Sweetgrass (18 page)

“Why don’t you go to bed?”

He peeled open an eye and smiled. “That’s the best invitation I’ve had today.”

“Are you always so rude to girls you’ve barely met?”

“Especially to those I’ve barely met.”

She was right about him, she told herself, prepared not to like him. He was self-indulgent and annoying.

“I’ve shocked you,” he said. “I’m sorry. I’m tired, but that’s no excuse. I can be just as insulting when I’m wide awake. Once you know me better, you’ll learn to ignore me.”

“Well, that’s hardly complimentary to your character.”

He shrugged. “I doubt you’ll hear many compliments about me around here.”

“As a matter of fact, I have. Adele sings your praises.”

His insolent grin softened at her name. “Adele. Yeah, she would. She’s a great girl.” He focused on her. “And she picked you as her friend. That says a lot about you in my book. What’s your name again? Mary something?”

“Mary June Clark.”

“Clark… Who’s your Daddy?”

“William Henry Clark. Our people have been near Sumter for forever.” She could see he was trying to make a connection, so she interrupted. “I’ve already been through this with your mama and I don’t think you know my kin.”

“Hold on a minute.” He scratched his unshaven jaw and closed his eyes, thinking. “You wouldn’t be related to a Billy Clark from Spartanburg, now, would you?”

Her mouth slipped open, surprised that he really did know someone in her family. “Why, yes! Billy’s my cousin. He was like a big brother and used to watch out for me when I was little. His family moved to Spartanburg when my uncle took a job there about ten years ago and I missed him something fierce.” Her smile was bittersweet. “Well, what do you
know? My mama always tells me to behave myself because you can’t go anywhere in South Carolina without meeting someone who knows your kin. How do you know Billy?”

“We were in the boot camp together before we shipped off to Korea. He was good company, and man, Billy sure could shoot. There was talk he’d be made a sniper, he was so good. What’s become of him?”

She shrugged, at a loss for words. “He was killed. At Pork Chop Hill.”

The smile fell from his face. He muttered a curse under his breath as he ran a hand through his hair. His dark eyes emitted pulses of pain and a haunting guilt that she had to turn away from. In that fleeting glimpse she saw that though he’d come home, and though his scars weren’t visible, this man was grievously wounded.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “We lost a lot of good men there.”

Mary June was surprised that she wanted to talk to him about Billy. She’d been nearly hysterical when told of his death and didn’t talk about it with anyone.

“Billy was such a good ol’ boy,” she said, her eyes kindling. “He was always joking or telling a story. When I heard that he’d died, it seemed incomprehensible. I just couldn’t believe it. He was the first person I’d ever really known that died, other than my great-grandmother who died when I was six. I was so young and she was so old. That didn’t seem so unfair, like Billy’s death. I had a very hard time getting past it. Sometimes I can still see his big toothy grin before falling asleep.”

He listened to her and nodded with understanding. “He was a good man.”

“It about tore my aunt Dottie apart.” She sighed and looked off. “I’m grateful you made it back in one piece.”

He pursed his lips, as though he might argue that, but decided against it.

“So what brings you to Sweetgrass?” he asked her.

She took a breath, forcing a smile. “Adele and I are roommates at Converse. She invited me to stay a few weeks at the year’s end. For a holiday. I came directly from school and we had such a good time, she campaigned for me to stay another few weeks. Naturally no one could refuse her.”

“That sounds like the Adele I know and love.”

They laughed together, easily and without any pretense. She relaxed, liking him more.

“So you’ll be here for how much longer?” he asked.

“A month, I hope. If you don’t kick me out first.”

“Oh, I doubt that will happen. I’ve heard nothing but praise about you, too. Even from Nona. And let me tell you, if you pass her test, that’s something.”

“Really? I didn’t think she liked me. She doesn’t seem too friendly.”

“It takes her a while to warm up to someone. But once she’s on your side, she’s there forever.”

“Sounds like she’s been on your side a few times.”

He rubbed his jaw. “Yeah. She’s covered for me a time or two.”

She wondered if anyone could refuse this beautiful boy anything.

He gripped the sides of the chair. “Man, I’m beat. I need a shower, a shave and to crash.”

“Would you like some coffee? And some breakfast? I could fix you some eggs.”

