This One and Magic Life (10 page)

NAOMI CATES, MARIEL'S MOTHER, KNOWS THE DEVIL HAS BEEN
buried up Logan Creek some forty-odd years. Tropical depressions and hurricanes have done their work; he's coming apart. A whole leg bone, no longer connected to a thighbone, washed into the bay during Hurricane Frederick. But so did a lot of other bones. What's one more?

His white dinner jacket, now the color of red clay, is amazingly intact. If one looks carefully, the label on the left-hand side under the breast pocket is legible: Loveman, Joseph, and Loeb, Birmingham, Alabama.

The creek is widening, becoming deeper. Another hurricane and the devil may be gone. Good riddance.

Naomi Cates knows this; Donnie and Hektor Sullivan know this; Artie Sullivan knew this. Artie, Donnie, and Hektor buried the devil up Logan Creek. They have never known Naomi knew.

I REMEMBER NIGHTS I COULDN'T SLEEP BECAUSE THE BABY HAD
gotten so big. I hated it when I got that pregnant. You can pull one leg up and sort of lie on your side and sometimes it works for a while and you sleep. But mostly you just lie there, dozing, listening to the sounds of birds rustling in the trees right outside the window, calling out sometimes in their sleep. And inside, the children doing the same, turning, mumbling. You'd think that hard as they play, they'd sleep like the dead, but they didn't. Sometimes during the night, they'd begin to move, drifting like ghosts through the dark hot house. In the morning I might find Jacob asleep on the front porch and Mariel at the foot of our bed. Steve would be in Jacob's place and Elizabeth in Mariel's. “Fruit basket, turn over,” I'd say each morning when I'd open my eyes and see none of my children where they started out the night before. They didn't remember moving, either. One morning we couldn't
find Harry and I thought, Oh, my Lord, he's been kidnapped like the Lindbergh baby, which was a dumb thought since we didn't have a dime a kidnapper would want. He could have wandered into the woods, though, and we were really scared for a while, hollering “Harry!” all around the house, even out at the chicken coop. And finally here he came, crawling out from under the girls' bed, rubbing his eyes. Don't ask me how he got out of his crib and under there.

The only one I could depend on sleeping and not moving was Will. Soon as he thought the children were asleep, he said, “Naomi.” And I'd follow him into the bedroom and pull off my clothes and he'd get on top of me. Sometimes, if he'd had too much to drink, he'd go to sleep without doing anything. And I'd just push him off and cover him up. But sometimes he'd pump up and down for a long time saying “Oh, God. Oh, God” over and over until I was scared he was going to wake up the children and I'd reach down and pull the quilt up over our heads to muffle the sounds. It made him sweat, I'll say that. Then he'd say, “Jesus!” and it was over. He'd roll over and next thing I hear is a snore. I'd get up and put on my nightgown and tiptoe among the sleeping children out to the back porch where we keep a washpan.

It's funny, but it was one of my favorite times. After I bathed, I'd sit on the back steps and let the night air dry me. Summer nights I could hear the music from the Grand Hotel down the bay. I always told myself one night I'd walk down there and just watch the people dancing out in the pavilion on Julep Point. It's not far, but I never have. Which doesn't mean I won't some night.

But one night, just before Toy was born, even after I'd gone inside and gotten into bed beside Will, I could
still hear the music. A full moon had come up and the tree frogs were humming. But suddenly they would all stop like they do, and there would be the music. Will snoring, children stirring, tree frogs, birds rustling, the baby inside me moving. And a mile away people dancing under a full moon.

I lay there a long time; maybe I slept. Maybe the moon in my face was too bright. Whatever. All I know is that suddenly everything was still. Too still. I looked at the Big Ben on the nightstand. Twelve o'clock. We were caught between yesterday and today.

And then I felt the baby kick, and Will sighed and turned in his sleep. The Big Ben gave a loud click. But I had the strangest feeling that I was still caught. There are times between, I thought. And if I had to explain what I meant to anybody, they would have thought I was crazy. But I knew I was right. There are spaces between breaths, when one year becomes another or one second another. Between the clock's tick and the second's hand. There are all these spaces, these times. Like when a person dies. There has to be time between being there and not being there.

Well, it knocked me out of sleeping the rest of the night. All I did was lie there and think about spaces between things and what did it mean. At first light when I picked my way among my sleeping children and went out to the yard, I felt like I had learned something. I wasn't sure what. All I knew was that while I waited for the sun to show first orange, I wriggled my toes in the sand and thought. Spaces. Spaces.

And now Artie is gone, caught in the space between one breath and the other while I kept breathing, old woman breathing that hardly moved the sheets. I heard the shout of “Jubilee” and thought the touch on my cheek was a memory.

