Sweetgrass (20 page)

“Tripp! Tripp!”

His face lit up with a smile, a vision she’d keep in her mind for the rest of her life. His arm shot out as if he was reaching for her, then angled in a wave.

“Write to me!” she called out to him over the accelerating engine.

“I will!” he called back.

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

The letters!

Mama June brought her hand to her throat as a chill shot
down her spine. Where were the letters? she wondered. What had she done with them? She hadn’t thought of them for so many years. She was quite certain she’d never thrown them away, though. It wasn’t like her to be careless with things of such importance.

She marshaled her thoughts, clearing the confusion with focus. She knew where to look. She hurried to grab her robe and slippers. From a chest on her bureau, she retrieved a black velvet pouch, which she put into her robe pocket. Then, with the forced march of purpose, she made her way to the end of the hall and opened the door that led to the attic.

She was immediately assailed by a waft of heavy heat and humidity cloaked in the scent of mold. Reaching into the darkness, she found a light switch. The narrow stream of light that flowed from the single bulb hanging from a wire was meager but enough to guide her way up the stairs into the large, pitched room.

She seldom went up there anymore, and in the summer the close heat was nearly suffocating. As she reached the top of the stairs, the attic felt foreign. Unwelcoming. She coughed lightly and her nose wrinkled at the thick coating of dust and grime that covered everything. Intricate spiderwebs cloaked the attic windows like tattered lace. Telltale signs of mice and the empty carcasses of palmetto bugs warned her that treasures had been damaged.

There was so much clutter! Why on earth did she keep all this? she asked herself.

She knew the answer. It was because she loathed to throw anything out that might have sentimental value. How ironic, she thought, to store the past but never tend to it.

She peeked in a few of the countless boxes but resisted the temptation to scrounge. There were so many and it was late. These were not what she’d come for.

She went instead to a far corner of the attic where several trunks lined the wall. The smallest of these was half hidden under several cardboard boxes. She pulled it from its hiding place and dragged it closer to the light, then lowered to her knees before it. She paused to catch her breath, swiping the sweat from her brow.

The black metal of the trunk shone eerily under the dim light. It was smaller than she’d remembered. The leather straps were coated with a film of mildew that came off on her hands. She reached into her pocket and pulled out the velvet pouch. A small brass key slipped from it into her palm. She put the key carefully into the lock and turned. Despite the years, the lock sprang open. Lifting the top of the trunk, she caught the pungent scent of cedar and must. But the contents were dry.

She gingerly picked through the layers of tissue paper, not quite remembering what she had packed inside so very long ago. These were her greatest treasures. She carefully removed three fragile, plaster prints of chubby hands. Her finger traced the three outlines: Morgan. Hamlin. Nan.

Under these lay an intricately embroidered christening gown that had been worn by her grandmother, her mother, herself and Nan. She made a mental note to pass it on to Nan to give her daughter-in-law someday. She sifted through assorted photographs, some bright with color, others darkened sepia. There were gifts from her young children—beaded jewelry, drawings in acrylics and watercolor, odd bits of clay resembling a horse, a duck, a flower, poems for Mother’s Day and other emotional keepsakes that elicited sighs of wonder as she revisited the memories attached to them. Her breath hitched when she uncovered three silver boxes, each one containing a lock of hair—one dark brown, one blond, one a soft brown.

She reluctantly set these aside to sort through the cards and letters that littered the bottom of the trunk. These were the missives she’d received over the years that held some special meaning.

Then she saw them. In a searing flash she recalled how she’d painstakingly selected the petal-pink stationery with the creamy magnolias at the corner. The envelopes with torn edges were held together by the same strip of yellow ribbon she’d tied them with so many years earlier. Mama June picked them up, surprised at how light they were considering their weighty matter. Bringing them to her nose, she sniffed, but the perfume she’d girlishly spritzed on the paper had long ago faded away.

In a sudden rush she slipped off the ribbon and the letters spilled in her lap. Slowly, she sorted them according to post date, laying them in order on the floor before her. Then, taking the first, she opened the thin pages and began to read.

That was the final letter. Tripp had never written back. She’d never heard from him again. Mama June read each letter once, twice, three times.

Seeing his penmanship—bold and impatient like the man—brought him even more to life. She traced his signature with
her finger, hoping to feel some connection, some tingling of sensation. There was none.

Her own penmanship looked impossibly young and naive. She had been so painfully young in so many ways. She was only nineteen! If she’d know then what she knew now, she might have made other choices. Why, she asked as poets had before her, was youth wasted on the young?

Mama June pulled herself up and walked to the attic window. She reached out to swipe away the cobweb from the window. The silken threads dissipated in the air like motes of dust.

As she stood in the debris of her memories, the past seemed more alive to her than the present. Reading these letters again, she could actually feel the pain prick her heart once more. She relived the heaviness of spirit and the desperate longing she’d felt as she waited for Tripp’s reply.

She’d thought those long days that turned into weeks were the worst of her life. She couldn’t know they were merely the beginning.

It was very late, yet Mama June knew the night was far from over. The attic was very stuffy and the humidity was unbearable. She put the letters back into the trunk, closed the lid and dragged herself to her feet. She felt light-headed with fatigue and she longed for sleep. Brushing the dust from her robe, she slowly journeyed down the stairs back to her room. The house was silent and dark. She heard Blackjack’s nails clicking against the hardwood floors as he came to investigate the noise.

“It’s me, Blackie. It’s all right,” she called in a stage whisper down the stairs.

The dog whimpered and she knew his tail was wagging. Then he turned and walked back to his master’s room.

She peeked into Morgan’s room as she passed and it was dark.

Back in her own room she washed the grime and dust
from her face, relishing the coolness of the washcloth against her brow. She reapplied cream to her face, and rubbing it in, she paused and stared at her reflection in the mirror. Her hand lowered and she leaned forward. She knew the contours of this face so well, each line and freckle gained through the years. Yet behind the facade of softening flesh she could still see the girl she’d always been staring back at her, all knowing.