Sweetgrass (16 page)

“Why do you think that? You have Grace as an example of it being carried on.”

“There’s Grace, that’s for true. If she keeps it up. Most young ones, they just don’t care for making the baskets. Every generation, fewer and fewer want to sew. In my generation, most mothers tried to teach their daughters. There are some, like Maize, who just won’t do it. And some that up and move away. Now, in some families—big families—it’ll always be a part of them. But my family… We never had a lot of children so we’re small now. And my two boys moved away. When the grandchildren come to visit, they just don’t want to sit long enough to do it. My sister’s got five girls and they all live here, but none of them know a thing about it.”

“You can’t make a child do what they aren’t inclined to do,” Mama June added, thinking of her own children.

“Not today, anyway. Back when I was coming up, it was different. Basket making was a part of our livelihood. We could earn a little extra money to put away. My mama didn’t ask me if I wanted to make the baskets. Oh Lord, no! We children all used to gather in the shade and spend hours sewing the basket bottoms, just like my Grace is doing now. Today, though, the families can afford different things.”

“Money was tight for all of us at times.”

“Yes, it was. I put my basket money aside to save for college educations. Children like my Maize, they want to go to school and become professionals. That’s where their interests lie. Not in the baskets. It takes an old geezer like me to try to keep it going.”

Mama June laughed, then said, “Maybe the ones that stay might pick it up again.”

“They might,” Nona conceded, thinking of her own daughter. “It’s like riding a bicycle, I guess. I only hope there’s sweetgrass left for them.”

“Why wouldn’t there be?”

Nona looked at Mama June with eyes round with incredulousness. “Honey, take a look around at what’s happening here. Where’s the grass going to come from, eh? The grass is gone.”

Mama June was taken aback by the finality of the statement. “Gone? How can that be? It used to be everywhere.”

“It used to be we could go anywhere, too. Without some barrier. All over Christ Church Parish, we could walk back in the woods and just go get the palmetto and grass. Well, let me tell you, it’s been many years since we could do that. That land is all gone for houses. You know the Mitchell piece?”

When Mama June nodded, she continued. “That’s where lots of us used to go and gather. Now it’s fenced off, just waiting to be turned into more houses.”

“That piece of land had been marked for development for several years, but it’s still untouched. Can’t you go in just for the grass? Surely that wouldn’t be a bother.”

“No. They won’t let anyone past the fence line. Same as with most places. Most all the fields are gone now. We have to go all the way to Georgia and Florida for our grass, paying an arm and a leg for it. A few of us have a secret spot, like me. But even there, it’s in danger of disappearing.”

Mama June sat back in her chair. “Why didn’t I know this? You’d think it’d be common knowledge that the grass is disappearing. I’ll bet most folks around here don’t realize. Could it be replanted?”

“Sure. If the folks with the land would do it.”

“I read about a piece of land planted especially for sweetgrass. What about that?”

“Up inland at Dill Plantation. Yes, they tried. It was kind of an experiment. But the grass, it wasn’t right. See, the land was too fertile. There were lots of weeds and not enough
hands to tend it. Here’s the main thing, though. That grass, it come up too weak. Too flat. The grass that grows by the marsh and sea is curled. Take a look,” she said, offering a blade of sweetgrass for Mama June to handle.

“The grass has to have lived a hard life to be right for the baskets.”

Mama June felt the smoothness of the curled grass, grown tough and resilient through miserly bits of soil and water. She thought the same could be said of the people who made the baskets, as well. The triumphant endurance of centuries of hard living went into the creation of each work of art.

“So,” she said thoughtfully, getting it straight in her mind, “it’s the sweetgrass grown along the coast here that you need for the baskets.”

Nona nodded, sensing where the topic was headed. “My family’s been pulling grass from this place since time was. My family has a bond with this land, same as yours. It’s our sacred place.”

“It’s a worry for you then. My selling Sweetgrass.”

