance was regal and might even have been regarded as rigid were it not for her eyes. They were wide, deep and full of expression, so that one would always know her opinion on a matter without her having to speak a single word.

“Nona!”

Nona’s eyes widened in recognition and she raised her palms up. “Lord have mercy! Mary June! I haven’t laid eyes on you in weeks!”

“I know. And what a spell I’ve been having!” Mama June replied as she stepped forward to take the strong brown hands into her own. The two women looked into each other’s eyes as years of shared experiences flashed through both of their minds, tightening their clasped hands in unspoken acknowledgment.

“What brings you here today?” Nona asked, releasing her hold and folding her arms akimbo, eyes twinkling. Don’t tell me you’ve come looking for a basket?”

“One can never have too many sweetgrass baskets,” she replied, her gaze moving across the rows. “But actually,” she said, fixing her gaze on Nona, “I’ve got some rather bad news. Is this a good time?”

Concern crept into Nona’s eyes, though her smile remained fixed. “As good a time as any. I’m just sewing my baskets. I’d enjoy the company.”

“I can’t stay long. I’m on my way to the hospital. I don’t know if you’ve heard, but Preston’s had a stroke.”

Nona brought a hand over her heart. “Goodness, no! I didn’t hear a word about that! Now, that’s a terrible sadness. How is he?”

“Very bad, I’m sorry to say. It left him paralyzed and he can’t speak a word.”

“Lord have mercy.”

“He’s as helpless as a baby. But he’s been in intensive therapy. We have hope.”

“You got to have hope.”

“I honestly believe that the only hope he has of ever walking or speaking again lies in our getting him out of the hospital and back home. You know how much he loves Sweetgrass. I believe bringing him home will be his best tonic.”

“He surely does love the place,” Nona replied, nodding with affirmation. “Even so,
you
are his best tonic, Mary June. Always have been.”

“Well, I don’t know about that. But it is a big undertaking to bring him home.” Mama June gave a brief account of the army of therapists she’d scheduled to work with Preston at home and the kind of therapy each would provide.

Listening, Nona was all amazement. “And they do all that
right there in your house?” When Mama June nodded, Nona shook her head. “It’s like bringing the hospital home with you! I expect that’ll cost you a bundle. All those professionals…”

“Insurance helps,” Mama June replied. “Still, it’s a worry. I’ve hired a live-in aide to see to Preston’s medical needs. But the house is another thing altogether.” She wrung her hands, unable to ask the question on the tip of her tongue, hoping Nona would read between the lines.

“What a time you’ve had.”

“Oh, Nona, there’s so much to be done. I expect to be busy as Preston’s caretaker, you see. I’m also taking care of the business of the farm as well.”

“
You
are?”

Nona’s shocked tone might have been insulting from anyone else, but she knew Mama June better than anyone—and was well acquainted with Mama June’s aversion to anything pertaining to money.

“Just until Preston is well.”

Nona’s brows rose. “That’s a lot to take on all of a sudden.”

“It surely is. Nona, I can tell you, I’ve been simply overwhelmed with all the decisions I have to make, and now with Preston due to come home…” She lifted her palms in a light shrug. “I probably should get some help.”

Nona looked away, lowering her hands and reaching out to straighten a few baskets in a line on the long table. “Might be a good idea,” she said in a slow voice. “Mary June, you might could get one of those cleaning crews. You know the ones I mean. A whole group of women come sweeping down on the house like locusts on a field and clean the house lickety-split.”

Mama June couldn’t speak for a moment. She felt a profound disappointment that Nona hadn’t come to her aid, as she’d always done in the past. What she really needed was someone she could depend on, someone to help manage the
house. What she needed was a friend to help her out. But she couldn’t ask this without clouding the air between them.

“You’re probably right,” she replied, clutching her purse. “Well, I best be going. You take care.” She started to leave, then suddenly turned back. Nona hadn’t moved a muscle but stood, watching her. “I almost forgot. I wanted to buy a basket.”