He turned to look at her closely, his eyes narrowing in surprise at the offer. “Darlin’, you’d be an angel of mercy.”

She climbed from the settee, feeling as though she’d just sprouted wings, and led the way to the kitchen. There, she began making the coffee and scrambling up eggs, feeling strangely elated at the simple task of cooking this man his
breakfast. She didn’t eat, but sat across from him and sipped coffee while he did.

They talked about a lot of things, laughing and flirting. He could tell a story as well as Preston, except different. Both boys excelled in the Southern tradition. Preston spoke in an easy drawl, creating a world with words, playing each detail out till she could see it. Like the talented fisherman he was, he could reel you in and keep you dangling till he let you free.

Tripp’s manner was witty and clever. He didn’t dillydally but told a story plainly, adding choice bits of color. Best of all, he could deliver a punch line or observation so dead-on and fast, and with such a straight face, he had her rolling in laughter.

She was laughing when they heard the back door swing open. They both turned, eyes wide, like kids caught with their hands in the cookie jar.

“Well, well, well. What we got here?” Nona asked, stepping inside and dropping her packages on the wood countertop.

Nona was as slender as a reed and moved with a queenly grace. With her high cheekbones and full lips, Mary June thought she looked like a Nubian princess she’d read about in history books. Nona was about Preston’s age. She was wearing a brown plaid flowing skirt and white blouse, neatly gathered at her trim waist with a wide leather belt. Her mother, Florence, worked for the family only part-time now, devoting more time to her family and the sweetgrass baskets she sewed. Nona chose to stay on at Sweetgrass and take over her mother’s job. She was every bit as good a cook as Florence was, some argued even better. But her coffee was beyond compare.

“Is that coffee I smell?” Nona asked, her nose in the air.

“I made it myself,” Mary June replied.

Casting a suspicious glance at Tripp, who remained smil
ing like a Cheshire cat, Nona reached for a cup and poured coffee into it. She took one taste and her mouth skewered.

“Aack. This ain’t nothin’ but black water!” she exclaimed, and poured the coffee into the sink.

Tripp barked out a laugh and shook his head. “I hate to tell you this, honey,” he said to Mary June, “but you could learn a few things from Nona about cooking. Especially coffee. She’s addicted to the brew. Same as me. And she prepares it with the reverence of a high priestess at an altar.”

Mary June flushed, all her earlier elation crushed by embarrassment. “I—I didn’t know your coffeepot,” she stammered as an excuse.

Nona took the coffeepot to the sink, and after dumping the contents began rinsing it out. “What are you two doing up so early, anyway?” she asked them. Then to Tripp, “You smell like you slept in a still.”

“I’m just coming home,” Tripp replied easily, offering no information.

Nona didn’t look up from the sink, only shook her head and clucked her tongue.

“I got up to go fishing with Preston, but he’s already gone,” said Mary June.

“Oh, he’s been up for a long time. He called my daddy early. They’re all down at the lower barn. They were looking for you, Mr. Tripp,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “The lambs are coming in! Preston will be busy for days. You won’t see much of him or Mr. Blakely.”

“Does he need help?” asked Mary June. “I’d love to do something.”

Tripp got up to clear his plate. “You’ll probably be more in the way, honey. Best to stay clear. Why don’t you and Adele go off for a swim?”

“I was raised on a farm,” she replied sharply, niggled at
being treated like a child by this man. “We don’t have sheep but we do have cows. I don’t imagine the birthing process is a whole lot different.”

Nona chuckled. “She got you there.”

“Will
you
be helping?” she pointedly asked him. She didn’t know what made her ask. Perhaps it was to test if what Adele had said about his interest in Sweetgrass was true.

He placed his dishes in the sink, then turned to face her. His eyelids drooped with fatigue. “Yeah, they’ll rope me in. But it’s going to be a long week. I’m going to shower and sleep some first. And then I’m going to have some of your coffee, Nona,” he added with a wink. Turning back to Mary June, he said, “I thank you for making me breakfast. It’s much appreciated. Maybe you’ll let me buy you some dinner?”

It was the last thing she’d expected and she felt sure her face showed it. From behind her, she heard Nona’s intake of air. Nonplussed, Mary June reacted on gut instinct.

