Sweetgrass (32 page)

He found her in her room, reading by the window. Her head darted up like a small bird’s when he walked in, and over the rims of her reading glasses her blue eyes brightened at seeing him. Then, registering his dirty state, the seriousness of his expression and the way his hands hung low at his sides, her smile grew shaky.

“You didn’t find it?” she asked.

He walked closer. “I found it.”

Her brows knit in puzzlement. “Oh? It wasn’t what you’d hoped?”

“I guess. I don’t know,” he replied dispassionately. “I’ll have to show it to the lawyers and let them tear it apart, but I think we’ve got something. We have a chance.”

She looked at him, her eyes clouded with confusion. “That’s what you wanted, right? Then why the sorry face?” Her eyes narrowed in speculation as she reached out toward the mattress. “Come sit down. Tell me about it.”

Morgan took a deep breath and looked around the room, aware of the ticking of the clock. It was a tidy room, bright and airy with windows overlooking the marsh. Her slippers were set beneath a porcelain hook that held her chenille robe. A large armoire adorned with hand-painted flowers stood against the far wall. Her small writing desk was tucked beneath a dormer and on this was a silver-framed photograph of the family, taken years ago, shortly before Hamlin’s death. He looked to be about eighteen. Morgan thought back. His brother was born in April 1958. The date of the letter was September 1957. He clenched his hands.

She looked different to him now. The halo he’d always placed around her head had tarnished. He felt betrayed. It was like he didn’t know her anymore.

He sat stonily on the edge of the mattress, directly across from his mother.

“Morgan, something’s wrong.”

Morgan lifted his right hand and held it out to his mother.

Her gaze lowered to his hand. Clutched in his fingers were several sheets of pale pink stationery. Mama June’s eyes widened in recognition. Her mouth opened in a soft, wounded gasp.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. In his mother’s pale eyes he saw shock, then horror, then sorrow flicker as she stared at the innocuous-looking sheets of paper that they both knew held her deepest, most private secret.

“You read them.” It was more a confirmation than a question. “Yes.”

Her eyes were round and she wrapped her arms tightly around herself.

Morgan drummed his fingers against the paper. His nails were rimmed with dirt from the attic. Mama June held her breath as she watched a small tic work in his cheek.

“Was Uncle Tripp Hamlin’s father?” he asked abruptly.

“Oh, God,” escaped her lips. This was the one question she’d steeled herself against for forty-seven years. She physically brought her shoulders in, making herself smaller, turning away from his relentless stare.

Her mind scrambled for choices. She could simply reply no. But Morgan wasn’t stupid. He had the evidence in his hands and he could figure out by counting that she was lying. Or she could choose not to answer him at all. She could tell him it was none of his business, berate him for sneaking
through her personal things and ask him to leave. Her mind veered from this choice. Hadn’t she walked down that path of silence too often already? Lord, don’t let me be a coward now, she prayed.

Turning back to face him, she nodded almost imperceptibly. Forty-seven years of pain streamed down her cheeks.

Morgan looked stunned, as if he’d just taken a bullet but hadn’t yet fallen.

“When were you going to tell me?”

Her shoulders slumped at hearing the hurt in his voice. “I don’t know.”

“You might never have!” he said accusingly.

“If it were up to me, no! I don’t think I ever would have. What’s in those letters is private. You weren’t meant to read them. No one was,” she said, her voice rising in self-defense.

“I’m not sorry I read them! It’s the only way I ever would have known. God! I can’t believe it.” His laugh was bitter, even desperate. “It explains a lot about you and Daddy.”

“You don’t know anything about the two of us!” she cried. “How dare you speak of that? You weren’t even born then.”

“Is he even my father?”

She sucked in her breath and looked into her son’s eyes. They were the exact same shade of blue as his father’s.

“How can you even ask that?”

His eyes grew icy, mocking. “How can I ask that?” He lifted the letters. “I’m not the one who was tramping around like some—”

Mama June’s hand shot out to crack against his cheek.

Morgan’s head jerked back and his eyes filled as they stared at each other, both stunned at how far they’d gone. She felt the ice between them—a glacier of silence—explode and splinter into a million shards around them.

“Morgan…” She reached out to him, her palm still tingling. She’d never raised her hand to him before.

Morgan’s eyes brimmed with disbelief and hurt. He brought his hand to his cheek.

“Preston is your father,” she said in a voice that allowed no doubt. “Yours and Nan’s.”

Morgan slumped and dropped his forehead into his palm. He seemed to grind flesh against flesh. His tears were flowing freely now.

“Then why did he love Hamlin more than me?”

Mama June’s heart cracked at seeing her son’s agony.

“He didn’t!”