Lord knows, there are enough memories. Live this long and they run out of your ears, disappear. And the ones still in your head you can't trust.

But I trust the memory of the beach that morning, me going to work late because I'd been up all night with sick children, seeing what Artie, Donnie, and Hektor saw lying in that tidal pool, and watching what they did. And I didn't say a word. Never will.

Why should I?

I loved Thomas Sullivan. Simple as that. Many's the day I'd time my walk home from the Grand Hotel and dawdle at the shell road until I saw his car coming. Then I'd hike my heels like I was in a hurry and he'd stop.

“Come on, Naomi. I'll give you a ride home.”

And I'd slide in that car that smelled of Prince Albert tobacco and something lemony and be happy.

It broke my heart to see the way Sarah treated him. And the way she treated those children and not a one of them being able to forgive themselves all these years.

If Thomas had said, “Naomi, I'm going to keep driving,” I'd have said, “Fine,” and gone with him. Gone hightailing right on down the road with that good, sweet man and the smell of Prince Albert and lemons. But he didn't.

The strange thing, though, is how it's not Thomas in my dreams but Will. He comes in the door with rabbits he's shot or fish he's caught and he smiles at me over the heads of our children. Him with all that dark curly hair.

Well, it's all dreams anyway. And dreams don't make a grain of sense. And sometimes I don't know if I'm beginning or ending. Or if any of us are. And that's all right.

Artie, it's time for
One Life to Live
.

Go with God.

WHEN DOLLY AWAKENS FROM HER NAP, HER HEADACHE HAS
come back in full force, and her whole body is stiff. She rolls over and pulls the drapery back. The light on the water is like a blow. God, she thinks, I'm really sick. She groans and sits up. Her stomach heaves; she makes it to the bathroom just in time.

“Dolly?” Her mother's voice. “You okay in there?”

Okay? Another spasm of retching grabs her. Her mother opens the door and comes in. She holds Dolly's head like she did when Dolly was a child. “It's all right,” she says. “It's all right.” She wets a washrag and holds it against Dolly's forehead, against her throat. The nausea begins to subside. Mariel leads Dolly back to the bed and folds the cloth against her forehead.

“Wait here,” she says. “I'm going to take your temperature.”

Dolly sinks back against the pillow. She is content to let her mother take over. She opens her mouth obediently when Mariel returns with the thermometer. She holds her mother's hand. It's cool and familiar.

“Almost a hundred and one,” Mariel says. “I'm going to call Dave Horton.”

Dolly doesn't argue. She feels limp, drained. She hears her mother in the hall dialing, talking. Talking to Dave Horton's office. Dave Horton who is a doctor now, who had helped Dolly cut up a pig in biology when they were in high school. She dozes, incorporating the hum of the air conditioner and the sound of her mother's voice into a high school lab.

“It's simple,” Dave says. “The aorta is right here. See?”

“They said to come in. They'll work you in as soon as they can,” Mariel says. “Those shorts you have on are fine. Here, let me brush your hair.”

“I'll do it,” Dolly says. “I need to brush my teeth, too.”

Under the fluorescent light in the bathroom, she looks terrible. She sees what she'll look like as an old, old woman. The reflection waves, blurs. She closes her eyes and holds on to the sink. When the room quits revolving, she combs her hair and brushes her teeth. At this rate, they can put me in the casket, she thinks, and Father Carroll won't be working for nothing.

Her mother is sitting on the bed when she comes out. She looks worried. “Anything hurt you besides your head?” Mariel asks. “Your neck isn't stiff or anything?”

“No, Mama. Just my head.”

“Well, maybe we won't have to wait too long. Dave's been here less than a year, but his practice is already growing by leaps and bounds. He took over Dr. Garret's practice, you know. Looked after Artie the last few months after the specialists had done all they could do.” Mariel pushes some sandals toward Dolly who is wandering around the bed. “What are you doing?”

“Looking for my purse.”

“In the chair. You don't need it, though.”

“Insurance card.” Dolly is amazed at how willing she is to surrender totally to her mother's care. She gets her billfold from her bag, slides her feet into her sandals, and they go down the stairs.

“I'm taking Dolly to the doctor,” Mariel calls into the kitchen.

Reese sticks his head around the door. “You sick, Dolly?”

Dolly tries to smile. “If I'm lucky, Dave Horton won't recognize me.”

“Puke on him if he don't.”

“If Donnie calls, Reese, will you tell him to come on out here? We need to be at the funeral home by at least six.”

“I'll tell him. Wait a second.” He steps into the hall bathroom and hands Dolly a towel. “You might need this.”

“Thanks.” Dolly holds his gnarled hand against her cheek for a moment.