“Yes, thank you. I’d like that.”

His smile lit up his eyes. “Good. I’ll see you later, then.”

She watched him as he sauntered from the room, then turned just in time to catch Nona’s raised brows and pursed lips before she returned to making her coffee.

For a minute, Mary June couldn’t move. She felt shivery, scared and thrilled all at the same time. Sort of like she’d just jumped into the dark waters of Shark Hole.

DOWNSTAIRS, NAN YAWNED
like a cat in the upholstered chair that Mama June had put beside Preston’s bed. Kristina was on a rare night out, Mama June was asleep upstairs, and it was Nan’s night to sit with Preston until he settled. She was glad to take her turn, but it was getting late. Her lids were drooping and her voice was tired from reading aloud. She peeked over at her father. He looked as though he might be sleeping.

Uncurling her legs, she felt the blood rush as she stretched them. She wondered if her father missed being able to do such simple things. Ever since his stroke, she’d been aware of all the simple moves and gestures she’d taken for granted.

She stood and went to his bedside, surprised to see his eyes open when she approached.

“So, you weren’t sleeping after all?” she said to him. “I thought that last chapter did the trick. But it seems to have
worked on Blackjack. That old hound is out for the count. Listen to him snore!”

She saw her father’s lips twitch and his eyes warmed in a smile.

“Well, you’re going to outlast me tonight, I’m afraid. I’m off to bed. I can’t keep the awnings up. I’ll be back tomorrow and we’ll finish the book, okay?”

She bent to offer his cheek a perfunctory kiss good-night. When she pulled back, his left hand lurched clumsily forward. Surprised, she looked down to see his larger hand holding fast to her smaller one.

Suddenly she felt once again like the little girl who used to climb on her father’s lap for a story, or help steer “Mighty Mo,” the tractor, as her daddy plowed the fields. He’d taught her how to wield a hammer and a nail when he built her the dollhouse that still sat in the upstairs bedroom. She remembered when she was eight years old how she’d peeked behind the curtains of the school auditorium when her daddy walked in. She’d thought he was the handsomest man in the room as he took his seat next to Mama June and the boys to watch her dance recital. He never missed one.

Best of all, she thrilled to those special days when he’d whistle for the whole family, cousins and all, to come to Blakely’s Bluff for a rare overnight fishing trip on his old, converted shrimp boat. He called it The Project because he’d been working on that burned-out old hull for as long as anyone could remember. It was his pride and joy—and the butt of many family jokes. Preston outfitted the boat with bunks and rigged up a kitchen to make a seaworthy houseboat for family jaunts. It got so the Blakely clan couldn’t imagine a family reunion without an outing on The Project.

What fun they’d had! All the young cousins hugged the railing and giggled with excitement as they waited for “The Captain” to ring the big brass bell and haul anchor. The aunts
leaned over the porch railing at Bluff House, their skirts flapping in the wind like flowered flags, yoo-hooing and waving farewell. Her daddy was their Peter Pan and they sailed off to a Neverland of his making where—girl or boy—they didn’t have to mind their manners, where they’d fish and swim all day, sleep like sardines in their bunks overnight and eat crab and fresh fish and crusty bread with their fingers till their tummies were ready to burst.

Sailing during the day, Nan saw her daddy standing straight-backed and wide-legged at the wheel and her heart nearly burst with love for him. And in the evenings when she was supposed to be sleeping below deck, she’d sneak upstairs to see her daddy wrap an arm around Mama June’s shoulders under the moon. Her mama would look into his face and he’d kiss her. Nan’s young heart fluttered to see it. She’d thought they were the happiest couple in the world.

Growing up, her daddy had been her hero.

When she married and became a Leland, however, her daddy had let go of her hand. She’d been grasping for it ever since.

She looked again at her smaller hand clasped in his larger one. The past few months had been a long journey for her. She’d had a hard time hurdling the change in the robust, indomitable man she’d known all her life. At first, she’d been afraid to care for him, to physically handle the mute, dependent man he’d become.

But it wasn’t hard at all. As she helped her father eat his dinner, or guided him through his exercises, or read to him, Nan shared more with him than she had in many years. She thought of how hard he fought every day to recover, to regain something that he’d lost.

Tears filled her eyes as she held tight to his hand again after all these years.