“Yes, he did!” he exclaimed, rearing back and raising his tear-filled eyes at her accusingly. He seemed angry that he was crying, ashamed. He was like an injured animal, snarling and lashing out. “Don’t lie to me! It won’t work anymore. Everything Hamlin did was the best. Everything I did was shit. It was hard enough to live in the favored son’s shadow.” He took a labored breath. “But it was impossible to live up to the
potential
of Hamlin after he died.”

“Morgan…”

“After Hamlin died, every time Daddy looked at me, I saw disappointment. I could see…” He swallowed thickly and brought his voice under control. “He was sorry it was Hamlin that died out there instead of me.”

“Stop it! Stop it right now!” she cried out, not fully comprehending the depths of what she’d heard but rejecting it all.

“I won’t,” he said with wounded belligerence. “It’s the truth. Hamlin could do no wrong. But Daddy found something wrong with everything I did. He pushed me, pushed me till I couldn’t take it anymore. I hated him for it! Hated him for making me feel worthless.” His voice cracked but he forced out, “I hated him for not loving me.”

Mama June grew frightened as she watched her son break up. This was something bigger than she knew how to heal. It bordered on dangerous.

“Morgan, please try to understand,” she said, wringing her hands. “Yes, your father loved Hamlin very much. No one can ever doubt that. But
you!
Don’t you see? It’s not that he didn’t love you enough. It’s that he loved you
too much.
”

Morgan stepped away, shaking his head. “I don’t believe you.”

“You are his son. He loves you.”

He laughed bitterly, then turned and fled the room.

NONA STEPPED OUT ONTO
the back porch to find Mama June sitting in her rocker, her shoulders quaking. She came directly to her side and placed a hand reddened from dishwater on her shoulder.

“I saw Morgan dash out of here like a bat out of hell,” she told Mama June. “And here you are crying. Someone’s got a story to tell.”

Mama June brought her hand to her mouth to muffle her crying and shook her head, indicating that she didn’t want to talk about it.

“Mmm-hmm,” Nona hummed through pursed lips. She came around to her customary rocker beside Mama June’s and settled noisily in it.

“It’s been a long day…and it’s only three o’clock,” she said. When Mama June didn’t reply, Nona added, “I can sit here for the rest of the day. I’m in no hurry, and Lord knows I deserve it.”

The two women sat in their usual rockers and didn’t speak. The quiet of the vast outdoors buffered them against the noise of all the family issues and problems that had blared resoundingly all day. Mama June ceased crying and let the peace settle in her. With a true friend, there was no need to fill the void.

Mama June turned her head and looked at her friend. The strong angles of Nona’s face revealed the character of the woman. Mama June knew she could tell Nona anything and it wouldn’t leave this room. She was, other than Preston, the only living soul who knew all of Mary June’s secrets.

“Morgan knows,” Mama June told her.

It took a moment for Nona to piece together the meaning in her mind. She knew that Morgan was digging around in the attic, but there were so many secrets in this family, she wasn’t sure which one he’d unearthed. But when she saw the gravity in Mama June’s expression, she knew it had to be the big secret.

“Maybe it’s time,” she replied.

Mama June’s face crumpled. “When is it a good time to break your son’s heart?”

“What happened?”

With a steady cadence, Mama June filled Nona in on all the day’s details. It had been a morning of revelations and an afternoon of upsets. A day of extraordinary highs and lows. Nona’s expressive eyes shone as she nodded her head and dotted the conversation with exclamations of surprise and support.

“I’ve never felt so old,” she said to Nona.

“You
are
old,” Nona countered.

“Look who’s talking!”

“I know I’m old,” Nona replied with a wry grin. “But I’m not complaining about it.” She leaned back and studied the
marsh. In their unspoken dialogue, they shared an exclusive shorthand. “He had a fire lit under him, that’s for sure,” she said, knowing that they were both wondering where Morgan was. “Hope he knows what he’s doing.”

“There are days when I don’t think I know who my own son is,” Mama June said. “Of all my children, he was always the question mark.” She rocked back and forth, mulling the mystery over in her mind. “I always knew who Nan was.”

“She’s the easy one. Nan was the princess,” Nona said wryly.

“That she was. But she had a good heart and always tried to make everyone happy. And she’s bright as a new penny. Problem is, she likes pretty things and made some bad choices to get them.”

“That child made her bed.”

“Yes, but she’s not sleeping in it.”

Nona shook her head, frowning. “That’s not good. She needs to finish what she started. Hiding out here at her mama’s house isn’t going to solve anything.”

Mama June rocked a little faster, annoyed at the prospect of sending Nan home to her husband. “She needs a little time away from him,” she argued. “Besides, this is her home. Where else can she go?”

“Not under her mama’s skirts.”

“She’s not hiding. She’s thinking things through. Nan’s leaving Hank.”