“Now, Mary June, you don’t need to buy no basket.”

“But I want to. I see your style has changed a bit. Look at that one with the popcorn along the edges,” she said, pointing to a small capped basket. “That is a beauty. I’d like to have that one in my collection of your work or it wouldn’t be complete. How much is it?”

Nona lifted the intricate basket and slowly ran her fingers around its edges, considering. “This one didn’t take much time and there are some mistakes in it,” she replied. “Eighty dollars.”

Mama June took the basket in her hands and brought it close. “There’s not a mistake on this basket and you know it. And it took a considerable amount of time to make. It’s a bargain at a hundred.”

She reached into her pocketbook and tugged out two fifty-dollar bills. Each dollar was measured these days. She’d intended to go to the market on the way home, but this stop just cleaned out her wallet. She handed the bills to Nona.

“Thank you,” Nona said, pocketing the bills in her skirt without a glance.

“It was wonderful seeing you again. Morgan was asking after you.”

Nona’s brows rose high, creasing her broad forehead. “Morgan is back home?”

Mama June’s face eased into a grin. “Yes! At last! You could have knocked me over with a feather.” At the mention of Morgan, a child beloved by both women, the earlier tension
fled as quickly as the traffic passing on the highway, and the words flowed more easily.

“What brought that rapscallion back home after all this time?”

“His father’s illness, of course.”

“Oh, Lord, of course. Well, he’s a fine boy to come to his father’s aid. I always said he was a fine boy.”

“Yes, you did. And he is. I just wish
he
knew that. I don’t know what I’d have done if he hadn’t returned when he did. I’ve been quite beside myself with worry. Not only about Preston but about what to do with Sweetgrass.”

“Come again? What do you mean about Sweetgrass?”

“There’s a lot to be decided, now that Preston’s taken sick. Adele has strong opinions on the matter, of course.”

Nona grunted, crossing her arms akimbo. “That woman only has one kind of opinion and that’s strong. What’s she got to say about this? It’s not her home no more.”

Mama June shrugged lightly. “It will always be her home, in some way. It’s where she grew up. It’s her heritage. She’d argue it’s more hers than mine. You know that better than anyone.”

Adele and Nona had been raised together at Sweetgrass, where Nona’s mother had been the housekeeper, as was her mother before her, and so on for generations. The two girls had always been oil and water, wise to each other’s tricks and wiles. Both Nona and Adele were formidable women, neither the least cowed by the other.

“I know that Adele sees Sweetgrass not so much as her home but as her property, if you catch my meaning.”

“That old chestnut…” Mama June shook her head. “Adele’s a wealthy woman in her own right. Why would she have any designs on poor ol’ Sweetgrass?”

Nona narrowed her eyes. “Money’s only money. What Adele wants is something else besides that.”

“She doesn’t want Sweetgrass at all. In fact, she wants me to sell it.”

“Sell it!” Nona’s hand flew back to her chest. “You can’t be meaning to up and sell Sweetgrass? Why, it’s
family
land.”

“I know!” Mama June echoed with feeling. “That’s why I’m bringing Preston home. He’s the one who ought to be making this decision. He’s the one who took care of the land, not me.”

Nona’s brown eyes fixed upon her as she mulled this over. “That may be so,” she said at length. “But seems to me, if Mr. Preston can’t talk, then like it or no, it’s going to be you making the decision.”

A wave of anxiety washed through her, and Mama June could taste the salty rush in her throat as she choked back words. She clutched her pocketbook tighter to her chest.

As if she understood what she was feeling, Nona stepped forward and gently placed one of her strong hands on Mama June’s shoulder. “We’ll pray on it,” she said. “God will not push you harder than you can bear. Jesus takes up for you when you need Him.”

She knew Nona was trying to be supportive, but the weight of her dilemma weighed heavily on her shoulder.

“I best be off. I have more stops to make today than hours to make them. But I thank you for your prayers. I’ll need them.”