“You’re still my hero, Daddy.”

Upstairs in her room, Mama June awoke from her dream chilled, despite the flush that formed a fine sheen of moisture over her body. The moonlight flowed into her room, filling it with pewter light. She gathered her blankets over her shoulders and lay still, listening to the sounds of the house. The only noises she heard were the muffled sounds from the television in Morgan’s room. She wondered if he was drinking.

She turned on her side, restless. She was almost afraid to go back to sleep. She’d meant to dream about Preston, but it was Tripp who rose up to haunt her.

Why Tripp? Why now? she wondered. She hadn’t thought of him in so many years. Sometimes she wondered if he were only a dream. Or some ghost that haunted the house. It was easier to think of him in that way.

But tonight she saw him as clearly and as alive as though it had happened yesterday. It was so hard to experience it all again. The tears on her face were fresh. When she’d started this journey she’d promised herself that she would tear away the veil and look at her life with open eyes. She would not shirk or hide again.

Mary June lifted her head and looked out at the landscape that was her home. In the shadows and shapes she could make out arching live oaks and pines, spikes of cordgrass and shimmering patches of the creek caught in the moonlight. Such a beautiful night. The air was soft and languid.

She closed her eyes, resigned, and remembered evenings just like this one spent in the arms of Tripp.

In the summer of 1957, Mary June Clark thought she knew who she was and what she wanted out of life.

Mary June was the only daughter of Will and Martha
Clark. She was a good student, a model of deportment and never caused her doting parents a moment of embarrassment. She went to a good Southern college and, like everyone else in her sorority, expected to find a husband and be married by the age of twenty-one.

Tripp Blakely was not someone her parents would have expected their daughter to bring home. Yes, he was handsome and he came from one of the finest families. But Tripp deliberately, even sexily, tested the well-honed Southern morals and traditions, daring to buck the lifestyle of the gentility he was born into. Mary June, however, saw Tripp as strong yet wounded, beautiful yet brutish.

For the first ten days of her second visit at Sweetgrass, Mary June helped in the barn with the sheep whenever they needed her. Preston was attentive and kind, always watching out for her. But he no longer took her fishing in the morning or went swimming in the afternoon or played cards with her in the evening. He was standing on the sidelines, like a polite young suitor whose shoulder had been tapped during a dance.

Mary June was oblivious to Preston’s pain and Adele’s disapproval. She was blind to Mrs. Blakely’s curious looks and Nona’s silent observations. During that summer, Mary June was swirling in the eddy of her romance with Tripp.

She was dizzy with his pace. Unlike Preston, staying home was not for him. He liked to go out every night. For the first few dates, Adele joined them. After a few nights, however, she opted to go out with Richard, her new heartthrob, and didn’t disguise the fact that she was miffed Mary June didn’t go with her group of friends, instead. For some reason Mary June didn’t understand, Adele was irked that she was going out with Tripp.

Tripp and Mary June usually met up with a few of his friends and they’d caravan across the Cooper River Bridge to
downtown Charleston. Every night it was something different, but still somehow the same. They went where the mood led them. Some days they’d hang out at Hampton Park and feed Cracker Jacks to the ducks. Or they’d go to Shem Creek, pile in someone’s boat and sail across the harbor.

On sultry nights they’d cruise in Tripp’s convertible, often as far as the Grand Strand, to where the sweet soul music of bands drifted through the night. They shuffled across the dance floor, the boys in Converse sneakers, the girls in circle skirts and loafers, to the seductive beat of beach music, with drinks still dangling from their hands.

Or they’d go to the Battery to sit on a park bench in the cool breeze and eat peanuts until the shells formed mounds at their feet. If they were hungry they’d eat at a local restaurant or buy snow cones from a street vendor and stroll down King Street. She could still remember the feel of her circle skirt skimming against her calves as they ambled aimlessly along. At Woolworth or Kress department stores they made a game of picking through the myriad toys and sundries set out in trays and bins, making silly jokes and laughing like children.

But they were not children. Mary June was nineteen. Tripp and his friends were twenty-four. They’d either dropped out of college or, like Tripp, were sent to Korea after high school. They had seen too much in the four years spent far from the Lowcountry. Hot embers burned beneath their I-don’t-give-a-damn facades. When they’d sit at a restaurant or club, the boys talked on and on, their hands moving from beer to cigarette like metronomes.

