The Tree of Forgetfulness (25 page)

“Ezekial,” she says. She holds out both hands, her head held to one side in the old, charming way, and there's nothing to do but take her hands in his own. “I'm sorry it took this sad occasion to bring you home.”

She looks haggard and hollow, with the same look in her eyes he saw in his mother's in her final days: a dark presence regarding him from far away. It won't be long, he thinks, before her people will gather in a different church to see her off, but—the thought pours over him like cool water—he won't be among them. He will not come back here again. He tries to pull his hands free, but she holds on.

“We will miss your dear mother,” she says. “She was so good to me. She was so . . .” He waits while she bites her bottom lip and rummages for the word, fear in her eyes, as though she's forgotten where she is or what she's doing there. The loose skin of her hands slides over the thin bones, and he squeezes her hands to show he's listening.

“. . . so good and true,” she says.

As soon as she says it, something inside him slams shut to keep it out, but it slips through anyway, and he's aware that she hasn't come close to saying what he wants to hear. He doesn't know exactly what it will be, only that he will know it when he hears it, and he hasn't heard it yet. He only knows that she is stronger than any confused old woman with one foot in the grave has a right to be, and she still won't let go of his hands.

Many people helped, guided, and supported me throughout the process of researching and writing this book. I would like to thank the following individuals and institutions:

The Virginia Center for the Creative Arts, for several residencies during which this book was written and revised.

The Department of English and Comparative Literature at the University of North Carolina and its chair, Beverly Taylor, for granting me a research leave at a crucial point in the writing.

The Institute of the Arts and Humanities at the University of North Carolina, where I spent a semester in good conversation with colleagues during the formative stages of imagining this book.

Aaron Marcus, for his skillful research into Oliver H. P. Garrett's reporting for the New York World.

Alan Shapiro, John Rosenthal, and Ann Loftin, friends to the manuscript and to me.

The late George Garrett, for generously sharing written material and recollections of his uncle, Oliver H. P. Garrett.

Fitzhugh Brundage, for an early conversation that helped to orient me to my subject.

Jan Nordby Gretlund, for honoring my work in Denmark and for all his help over the years in keeping my work visible.

Michael Griffith, extraordinary editor, whose questions and challenges helped to make the prose cleaner, the insights sharper.

Peter Perlman, whose love, care, support, and encouragement mean everything to me.

I am so grateful to you all.