“I’ve been losing sleep over it.” Nona sighed and laid her work down. “But there’s nothing I can do about it.”

“I’m worried that there’s nothing I can do about it, either.”

“It just don’t seem right. Why do you want to sell? Well, not
you,
” Nona hurried to amend. “I mean, the Blakelys? Morgan’s back now. Doesn’t he have an interest in the place? Or Nan? And what about Adele? Lord knows, she’s got enough money to hold on to it.”

“Adele’s the one who most wants to sell. I don’t know for certain, but Nan thinks Adele and Hank are cooking up some development plan using Sweetgrass as its cornerstone.”

“They’re no better than carpetbaggers,” Nona said disparagingly.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Mama June said in a weary tone.
“Nan and Hank can’t afford to keep this place up. Neither can Morgan. Not with the taxes and insurance the way they are. Preston and I are old now.
We’re
the end of a line, I’m afraid. It’s not much different than with your baskets. What can we do if our children don’t want what we pass on? Or if they can’t afford to maintain it? Or if they want to move on to somewhere else?”

“I don’t know,” Nona said with a sorry shake of her head. “But I do know we can’t just give up on it. We’re passing on tradition. Both of us. There’s too much at stake for the future generations to just let it all go. There has to be a way to pass it down somehow. To keep the land safe, the sweetgrass safe. ’Cause once it’s gone, it’s gone forever.”

Their conversation was interrupted by a shout of hello. Looking over the porch railing, Mama June saw Kristina at the bottom of the porch stairs. She was dressed in a gauzy shirt over a swimsuit and shorts.

“Where are you off to?” asked Mama June. “Looks like you’re going swimming.”

“I am. Morgan told me about Blakely’s Bluff. I hope you don’t mind if I take a stroll down there?”

Mama June darted a glance at Nona. Nona kept her eyes on her basket and rocked.

“Why, no,” she replied. “Of course not. There’s a fine place for swimming. But it’s hardly a stroll. It’s more a hike. You might try a bicycle. You’re in luck, though. Morgan’s checked all the tires. They should be fine.”

“Really?” Her face bunched in thought. “He was a bit vague about Blakely’s Bluff. Said if I just follow that back road there, it’ll take me right to it.”

“That’s right, though that road goes a right far piece.”

Kristina looked off at the road, considering, then back at
Mama June with a question in her eyes. She climbed up the stairs closer to them.

“Do you mind if I ask you something?”

Mama June glanced at Nona, who had stopped sewing her basket to look up with interest.

“I won’t know till you ask me.”

“Well, it’s about Morgan. He seemed kind of upset when I asked him to come with me to Blakely’s Bluff. I hope I didn’t overstep my bounds.”

Mama June glanced again at Nona, who muttered “Oh, Lord” and went back to her weaving.

“I’m sorry,” Kristina blurted out. “I don’t mean to pry.”

“No, my dear,” Mama June replied. “You aren’t prying. It’s no secret, but it’s a painful topic. We don’t discuss it much. Morgan never.”

Her tongue stilled in her mouth at the prospect of the words it had to form. She knew it had to be said. Now was not the time for moral cowardice. She took a breath and said quickly, “You see, Morgan doesn’t like to go the bluff.” She took a deep breath.

Nona stopped rocking and filled in the silence. “Morgan’s brother died in a boating accident off Blakely’s Bluff.”

Kristina’s eyes widened and she appeared sincerely contrite. “I am so, so sorry.”

“It was a long time ago,” Mama June said in a distant voice.

“That’s why Morgan won’t go there,” Nona told her. “It brings back too many memories. You see, Morgan was on the boat with Hamlin.”

“Oh,” Kristina replied, her face revealing that she understood all. “Poor Morgan.”

“It was God’s will,” Mama June replied. It was a phrase she’d said so often it rolled off her tongue without thought or feeling.

