The Pecan Man (22 page)

She didn't respond at all. She
just laid there, air moving noisily in and out of her chest. I picked up her
arm and shook it a little.

“Blanche, wake up," I
said, shaking harder when she did not move. I think that‘s when I knew she was
gone from me. I picked up the phone on her bedside table and dialed Patrice's
number. I explained where I was and she said she would call the ambulance and
be right over.

I didn't know what to do, so I
did the first thing that came to mind. I went to the kitchen and put on a pot
of water for tea. It seems ridiculous now, but that's what I did.

When I went back to Blanche's
room, I carefully placed her hands on her stomach and pulled the blankets up to
her chest. Then I crawled into the bed beside her, resting my head on her
shoulder and one hand over both of hers. I watched my hand rise and fall with
each breath, the sound rumbling in my ear.

I didn't move again until the
ambulance arrived. I never heard the sirens. All I remember hearing was the
sound of the teakettle screaming on the stove.

Patrice came in right behind
them and we comforted each other as the paramedics tended to Blanche and
hustled her into the ambulance. Patrice drove us to the hospital, calling her
sisters from the cell phone in her car.

Blanche lived another two
weeks, though she never regained consciousness. In hindsight, I wish I'd never
called a soul. I'd rather have just stayed right there until it was over, than
to see my dear friend lying in a cold, sterile hospital room like that.

I've made up a new lie and I
tell it to myself every day. Blanche died in her sleep, there in the house
where she raised her children, amongst all her memories and all the things she
loved. Marcus was there, and Grace, too. Grace, full of life and hope and
promise. We were all there, me, Eddie, the twins - the whole family, there to
tell Blanche goodbye and send her off to be with her husband again.

I've never been afraid of
dying. I don't know what will happen when I do, but I have to believe I'll be
with Walter again. I have to believe that I'll have another chance to tell him
everything I did not know when he was on the earth and in my living room.

Twenty-nine

Grace did come home for the funeral, which went by in a blur
for me. I remember so much about my life in those last twenty years, but I only
barely recall being there for the service. The girls were inconsolable, I
remember that. Blanche was 59 years old, far too young for the girls to be
losing their mother to the stroke that ultimately took her life.

A week or so after the funeral,
Patrice convinced Grace to get help for her drug addiction and, wouldn't you
know, she started out at Lifeways downtown. She's been in and out of rehab ever
since, though I heard she was doing well since her last relapse a few months
ago. Patrice has been raising Grace's children for the most part, but Grace
sees them often. She lives in Blanche's old house, which Patrice has fixed up
quite a bit since her mother's death.

And now, here I am again. It is
2001 and I am preparing for yet another funeral. I'm too old for this, I've
decided, and I'm never going to another funeral except my own after we bury The
Pecan Man. I just can't do it anymore.

Chip Smallwood delivered
Eddie’s meager belongings to me a few days after he died alone in his cell. The
tattered shoebox held a few small objects and several letters. There was a
pewter lapel pin, wings with a bomb dead center. There were a few photographs,
one of a very young Eddie in military uniform holding a girl no more than four or
five years of age. Another of a smiling young woman in cap and gown. A note on
the back read:
Dad, Sorry you couldn’t be there with us. I know you’re
proud. Love, Tressa.

The last was one I had taken
the first Christmas Blanche and her girls spent with me. Gracie grinned from
her perch on Eddie’s lap. Blanche sat on the couch with one arm around Patrice
and the twins at her feet. Chip and Clara Jean were squished together on the
couch beside Patrice. Chip was smiling awkwardly at the camera, but Clara Jean
was looking up at him with the same adoration I had seen in the earlier
pictures of Walter and me. The floor was littered with wrapping paper and shiny
bows. It was a bittersweet time for all of us, and the photo made me a little
sad.

The small stack of letters was
tucked into an envelope embossed with Jeffery Thatcher’s return address. There
was Eddie’s Last Will and Testament naming me as the Executor of his estate,
such as it was, and a letter from Eddie addressed to me. He must have thought
I’d live forever, or at least longer than he would. It was the first time I’d
known for certain that he was not illiterate, as I’d often assumed. The writing
was child-like but the spelling was good and I could read the words he wrote. I
could tell he had put a lot of thought into what he wanted to say. There were
two letters from Tressa Hightower, addressed to Eldred Mims in care of the
prison, with a return address in Alabama.

The instructions for Eddie’s
burial were simple. Arrangements had already been made and his daughter had
been called. I learned more about Eddie in the few days after his death than I
had in the years preceding it. He was not quite as poor as I had expected, but
was frugal with the meager income he did have. As such, he didn’t wish to have
his body sent to Alabama, but preferred the pauper’s burial the state would
provide, even if it meant that he would be laid to rest in a town that would
forever remember his name with a mixture of horror and sadness, however wrongly
imagined. The box came the day before Eddie’s funeral and I made several phone
calls to assure that he did not leave this world without a proper goodbye.

Thirty

Chip and Clara Jean Smallwood arrived the next day at 1:00
p.m. and took me to the graveside service out at the county cemetery. I
recognized the chaplain from the prison. He had aged since the last time I saw
him, but I remembered him as a kind man and one who genuinely cared about the
souls of the inmates.

He was standing by the casket,
speaking with a woman I had not met, but knew immediately. She was as dark as
Blanche had been, but the opposite in stature. Tall and thin, Tressa Mims
Hightower was an imposing figure, strikingly beautiful with sharp, intense
features that did not immediately reflect the ready smile that greeted me when
I introduced myself.

“Miz Beckworth, at last.”
Tressa’s voice was as smooth as her mahogany skin.