While the other girls clustered together and chatted, Mary June silently watched them through the haze of smoke. She thought that the boys laughed a little too hard, drank a bit too much and didn’t seem to know—or even care—what their next step in life would be. Occasionally his friends teased her
for being trapped in college, telling her that she was wasting her time studying to be a member of the middle-class status quo. Tripp never joined them in the teasing, but he didn’t stop them, either. What mattered, they told her, was to have fun, right now. To live today and let tomorrow take care of itself.

She was infuriated, insulted, and argued that they were completely wrong. Yet she was also intrigued. Their arguments were new, different and terribly confusing.

She voiced her feelings one night when Tripp took her to White Point Gardens. They were alone for a change, and went for a ride in Mr. Wagner’s shiny, black, horse-driven carriage. The night was balmy and the breeze from the harbor caressed her skin. As the carriage rocked along at its easy pace, Tripp put his arm around her and she leaned against him, luxuriating in his warmth. Her fingers played with the buttons of his shirt. Gathering her thoughts, she asked him why he didn’t seem to care about anything—not Sweetgrass, not his future, not even her.

Surprised by the question, he nonetheless took it seriously. He shifted in the carriage to face her, and even though the night was dark, she could see the fervor in his eyes as he tried, in halting sentences, to explain by quoting from some man she’d never heard of called Jack Kerouac.

Tripp spoke in rambling sentences. She didn’t understand completely what he said, but it was something about how he was trying to break away from what was expected of him. He wanted to experience life, to travel and see the world. He said it was about a kind of freedom he was seeking that might lead him to a peace he hadn’t yet found.

And then, looking into her eyes, he kissed her.

That, it turned out, was all the answer Mary June needed or wanted.

Only in retrospect did Mary June realize that he was being
completely honest with her. She didn’t listen with her head because her heart didn’t want to hear what he was really telling her. Instead, when he talked like that, Mary June felt very young and naive and completely infatuated. No one had ever said things like that to her.

When she talked with Preston, she felt more an equal partner in the discussion. They were coming from the same place and seldom argued. Talking with Preston was comfortable and safe. She could share her dreams with Press and they made sense.

With Tripp, she was unsure about everything. The words that spilled from his lips sounded thrilling and impossibly idealistic. She wanted to argue with him, but her position felt old and stodgy, despite her being younger.

Maybe it was because she was young and sheltered. Maybe it was because she’d always been an idealist at heart. But listening to Tripp, she was inflamed. She found him utterly beautiful. As the Carolina moon rose higher over the Battery, Mary June was over the moon in love.

“He’s too old for you,” Adele told her, dark eyes flashing.

They were sitting on the twin beds in Adele’s bedroom, wearing baby doll pajamas and painting pink nail polish on their toes. The weather had turned fitful, raining on and off for two days and nights and turning tempers short. Tripp stayed out at Blakely’s Bluff and Preston had traveled north to Columbia with his father on business. This threw the girls together to while away the hours for the first time since Mary June had started dating Tripp. There had been an undercurrent of objection brewing between them, but until that evening, it had not been openly voiced.

“What do you mean, too old?” Mary June replied, both
irked by Adele’s assertion, yet curious to hear more. “He’s only a year older than Preston, and you didn’t think he was too old.”

“He’s two years older,” Adele said crossly. “And I don’t mean in just years, anyway. Tripp’s older in other ways. Besides, he’s not your type. Can’t you see that?”

“No, I can’t,” she replied obstinately. Then, not wanting to argue, she said, “What’s your problem, Adele? Can’t we talk it out?”

“There’s nothing to talk about! I plain don’t like that you’re going out with Tripp,” Adele said. “And you’re going out all the time! I don’t even know why you bothered to come back to see me, since you never do.” Her lips turned in a pout as she twisted the bottle cap.

“Are you upset that you’re not coming along? You can come if you want.”

“Oh. Thanks a lot,” Adele replied, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “I don’t need you to let me go somewhere with my own brother. Anyway, I don’t want to go with you and those
old
guys. What do you do when they drink alcohol, anyway, huh? You’re not twenty-one.”