After an awkward silence that indicated nothing more
would be said on the topic, Kristina mustered herself. “Well, thank you. I appreciate knowing the facts. I’ll be on my way before it gets too late. A bicycle, huh? What a hoot. Haven’t ridden one of those in a long time. But you know what they say. Once you learn… I won’t be gone long. I’ll be back in time for Preston’s late-afternoon meds. See ya!”

The two women watched her lithe body hustle down the stairs and amble over toward the back shed with a vivacity and grace they could only envy. A few minutes later she was tugging a rusty red bicycle out and putting her towel and bag into an ancient wicker basket attached to the handlebars. She looked up at the ladies on the porch, smiled brightly and waved. Taking hold of the handlebars, she pushed off and pedaled down the dirt road, soon disappearing into the cluster of trees.

“That girl sure has a lot of energy,” Nona said, rocking.

“It’s part of her charm,” Mama June replied.

“She sure has a way of looking under rocks, eh?”

“Yeah, I thought so, too.”

“You know who she reminds me of?”

Mama June thought for a minute. “No. Who?”

Nona chuckled, low in her throat. “You, that’s who.”

Mary June stopped rocking. “Me? Why, you’ve lost your mind, Nona Bennett. Kristina Hays is nothing like me!”

“Oh, yes she is. Maybe not in her looks so much. And she’s more forward than you ever were, but I put that down to her being a Yankee. What I’m talking about is that sweetness in the eyes, as if it shines straight from the heart. Same as you had when I first met you. You were a pretty thing and so eager to please. It was hard not to like you, same as her. And, Lord, you asked a lot of questions! Wanted to know every little thing about Sweetgrass. You were always there to lend a hand, too. And…she’s riding your old bicycle.”

Mama June scowled and resumed her rocking. “I wish I
knew why everyone likes to compare me to someone. Always did so.”

Nona clucked her tongue. “It’s more that people like to be compared to you.”

“Nonsense,” Mama June said in a fluster, her cheeks coloring. But inside, she was aglow. It was rare for Nona to offer a compliment, and when offered, it was sincere. Lately Mama June felt unsure of who she was, as if she was lost and trying to find herself again.

She looked at the gravel road that Kristina had just pedaled down. Nona was right. Kristina was riding her old bicycle. She remembered the many times she and Adele rode their bicycles to the bluff that summer.

“She’s got a good heart. Anyone can see that,” Mama June added.

“True enough.”

“She is different from most girls around here, though.”

Nona nodded.

“She rubbed my shoulders one afternoon and I swanny, I could feel the heat just pouring from her hands.”

Nona’s eyes narrowed in thought. “Might be she has the healing touch.”

“Uh-huh. Just look at the progress she’s made with Preston.”

“I once knew a healer,” Nona said. “He could put his hands over your troubled spot and it was like electricity come hot right off his hands. It even felt hot on the skin. I wonder if she has that, too.”

“I do have to say, she’s helped me with Preston,” she told Nona. “Got me talking to him again about all sorts of things.”

Nona went back to her sewing. “Interesting that she’s got Morgan talking about Blakely’s Bluff, too. I’d say that’s a start. Like Grace’s little coil of grass, she can build up from there.”

They rocked in silence again as Mama June’s gaze trav
eled its usual path across the water to the old weathered house on the bluff.

“Blakely’s Bluff,” she murmured, allowing the name to fall softly from her lips.

ANY TALK ABOUT BLAKELY’S BLUFF
could send Mama June’s thoughts spiraling to the past. When that happened, she read a book, studied the Bible or watched an old movie on television before sleep. More often than not, that would work as well as any hot toddy to help her avoid disturbing thoughts and drift off to dreamless sleep.

This night, however, she didn’t seek the solace of a soporific. Her dreams had begun to take on a life of their own, and her recent chats with Preston had opened up a floodgate of memories. Rather than run from them, Mama June decided to heed Kristina’s advice and revisit them. Then perhaps she could at last put them to rest.