“Oh, Lord…”

“It’ll be tough on her, not to mention the boys. She’ll need us.”

Nona rocked but didn’t reply. A line of worry creased her brow.

“Now, Hamlin,” Mama June continued. “He was easy to figure out. He was full of do and dare. But impulsive, too.
Reckless. Like his father,” she added softly. Her face clouded and she lowered her eyes. “I’ll never know if either one of them might have outgrown that and matured into something quite special. But Morgan…”

“Morgan’s special,” Nona said in a defensive tone.

“Yes, of course. It’s just, I don’t know who he is. That’s an odd thing for a mother to say about her own child. He was always such a quiet boy. He never told me how he felt or what he thought about anything. I’d ask him a question and he’d answer with one word. Yes or no.” She shrugged. “I love him, of course. He’s the apple of my eye, you know that. But I worry about him. He never talks to me or to his father, either. He always shuts us out.”

“He shuts
you
out?” Nona asked incredulously, her eyes protruding.

Mama June heard the sharp tone in Nona’s voice and turned to look at her. Nona had stopped rocking and was sitting straight, the sharp bones of her face catching the shadows.

“Yes,” Mama June replied hesitatingly. “Why are you looking at me like that? You’ve got something to say to me?”

“Lord help me, woman, but I do. I can’t sit here anymore and listen to you go on about how that child shut you out. Mary June, the God’s truth is that you shut that boy out the day your other boy died! There’s no use you trying to deny it.”

“Nona!” She began to rise.

“You sit down, Mary June, and hear me out!”

Mama June made a point of standing.

Nona leaned forward. “You’re saying you don’t know who he is. Harrumph. That’s true enough. Saying he’s quiet and all. Morgan’s been right there under your nose all along. It’s time you took off those rosy glasses and saw your son for who he really is.”

Mama June did not hear anger in Nona’s voice. That
would have sent her walking. Instead she heard the unshakable veracity of a friend about to deliver a “come to Jesus.” Gripping the edge of the rocker, Mama June reluctantly lowered herself back into the chair. She had to stay. She had to listen. She couldn’t turn away. Nona had known Morgan since the day he was born and loved him as she did. If Mama June trusted anyone’s opinion, it was Nona’s. Still, she swallowed thickly. From the look in Nona’s eye, this was going to be hard to hear.

“All right. I’m listening.”

Nona shifted in her chair, settling in. “You wonder why he never talked to you?” She paused, giving Mama June the eye. “It’s because you never
let
him talk to you! I saw early on what was happening. When he was little, you and Mr. Preston were too wrapped up in your own grief to pay your boy mind. Preston, all the time he was out working in the fields or doing something with Sweetgrass. Only time he spoke to that boy was to give him orders.”

“I know he could be hard on him.”

“Don’t you start blaming him. You weren’t there for him, neither!”

“How can you say that?”

“Don’t go shaking your head at me. I was here! I’m the one who held that boy in my arms while he cried himself to sleep during one of your spells. I cleaned him and fed him when his mama couldn’t do the same for herself. I talked him through some mean moments when I thought my heart would break. Mary June, that boy hated himself!”

“No, he didn’t!” It wasn’t a denial but more an exclamation of pain.

“Yes, he did. Maybe still does. He blamed himself for his brother dying and him living. That’s too big a thing for a boy of eight to carry all on his own.”

“Why didn’t I know?” Mama June cried, clutching the arms of the chair. “Why didn’t he tell me?”

“You wouldn’t let him tell you!” Nona reached out and put her hand over the back of Mama June’s. “Honey, you were in a darkness so deep you couldn’t lift your head high enough to see what was happening in your own house. Those were sad times, Mary June. The saddest any mother can bear. We were all grieving, but none of us like you. I pray to Jesus every day I never have to know the grief you knew.”

Mama June slipped her hand away to reach for the tissue in her apron. She swiped at her eyes and sniffed.

Nona sighed and took a steadying breath. There was more that had to be said. “If you’re strong enough, if you love your boy enough, you’ll see that the plain hard truth is, in grieving the son you lost, you neglected the boy that lived. I’m not saying you meant to hurt him, but that’s the way it is, the way it worked out.”

“How? I always loved him. I never blamed him! It was an accident.”

“You didn’t blame him in words. That’s part of the problem, don’t you see? You couldn’t let him or anyone else even mention Hamlin’s name in this house. And Preston was no better. He shut tight like a clam in icy water whenever Hamlin’s name was mentioned. That silence festered and stank and made everyone in this family sick. You never let him deal with it. He kept all of it inside, tearing him up like a cyclone.”

Mama June put her hands to her face as tears streamed down.