“You’re Eddie’s daughter,” I
said.

“Yes, Ma’am. I’m Tressa
Hightower.”

“I have his belongings. He had
two pictures of you, and a couple of others. Would you like to have them back?”

“Yes, Ma’am, I would. We don't
have many photographs of my family in the early years.”

I nodded. It was yet another
thing I took for granted. I searched for something to say.

“Will you stay in Mayville for a
while or are you leaving after the memorial?”

“I’ll be leaving tomorrow
morning. I have to stop in Montgomery before I head home.”

“Business?” I asked.

“Always,” she smiled. “I’m an
attorney.”

“Oh,” I failed to keep the
surprise from my voice. “Eddie didn’t…Eddie never…”

“That’s quite all right, Miz
Beckworth,” Tressa smiled again. “I didn’t speak of him much either.”

“I knew your father to be a
good man,” I said, suddenly a bit defensive.

“At times he was,” she agreed.
“I owe him a great deal.”

“But?”

“Buts don’t matter now, Miz
Beckworth. It was what it was and it’s over now. You’re very kind and I
appreciate what you tried to do for him. I know he appreciated it, too.”

I didn’t know how to respond to
that. And it was not the time or place, regardless. I’d like to think it was
kindness that I extended to Eddie, but I can’t look back to a single thing I
did for him that was selfless in any way.

A car pulled up beside us
breaking the brief uncomfortable silence that had just taken hold. All four
doors opened at once and Blanche’s girls appeared, solemnly at first, but
unable to disguise the smiles that were meant for me alone.

“Miz Ora!” Grace cried and
bolted into my arms, causing Clara to clutch my elbow to support me.

Grace was rail-thin, almost
emaciated. What frightened me the most was that Patrice told me how much better
she looked now that she had been clean for a few months.

It was as if I were still
holding that tiny broken child I took from Blanche’s arms so many years ago. I
wanted to go tuck her into bed and hide her wounds with soft chenille and a
mother’s sorrow.

“Let me look at you,” I said
and, forcing a smile, pushed her away from me and held her at arm’s length.

“Miz Ora,” she cried again, her
tears flowing freely.

“Stop, or you’ll make an old
lady cry,” I grumped.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s
just been so long.”

“Too long,” I agreed. “And who
are these other women with you? My heavens, your sisters are getting old!”

Danita and ReNetta moved
forward, each kissing me soundly on opposite cheeks. Patrice stood back,
smiling like a mother with her brood. Blanche had been dead for only three
years, but Patrice had always helped raise the other girls. It was Patrice who
stayed in touch and kept me up to date with their lives. It was Patrice who
continued to visit Eddie in prison when it became too difficult a journey for
me to make. She saw him only two weeks before his death, took him a pound cake
baked by Dovey Kincaid’s daughter, who was now Patrice’s best friend. The Lord
works in mysterious ways, I’ve always thought.

Tressa Hightower cleared her
throat behind me.

“Oh, goodness,” I said. “I’ve
forgotten my manners. Girls, there’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

I brought Tressa into my circle
of family and made the necessary introductions. “These are Blanche’s girls,
Patrice, ReNetta, Danita and Grace. Girls, this is…” I hesitated only for a
second. “This is your Aunt Tressa."

I’m not sure who was more
stunned by my revelation. I hadn’t intended to tell the girls until after the
funeral. But, in that brief moment of introduction, truth compelled me like it
never had before.

I explained, as briefly as I
could, what Eddie's letter had revealed. We would talk more of it later, but
for now it was only fitting and proper that the girls know for whom they were
grieving and honor their grandfather for his life and for his sacrifice.

While everyone stood in
open-mouthed silence, the chaplain called for the memorial to begin. The
chaplain’s words were kind, but rather generic, I thought. He spoke of Eddie’s
gentle nature, how he never caused trouble in his ward and how he was often
called on to pray for others. He told of the pictures Eddie kept on his wall
and how he must have truly loved and missed his family. He spoke of God’s
forgiveness and I felt comforted by that. By God’s grace, I would one day be
redeemed for my own shortcomings and that day had never seemed closer than it
did when they lowered Eddie’s body into the earth. I decided not to bury my lie
with him, no matter what the cost.

And so now you have the
complete and total truth. Bless Clara Jean’s heart, she has sat and taken
dictation for hours on end as I told my long and ragged tale. She has assured
me her ears heard nothing that her mouth could ever tell, but her sure and able
fingers would set down for me to disclose as I see fit.

Eldred Mims had not run away
from his life in Alabama as much as he came home to his family in Mayville when
he showed up here in 1975. When Blanche was born, Eddie left to join the new
all-black Air Force in Tuskegee, Alabama. He said he always intended to come
back, but time went by and he started a new life with another woman. Not
wanting to make the same mistake, he married the mother of this child, the one
they named Tressa.

I think Eddie really wanted to
do the right thing, but addiction is sometimes stronger than the person it
holds. And sometimes, like Eddie said, it’s just too late to go back. I don't
know why he never told Blanche, but I almost think she knew. My Lord, Blanche
knew everything - everything. Always.

I should have told Grace the
truth after her mother died, but I didn't and there are more reasons why than I
have time to tell. For now, Clara Jean is helping me pack. I don't know if I'll
be going to jail or to a nursing home, but I can no longer live by myself
regardless, so I'm going to one or the other.

I'm going to do the first
selfless thing I've done in years. I'm giving my home to the girls, outright,
free and clear. Well, not precisely free, but that's a tax issue that Howard
worked out. But, they're paying only enough not to consider it a gift, but a
purchase.