For the memories were not buried. Not really. They were hiding under the surface, just waiting to rise at the mere mention of a word, like a critter in the marsh mud that feeds with
the tides. Silence was no good for families, she thought. And the silence in her family had gone on for so long it was now the norm. She remembered the days when the family had been able to laugh and talk about most anything. The shroud that had been placed over Hamlin’s death stemmed, she knew, from her own inability to so much as reference it.

Mama June turned from the window and walked aimlessly around her room. She was no better than the ghost, Beatrice, stuck in limbo between the past and the future. After Hamlin’s death she had been beyond despair. She didn’t care if she lived or died. Like many people raised in her time, she was offered advice like “just try not to think about it, honey,” or “try to think about positive things.” The more she turned away from painful thoughts and feelings, however, the less she seemed able to move on with her life.

This was true for Morgan, as well.

If she was truly honest, she’d admit how the memories tied to Blakely’s Bluff went far deeper than Hamlin’s death. Morgan could never know how far back the silence went. Preston knew. Preston had always known and had always protected her. He’d been her strength in the past. Now she had to face the past. She had to be strong for both of them. For their son’s sake.

Mama June cracked the window open and let the night in, fragrant and balmy, not yet oppressive as it would be when summer pushed on. She untied her robe and laid it on the foot of the bed, then climbed under the welcoming covers. Laying her head on the pillow, she heard the bellowing song of crickets serenading her, filling her with a sweet lassitude.

Drifting off, she brought to mind once again Preston’s young face, his reluctant smile—so much like his son’s. Warmth flooded her at the vision and, relaxing, she closed her eyes and journeyed back. Back to her youth.

Back to Blakely’s Bluff.

Bluff House perched on the edge of the earth like a dare.

It was originally built by Beatrice’s grandson, the original Hamlin Blakely, an angry man scarred physically and emotionally by the horrors of the War Between the States. People said he’d wanted to go as far into the face of God as he could go.

The house faced the ocean squarely. Two straight, unembellished stories of cedar were weathered to a stormy gray. Black storm shutters framed each window. They were thick and un-pretentious, built for purpose, not decoration. The house might have been foreboding were it not for the wide porch that wrapped around the front. This had been added by some later descendent with an eye for pleasure, not revenge. Its elaborate gingerbread was painted a bright white and welcomed the guests to sit for a spell in the offshore breezes.

Mary June Clark loved the house at first sight. She was thrilled by its contrasts, being both foreboding and inviting.

“Mary June!” called Adele from the dock. “What’s taking you so long? Hurry up. We’re ready to shove off!”

“Hold your horses, Adele!” she called from the Bluff House kitchen. “I’ve got to wrap up these sandwiches. One more minute.”

She carefully sliced the three peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and wrapped them with waxed paper. These she added to the picnic basket along with cold apples and bottles of Nehi orange drink from the icebox. After tidying up, she grabbed a straw hat from a peg by the door and ran out toward the dock.

Preston was standing at the helm of the Boston Whaler. His light-brown hair was windblown and his body was lean and brown in ragged-edged shorts and a T-shirt. Adele’s raven hair was bound in a red gingham scarf and her long, tanned legs stretched between dock and boat as she untied the ropes.

“Permission to come aboard, sir,” Mary June called out as she reached them.

Preston grinned at the sight of her in her large floppy straw hat. He immediately came to the side of the boat to take hold of the picnic basket with one hand and lend his other to steady her as she climbed aboard.

Adele finished with the ropes and gave the boat a push from the dock. With a graceful leap, she hopped onto the boat, her teeth shining white against her dark tan as she grinned. Adele loved being out in the sun and was nearly as proficient on a boat as her brother. Mary June had gone out on the boat several times with Adele—just the girls. But whenever a male came aboard, there was an unspoken understanding that the women took a back seat.

It was Mary June’s first day back at Sweetgrass. She’d brought many gifts of food and flowers from her parents to the Blakelys and, after sweet tea and friendly inquiries, the three friends packed their gear and headed straight for Blakely’s Bluff.

