The Remembering (28 page)

I asked about Caine, Antoinette, and Georgie, and was told by Star they were all out of town. Antoinette was with Caine in Chicago, where he was researching his own book and giving a series of lectures at Northwestern University. Georgie was away at college, where she was now in her third year, studying anthropology at the University of California in Berkeley. Star showed me a recent photograph of Georgie and I was astounded. She was beautiful. Carolina assured me she was smarter than she was beautiful. Jack added, “She is a remarkable girl, Z.” I had no doubt it was true. Everyone in her bloodline was remarkable.

That first day back was golden. We spent the whole day talking and laughing. Carolina seemed full of energy. After dinner, she suggested the two of us take a stroll to the “Honeycircle.” She held my arm and we walked through the twilight at a slow but steady pace. The forsythia was in full bloom and the honeysuckle would not be far behind. We stopped next to Baju’s sundial and Carolina raised her eyes to the sky. We watched the sky darken from blue to purple to black. Venus was already bright in the south. Mars had yet to rise.

“I have expressed my wishes to Jack,” Carolina said and paused. “Now I will tell you, Z. I want my ashes to be buried right here … where I’m standing … next to Baju’s sundial, inside the ‘Honeycircle.’ ”

Her voice was firm and clear. There was nothing fragile or pitiful in it. “It’s a little early for that, isn’t it?” I said.

“No, Z … it is not. When you age physically as long as I have, you know your body well. I say these things because they need to be said and said now. Do not be sad; do not grieve. I have lived a long, wonderful life.” Carolina paused and I could see her smile in the darkness. “It’s all right, Z. I’m ready to go.”

I said not a word. It was the most pure, honest, and peaceful statement I’d ever heard.

For the next week Carolina and I spent nearly every waking hour together. She was no longer able to walk on our aimless, wandering journeys through Forest Park, so Jack bought a wheelchair and I pushed her along the paths and through the bright blooming dogwoods and redbuds. We talked about Solomon, Mrs. Bennings, her sister Georgia, Owen Bramley, and Nicholas, but often we walked in silence, especially in the mornings. Forest Park had always been a special, magical place for us. It was somewhere deep in Forest Park where I first revealed to her that I was Meq, slashing my forearm with a penknife and making her watch the wound bleed, then heal within minutes. One day Carolina turned her head in the wheelchair and looked up at me. She was smiling. “All our secrets are here, aren’t they, Z?”

I smiled back and said, “Yes, they are, Carolina. Yes, they are.”

Caine and Antoinette returned from Chicago on Thursday, and on Friday, April 26, we decided to celebrate Jack’s birthday at the ballpark. Carolina insisted on going, and she stayed for the entire game, only to see the Cardinals lose 4–3 to the powerful Cincinnati Reds.

Caine was impressed with his grandmother’s stamina and the next day he suggested we all go to an outdoor concert being held at Washington University. I asked who was playing and he named several artists and bands unknown to me, but one name got my attention and drew a small shout of recognition from Carolina. The blues singer and guitar player Walter “Furry” Lewis from Memphis, Tennessee, was among the musicians who were going to appear. Decades earlier, in the 1920s, Carolina had befriended him and even put him up in her home when he played St. Louis. Now he had been rediscovered and was finding newfound popularity in his early eighties. “I must go and see Walter,” Carolina said. “Not going would be an insult.”

It was a warm, sunny day and Caine found a spot in the shade, off to the side of the main crowd, where he set up folding chairs for all of us. Several solo acts started the concert, including John Hammond, Jr., and Captain Beefheart. Next came a new band from Missouri called the Ozark Mountain Daredevils. Carolina seemed to be enjoying herself and when the band ended their set, I asked her what she thought of them. Smiling slightly, she said one word, “Quaint.” When “Furry” Lewis played, Carolina stood and cheered, holding on to Jack’s arm, and clapped as hard as she could when he finished. Caine asked her if she wanted to go backstage and talk with him, but she declined, saying she was “feeling a little tired.”

Once we were back at the house, Antoinette began preparing dinner, a routine that usually included Carolina, but she excused herself, telling Star she might like to “lie down for just a bit.” Star and I helped her to her room and into her bed. Star arranged two or three pillows under her head so that she was almost sitting up. Star kissed Carolina on the cheek and said, “Why don’t you and Z talk for a while, Mama?” As she left, Star touched my shoulder. “I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me.”