Reese watches the car pull away. How many times he had driven Artie down that same road to the doctor. He starts to go back into the house but changes his mind and goes to sit on the dune instead. He waves at a barge; a man standing on the deck waves back.

The Harlow Medical Arts Building is a small brick building that houses Harlow's one dentist and one doctor. At one time Dr. Garret had delivered babies here and done minor surgery in a small operating room. Three rooms had been available for overnight stays. Insurance costs had put an end to that, though, and those rooms are now examining rooms or are used for storage.

The waiting room, Dolly realizes, has not changed
since she was a child and Artie had to bring her here frequently. She rubs the small scar over her eye, the result of tying a rope to a hammer and trying to throw it over the limb of a pecan tree. By the time she got to Artie, she had had a handful of blood, and Artie had almost fainted. “Don't ask me how or why, but she hit herself in the head with a hammer,” Artie had told Dr. Garret, handing Dolly over to him. And he took her in and stitched her up and gave her a sucker. And the time she stuck a needle in her knee, the infected cut from a catfish fin, the minor fevers, bumps, scrapes. The patience Artie had had with her.

There are only two other people in the waiting room, an old man and woman who seem to be together. Dolly sinks into a chair still holding her towel while Mariel takes her insurance card and goes to sign her in.

I want to have children, Dolly realizes. Bring them in here for their shots, have their height measured on the Mickey Mouse wall chart, hold them against me. She looks at her mother filling out the form. Mariel has put on her glasses and is holding the insurance card away from her, trying to make out the numbers.

“Just a few minutes,” Mariel says, coming to sit by Dolly. Dolly reaches over and takes her hand.

Mariel wants to say, “I love you, Dolly.” She wants to say, “I'm sorry for everything,” but she doesn't know exactly what she's sorry for. Mariel wants to apologize to her grown child for something, a whole sea of vague failures. Instead she holds Dolly's hand, feeling how hot it is, and worries. She feels a pulse beating. She doesn't know if it's hers or Dolly's.

“Dolly?” A woman in a nurse's uniform is standing over them. “Billie Joiner. We used to live down from your Aunt Artie.”

“Barbie dolls,” Dolly says. “You had dozens of them.”

Billie grins. “I still have them. Saving them for my daughter. So far I have two boys. My husband says I get one more chance. Say you're feeling puny?”

“To say the least.”

“Well, come on lie down. It'll be a few minutes before Dr. Horton can see you, but at least you'll be more comfortable.” She leads Dolly into one of the examining rooms, takes her blood pressure and temperature.

“I was so sorry to hear about your Aunt Artie,” she says. “We got very fond of her in here. She really fought, you know.”

“Thank you.”

“One of her paintings is in the waiting room. I don't know if you noticed it or not. She gave it to Dr. Horton just a couple of months ago. She kept on with her painting regardless of how bad she felt. We're gonna miss her.” Billie looks at the thermometer. “You're running a hotbox, aren't you?”

“I feel crummy.”

“Well, Dr. Horton will be in in just a few minutes. Just lie back. I'll turn off the top light for you.”

“Thanks.” Dolly turns on her side. She is still clutching the towel Reese gave her. It smells like almond sachet. She dozes lightly.

“Dolly?” Dave Horton says. “You don't have to sit up yet, but I'm going to turn on the light.”

“Okay.”

Dave rolls a stool over to the examining table and sits down. “Anything hurting besides your head? Billie says you're nauseated.”

“All generic symptoms,” Dolly says. “I felt real
tired last night and again this morning and my head hurt, but I thought it was from crying.”

“Grief doesn't cause fever. Why don't you sit up now and let's see what's going on.”

Dolly would have recognized Dave Horton anywhere. A few lines around his eyes are the only traces of the eleven years that have passed. His hair is black and curly, his skin tanned. And she looks such a mess. She groans and puts her face into her hands. Her pale hair hangs forward limply.

Dave feels the glands in her neck, listens to her heart, has her cough. He has Billie come in and take some blood. And all the while he is talking about Artie, about Harlow, about high school in Mobile. Dolly says very little. She's impressed with Dave's authority and sense of competence.

“You helped me cut up my pig in biology,” she finally says.

Dave laughs. “You think I should have been a surgeon?”

“No. It's just that I've never been to a doctor before who wasn't older than me. It's strange.”

“I'm older than you. Two years. I was a lab assistant my senior year.”

“Doctors should be old, though. You know what I mean.”

“Fortunately everyone doesn't feel like that.”

Dolly is afraid she has hurt his feelings.

“Before you know it, we'll be the age of the presidents. How does that strike you?” He's washing his hands, drying them on a paper towel.