The sun shone overhead in a cloudless sky. They took it slow. The engine bubbled as Preston carefully steered the boat through the tricky, narrow marsh creeks. The tide was high and the bright green grass waved from a sea of shimmering blue water as far as she could see. Mary June imagined this was the same landscape that the early settlers must have seen.

They left the creek and headed into what looked to Mary June like a wide-open arena of water as black as mud. Two creeks intersected into this bowl like two long, winding arms—one left, one right. The currents created an eddy that circled round and round, stirring up mud and creating the hole. It was a heady, wide-open space, all the more exhilarating to reach after traveling through a labyrinth of narrow creeks. Entering it, she felt the wind pick up and whip her hair back from her face.

“What is this place?” she asked Preston. They stood side by side at the helm, bumping shoulders.

He looked her way, his eyes impossibly blue against his dark tan. “We call this Shark Hole,” he told her. “It’s the deepest water in Charleston County, some ninety feet down.”

She peered over the side to where it was deep and ominously dark.

“Are there really sharks down there?”

“Yeah, sure,” he replied in a cavalier tone. “They’re all over. You catch babies a lot, but I’ve caught some four-footers. There are some twenty-five species of sharks off our coast, just like there are in the salt marsh. Some of those beasts are big. It’s deep here and when the tides change there’s a strong current and a lot of bait fish. That’s what they come for. There’s silver perch, croaker, gray trout, mullet and spot, just to name a few.” He offered a cocky grin. “Makes for some good fishing. I can take you, if you like.”

She’d enjoyed fishing with him for different quarry, some more game than others. But she’d never tried for shark. “I might,” she replied hesitatingly, unsure of how much action she really wanted.

Adele had been listening and leaned forward to shout over the roar of the engine, “Don’t do it! Press lets all the sharks go. That means he has to get the hook out of its mouth. Think about it.”

Mary June envisioned her fingers in a shark’s mouth. “Sounds pretty tricky.”

Adele rolled her eyes. “That’s all you need, Mary June, to lose a finger. Wherever are you going to put that wedding ring then?”

“Aw, I’m careful,” Preston countered. Then he winked. “Haven’t lost a finger yet.” When Mary June grimaced he said, “But if you don’t want shark, all the fishing is pretty
good here. Take a look over there. Those fishermen know where the good catch is.”

He pointed out toward the water where she spied a sleek gray fin streaking through the waters like a bullet. Mary June’s mouth opened in a gasp, thinking it was one of the sharks they’d just been discussing. Suddenly she heard a loud
whoosh,
and with an arcing dive, it disappeared under the water.

“Porpoises!” Mary June exclaimed.

“Dolphins,” he corrected. “Atlantic bottlenosed dolphins.”

“I made the fatal error at the tender age of eight and Preston has never let me live it down,” Adele told her.

“How can you tell the difference?” Mary June asked. “They both look like Flipper to me.”

“Honey, Flipper is a Southern boy,” she replied with an exaggerated drawl. “He’s bigger and brighter and a lot more fun than his Yankee cousin.”

Preston gave his sister a gentle shove, then said to Mary June in his patient manner, “It’s not hard to tell them apart. Bottlenosed dolphins have a long beak, like their name. And they’re bigger. They’re about seven to twelve feet long. A porpoise is snub-nosed, kinda like you,” he teased, and pinched her nose.

She ducked back and quickly swatted his hand away, blushing.

“And a porpoise is smaller. Only about five feet.” He snorted and his eyes traveled her length. “Again, sort of like you.”

“Next you’ll be telling her they’re cuter. Sort of like you…” Adele teased.

Mary June smirked, but to her surprise, Preston colored and turned to check some gauge on the boat. Adele smugly caught her gaze and nodded. Adele had told Mary June that
she thought her brother had a “thing” for her, which Mary June had hotly denied. Now, though still unconvinced, she wondered if it was true. Averting her eyes, she quickly looked back at the dolphins. She could only find one and it was streaking off to join his pod in another section of Shark Hole.