“I’ll tell you who your son is,” Nona said in a low, steady cadence. “Morgan has a kind heart. You see that in a child that is kind to animals. It’s in the way he pets them, or brings an injured bird home, or takes a dog out for a walk when no one else will.”

Mama June nodded, remembering. Her face lost its tightness.

“He looked out for this family, too,” Nona went on, more gently now. “He knows his family duty. He knows what’s important. You say he’s quiet? That’s because he’s watching. I’ve seen him watch the faces of you all while you’re talking or eating dinner. His eyes don’t miss a thing. He knows who’s hurting and he worries. He’s careful not to get anyone upset.”

Mama June stopped rocking. “He was careful not to get
me
upset.”

“Especially you. But Preston, too. And Nan. Morgan took for himself the burden for Hamlin’s death. He carried it for the whole family. It’s no wonder he had to leave. If he’d stayed, he’d have died under that weight. If I were that boy, I’d have run, too.”

“Oh, my poor boy…”

“He’s no boy!” Nona exclaimed, tossing up her palms. “He’s a man. You and Preston both have to face that. And the fact that this man is your last hope for salvation.”

Nona rose slowly, feeling as ancient as the marsh. She put her hand to her back as she straightened, an old pain flaring.

“Well, that’s all I’ve got to say about that.”

Mama June couldn’t reply.

Nona stood with her arms crossed, looking out at a squadron of pelicans flying low over the marsh. Mama June’s forehead was cupped in her palm.

“Do you want some coffee?” she asked. “Maybe some ice water?”

“No,” Mama June replied tonelessly. “Thank you. I’ll just sit out here for a while.”

Nona looked searchingly at her face and found nothing there to alarm her. She looked again at the sky. The sun was full overhead. It reflected in the water in shimmering rays.

An hour later, Nona went to the porch again to check on her friend. She found Mama June still sitting in the rocker, but she’d stopped crying. She was looking out again at Blakely’s Bluff.

“Mind if I join you?”

Mama June startled, and when she looked her way, her eyes were red-rimmed, lifeless. She sighed with resignation. “Of course not.”

Nona lowered into her chair, then reached into the canvas bag beside her rocker. In it were her supplies and the basket she was working on. She pulled out a big coiled flower basket with a lovely wide handle. She was nearly done with it. She looked at the tight, even stitches of palmetto and the dark strips of rush interspersed, its thick blades giving the basket strength. She especially liked the big pieces. They showed up so nice and attracted the eye on the highway.

Setting this one aside, Nona dug farther into the bag to pull out a skein of silky grass, strips of palmetto leaves, then some darker bull rush and pine needles. She turned toward her friend.

“Mama June, I’ve given this a lot of thought.”

Mama June stopped rocking and turned her way. “Oh?”

“It’s time for you to begin a basket.”

Mama June looked confused. “Me? Sew a basket?”

“You heard me. You’ve been watching me all these weeks and asking all your questions. I was waiting on you to ask if you could sew one.”

“I wanted to. But I just never thought I should ask. I mean, this is part of your culture. I didn’t think…”

“Oh, I teach folks if they’re white or black, if that’s what you’re getting at,” Nona told her. “Don’t matter to me as long as I keep the art alive—and as long as you keep the rows
straight,” she said with a light laugh. “It helps folks appreciate all the work and time that goes into making a basket. So, are you going to let me teach you?”

“You don’t have to do this. I know you didn’t mean to hurt me.”

Nona pursed her lips. “I don’t have to do anything! And who says I’m hurting you?” She smiled craftily. “Your fingers haven’t played with this grass yet.”

When a smile reluctantly escaped Mama June’s lips, Nona continued more seriously.

“Seems to me we’re coming to a fork in the road. There’s lots going on and I worry if we don’t do this now, we won’t have the chance later. What we put aside today are tomorrow’s treasures. And I think right now you need to make a basket, Mary June. Weaving these grasses together will do you good.” She paused. “Work through that nasty arthritis.”

“I don’t have arth—”

“See? I can still get you going.”

A tremulous smile crossed her face, and hesitatingly, Mama June nodded. “All right. Where do we begin?”

Nona grinned in satisfaction. “First we have to knot it,” she replied, gathering her materials together.

Mary June leaned forward to watch Nona’s fingers work more closely. They sat shoulder to shoulder, their heads bent close. Nona twisted a bundle of pine needles, soft and pliable in her strong hands, holding the ends of grass in her teeth. She tied a rounded knot and began the coil.

“You make it look easy,” said Mama June.

“Been doing this a long time,” Nona readily replied. She lifted it for Mama June to see. “The knot is the very beginning of what’s to come,” she said. “It has to be strong to hold the basket together.”

Next she reached over to take a handful of sweetgrass. The separate strands were slender, and even with her experienced grip some spilled out from the bundle to the floor.