“Star—” Carolina said.

“Yes, Mama?”

“I love you.”

Star was standing in the doorway. She turned to leave and there was a tremble in her voice. “I love you, too, Mama.”

For several minutes after Star left the room, Carolina and I said nothing. Her eyes were half-closed and I thought she might have fallen asleep. I listened to her breathing. It was steady, but with tiny, shallow little breaths.

“Carolina?” I whispered. “Are you awake?”

“Yes, oh yes, Z. I’m awake.” She opened her eyes wide and looked at me. Her eyes were shining and seemed to be smiling. “I was daydreaming, Z, remembering those days when Georgia was still alive, when we were still together right here.”

“You mean, when you two were running the most expensive and exclusive whorehouse in St. Louis?”

Carolina laughed out loud and so did I. “Yes, oh yes,” she said. “Those were wonderful times, Z. Do you remember all the characters who came and went?”

“I can’t remember them all, but there were many.”

We laughed some more and then started talking. We talked about things at random, back and forth—shared adventures, shared embarrassments. At one point Carolina had me retrieve a box of photographs from her desk. We spread them out across her bed and traveled back in time through the images and faces in the pictures. Solomon, Georgia, and Nicholas appeared over and over. Carolina kissed the photograph of her and Nicholas holding hands under the table on the same night they fell in love. I even showed up in a few pictures. Carolina shuffled through them and stopped at one in which Caine and I had just finished playing catch. He was about ten years old and we were standing in front of the “Honeycircle.” We were about the same height. Caine was holding his baseball glove and the baseball. I was holding Mama’s glove.

“My, oh my,” Carolina said. “I haven’t seen that glove in years.”

I thought for a moment and realized I hadn’t seen it either. I was sitting on the edge of the bed and stood up. “Is it in the same place?” I asked.

Carolina looked at me with a faint smile. “I believe it is, Z.”

“I’ll be right back,” I said, heading for the door. I knew Mama’s glove was in a shoe box on a shelf in Caine’s old bedroom.

Before I got out the door, Carolina said, “Wait, Z.” I turned and she was sitting up, leaning forward. Her silver hair shimmered in the light from the lamp. Her eyes were moist and they focused directly on mine. “I love you, Z,” she said in a clear, even voice. “I always have and always will.”

Without hesitation, I said, “I love you, too, Carolina—always have, always will.”

I shut the door and walked down the hall. I found Caine’s old room and switched on the light in the closet. The shoe box was under a sweater on the middle shelf. I opened it and there was Mama’s glove. It looked exactly as I remembered. The stitching was still good and the leather hadn’t cracked. I put it on my hand and pounded the pocket. It felt the same and there was nothing like that feeling. “Thank you, Mama,” I said. I stood there for a few seconds, admiring her work and remembering her touch. I thought about her and I thought about Papa. It was so long ago and it seemed like yesterday. Then I remembered Carolina. I switched off the light and walked quickly back to her room and opened the door.

She had fallen sideways from a sitting position and was sprawled across the photographs with her head hanging over the edge of the bed. I ran to her, lifting her head and straightening her body, resting her head on Mama’s glove. I put my ear to her chest and listened for a heartbeat. I heard something, but it sounded too faint to make a difference. Her eyes were barely open. She was looking at me. I leaned down close to her mouth to see if she was breathing. Then she tried to speak. “What … were the words, Z?
Egibizirik
 …”

Then there were no more words. Carolina’s heart stopped, her breathing stopped, and her eyes stared into space. I closed her eyelids and answered her question with my finger on her lips.
“Bilatu,”
I said, “
egibizirik bilatu
, the long-living truth, well searched for.”

I have no explanation for what I did next. Maybe in some way I wanted to help Carolina leave, or maybe I wanted to keep her from leaving. I don’t know or care. I do know I have never regretted it. I turned Carolina on her side and lay down next to her with my arms wrapped around hers. I wanted to cry, but I didn’t. She had told me not to grieve, yet that, too, was impossible. Instead, I talked to her. I held her close and simply talked to her, as if we were on a plane or a train, or just kicking leaves in Forest Park. I held her close to me and talked until every last degree of warmth had left her body and she was far, far away.