“As scary. I wouldn't want anyone I know to be president. Just like I don't want to see the pilot of the plane I'm on. I like to think there are some people who aren't ordinary human beings.”

Dave laughs again, a deep chuckle. Dolly likes the sound of it. “Remember Sonny Thurman? He's a commercial pilot now, so I always look to see who's flying the plane I'm on. I draw the line with Sonny. He used to get lost coming to school.”

“Sounds like my Uncle Hektor,” Dolly says. “He drove right by Mobile on the interstate one time.” Laughing hurts her head. She presses her fingers into her forehead.

“I think what you have here is a rip-roaring sinus infection,” Dave says. “We'll know more in a minute when Billie gets your white count, but I think it was probably already coming on and the plane trip and the crying aggravated it. You just rest here, and if that's what it is, Billie will give you a couple of shots. One's an antibiotic and the other's an antihistamine. You're not allergic to anything, are you?”

“No.”

“Good.”

“Dave, Artie's visitation is tonight.”

“You still nauseated?”

“That's passed off.”

“Well, I'm going to give you something to take the fever down. You go home and take it easy and then play it by ear. You might feel like going for a little while.” Dave pats her shoulder. “It's good seeing you, Dolly. We all thought the world of Artie, you know.”

“Thanks. It's good seeing you, too.” As he turns to leave, she asks, “Dave, why Harlow?”

He grins. “Because they keep their Christmas lights up all year.”

Mariel is looking at a
People
magazine when Dolly comes into the waiting room. “Elizabeth Taylor is getting fat again,” she says, putting the magazine on the table. “Well?”

“Sinus. I got two shots.”

“Well, we'll take you right home and put you to bed.” Mariel takes off her glasses and collects her purse. “How did you like Dave Horton? He's a handsome man, isn't he?”

“He's very nice. Too bad he's getting married next month.” Dolly doesn't know why she does her mother this way. All the way home, she pretends she is dozing.

Mariel knows Dolly's not asleep. She also knows Dave Horton isn't getting married next month. But Dolly's half Sullivan and, Lord knows, Mariel has never been able to figure the Sullivans out.

“Do you think Artie's still grieving for Carl?” she asked Donnie once. And he had said, “I doubt it.” But Mariel wasn't sure. After all, Artie had never remarried. She had never seemed to be seriously interested in any other man, though a lot of them had wandered through her life. Only once had Mariel been suspicious that Artie might be in love and nothing had come of that.

“Maybe she's subconsciously looking for a father,” Mariel told Donnie after a series of visits to Harlow by several older men from exotic places such as Mexico City and New York. Men who were obviously smitten by Artie and obviously made to feel welcome.

“She knows where our father is if she wants to find him,” Donnie replied. “Right up there in Myrtlewood.”

“But she could still feel an empty psychological space, Donnie. Artie doesn't think the drowning was an accident and you know it.”

“Shit, Mariel. If Artie told you that, she's putting you on. She knows good and damn well what happened.”

“I'm just saying what Artie might feel.”

Donnie had put down the ham sandwich he was eating and looked across the kitchen table. He had the
two deep lines between his eyebrows that Mariel hated to see appear.

“Mariel, Papa explained manic depression to us as children. Of course, we knew about her bad spells without anyone telling us. We lived with the kindest, most loving woman in the world or with someone we didn't even recognize as our mother. But she was definitely not a murderer. If anybody was going to do anybody in, it would have been our father going after our mother. Which, of course, didn't happen, though, God knows, he had enough cause. It was nothing more murderous than a thunderstorm that turned the boat over.”

And Mariel had slipped this conversation into her
DONNIE
file which went back many years to the Christmas party where she had recognized Donnie immediately and he hadn't any idea who she was.

She had once read that in every couple's relationship, one was the lover and one the receiver. She's always known which she is. Her father, Will Cates, in spite of his alcoholism, had been the lover. Maybe he loved everything too much. Thomas Sullivan was a lover. Carl Jenkins was a lover. Artie would definitely have been a receiver. And what about Dolly? Mariel glances over at her daughter and realizes she doesn't know. She hopes a receiver. Mariel turns onto the shell road.

Dolly doesn't stir. How much she looks like Donnie, Mariel thinks. She wonders how he is doing in Birmingham. She wishes he had wanted her to go with him.

 

Artie's studio is a large room above the garage. There are windows on three sides as well as a skylight. Finished and unfinished canvases are propped against the fourth wall. On an easel is the painting Artie was
working on, a woman on the beach with her hair blowing. Her back is to the water and she is reaching out her toe to touch a large fish skeleton that has almost a cartoonish grin on its face. The sky above the woman is blue; near the horizon is an ominous cloud with a waterspout twisting from it.