“We’d better get going, too, if we want to spend any time on the beach,” Preston said, standing wide-legged at the wheel.

Preston pulled back on the throttle and they roared forward, the girls gripping their hats and grinning ear to ear as they cut through the choppy water. Mary June lifted her chin to the wind, feeling it pour over her like water. As far as she could see, there was only sea and sky. It was early afternoon and the sun was high overhead. They were headed for Capers Island. This was a favorite meeting spot of the local kids that Preston and Adele grew up with, and Adele was preening. Once they heaved anchor and came ashore, she targeted one boy in particular.

On any given day they’d just hang out for a while with whoever showed up, drinking Cokes and lying on the beach or swimming. It was the kind of lazy fun that was pure heaven after a tedious school year. The day, however, was regulated by the tides. After a few hours, Preston wanted to head back.

The girls groaned their complaints.

“Just a little while longer?” Mary June begged. She was lying on her back, soaking up the sun. “I’ve gotten so pale.”

Preston was already on his feet, shaking out his towel. “Nope. It’s already getting late. The tides are lowering. Come on. Adele!” he called. “Time’s a wastin’.”

Adele’s face was mutinous, but she gracefully swallowed her complaints. She knew Preston wouldn’t budge when it came to boat safety. At high tide, the seemingly smooth waters hid treacherous oyster beds that could rip the hull of a boat. During low tides, a boat could easily get stuck in the
mud—and often did. Rescue missions were common along the creeks.

Mary June sat next to Adele and held on to the side of the boat with one hand, and with the other grabbed hold of her floppy hat. The tide was indeed going out. When they’d left Blakely’s Bluff, the tide was high and water flooded the marsh from bank to bank. Now the water had lowered to the point where small islands of gray-green oyster beds emerged from under the water—pointed, razor sharp and dangerous.

Once back in the creek, one side of the boat was deep with the current; the other side was already in shallow water and revealed the high, scarred edges of marsh and streaks of muddy bottom, dotted with holes from fiddler crabs.

Preston’s face grew taut and his eyes narrowed, alert. He slowed the engine to little more than a low growl as they snaked through the maze of marsh.

“Adele! Get the pole.”

For once Adele did not return a flippant comment. She moved quickly to retrieve a long metal pole from the boat’s bottom and this she put into the water on the shallow side of the boat. Where the water grew suspiciously shallow, she pushed with the pole away from the bank.

“Can we get stuck here?” Mary June asked, warily watching as Adele’s pole repeatedly hit bottom.

“We can,” he replied. “Folks get stuck in mud flats all the time. But we won’t.”

Even though at every turn another small creek opened to present them with yet another option, she knew Preston would pick the right one. She wondered how he could possibly know, there were so many it was confusing, but she felt sure he did. He’d told her he’d spent his youth in these marshes—swimming, in inner tubes and boats—as had his brother, his father and the forefathers before him.

She clutched the side of the boat and kept out of Preston and Adele’s way as they navigated around narrow curves and walls of grass too high to see over. The sun overhead was high and relentless, coloring her exposed arms pink. She sighed with relief when she spied the angled roof of Blakely’s Bluff over the line of grass. They could walk straight to it in minutes if they went as the crow flew. But by boat it took another twenty minutes of snaking through the grass before they rounded another bend in the creek and Bluff House and the long, welcoming dock was before them.

She lifted her hand to shield her view. Standing on the dock was a tall, dark-haired, handsome young man she’d not seen before. He was deeply tanned and had the lean, defined build of a swimmer. His arms were crossed at his chest in a defiant stance.

Mary June thought he looked rumpled, as if he’d just rolled out of bed. A cigarette dangled from his mouth, his shorts were ragged-edged, looking like they’d been cut with scissors, and his longish hair stuck out in disarray from his head. Behind him, two friends in similar shape sat idly on the pilings and drank beer from a cooler.