I only said a few words when I finally entered the kitchen. Star and Jack, Caine and Antoinette, were expecting what I had to tell them. Antoinette said a prayer in French and Jack called an ambulance. I held Star’s hand while the tears ran down her cheeks and each of us sat in silence, remembering the most amazing woman any of us had ever known.

• • •

Because of the numerous local organizations and charities to which Carolina had contributed throughout her long life in St. Louis, Jack, Star, and Caine held a small service at First Unitarian Church, only a few blocks from Carolina’s house. Many representatives of those organizations attended; however, there were no close friends. Carolina had outlived them all.

At sunset on May 1, 1974, inside the “Honeycircle” and next to Baju’s sundial, we buried the urn containing Carolina’s ashes. Antoinette said another prayer in French, while Jack and Caine and I shoveled the dirt. Star sang a beautiful and simple lullaby, one that Carolina said she had sung to Star as a baby. Jack smoothed out the surface and said his own prayer. “I love you, Mama. Be at peace now.”

Jack and I stayed up late that night, talking and drinking coffee in the kitchen. It was well after midnight when we finally said good night and I walked upstairs and went to bed. The big house felt empty without Carolina’s presence. I lay in bed and thought about her until I eventually drifted off and fell into a deep sleep.

The dream begins with me on the pitching mound in old Sportsman’s Park. It is midday and the sky is a clear bright blue. The grandstands are empty except for my mama and papa, who are sitting twenty rows up, directly behind home plate. I have Mama’s glove on one hand and Papa’s baseball in the other. There are no other players on the field and no one is at bat. Somewhere in the distance a dog is barking. A figure walks up out of the dugout and steps onto the field. It is the Umpire. He is dressed completely in black. Even his chest protector and mask are black. He starts toward me and I walk to meet him. He is only an inch or two taller than I am. He stops. He reaches up and slowly removes his mask, then runs
his other hand through his strawberry blond hair and smiles. He is a she. The Umpire is Carolina. She is about twelve years old and the freckles spread across her cheeks and the tiny flecks in both her blue-gray eyes sparkle like gold dust. She takes hold of my hand. “Come with me,” she says. “I have found something for you.”

She leads me down the steps of the dugout and into a tunnel that narrows, then widens and changes into an underground passage through a cave lit by torches burning animal fat. The stone walls are cold to the touch and I can see my breath. Carolina seems unaffected by the drop in temperature. We pass by a long panel of spectacular paintings in black charcoal and red and yellow ochre, depicting herds of mammoths, reindeer, rhinoceroses, aurochs, and horses. We turn left, then right. “Where are we going?” I ask. “Shhh,” she says, and walks through the ashes of a still-burning campfire in the passage, scattering coals and sparks all around. I am right behind her. We come to a set of brass double doors. She pushes her way through and we are standing in a massive empty space with marble floors and a great vaulted ceiling. I recognize it. We are in the Grand Hall of Union Station. Carolina points to something shining and spinning in the middle of the huge room. It is a carousel, but instead of painted ponies going up and down, I see all the markings on the sphere from Portugal. I hear strange music and look to my left. In the shadows, Scott Joplin is playing ragtime on a calliope. He waves at me
.

Carolina leads me closer to the carousel. It is lit from within and seems to glow. The markings are life-size, as tall as I am. They are floating in something, spinning and bobbing up and down. The something is neither here nor there. It has no appearance whatsoever, no top, no bottom, yet it floats, it moves, it supports the markings. It is the “water” of Time. Carolina squeezes my hand and we walk through the “water” into and onto the carousel and step around the markings while they spin round and round, up and down, and the calliope is playing its endless, jangling melody in perfect time with the bouncing, circling, floating markings. And
I know I know how to navigate; how to shepherd; how to listen, learn, teach, dream, and travel my way through. They are each one as common and familiar and known to me as the toys in a child’s bath. I think back to the first Meq phrase I found inside the cave in the Sahara Desert. The phrase was in the form of a cross or an X with the word “is” as an axis. It read: “Where Time is under Water—Where Water is under Time.” And now I am there. Carolina lets go of my hand and kisses me on the lips. I taste honey and rose water. She turns and walks in the direction of Scott Joplin and the calliope, then vanishes into the shadows. In my heart and mind, I hear an echo. It is Carolina. She says, “Farewell, Z … my only Z.”