The Memento (29 page)

My legs were sticking to the vinyl bike seat and when I lifted my thigh it felt like my skin was ripping. I could hear her speaking my name but I planned on biking right by her.
Fancy Mosher, Fancy Mosher, Fancy Mosher
.

“Jesus,” Art said. “It’s like a bad nursery rhyme. We’ll talk to Harry when we get up to Petal’s End. He’ll help you.”

“She’ll never leave me alone, not until the day she dies and maybe not even then. You know what she’s got in her head.”

Funny how the sultry air clasps sound. I heard Ma’s voice calling, “Fancy Mosher, you stop. Right now.”

I kept going and Art said nothing. I started whistling.

“Fancy,” Ma hollered again.

I turned. Art forged ahead but then he gave in and turned too. Ma was beckoning, one hand on her hip, wobbling on her high-heeled shoes.

“How’d I ever end up out of a thing like that?” I whispered. “She’s drunk.”

“It would seem that way,” Art whispered in reply.

She got in the car and started it, backed up and came charging forward, slamming on the brakes when the car was almost touching my legs.

“Get in the car, honeys,” she said. She ran her finger softly on my scar through the open window. I did what she said, under her spell. “Put them bikes in the back.” She popped the trunk and I put my bike in. I don’t know why but Art picked up his bike.

“Art, you go along then,” I said, but he put the bike in and got in the car.

“You’re looking lovely this afternoon, Mrs. Mosher.”

Ma looked at Art as she pushed on the gas and we roared up the dirt road, dust and rocks flying behind us. “Don’t call me that unless you want to insult me, Art. Call me Marilyn. Well, I’m glad you noticed how I’m looking. You’re going to be a lady-killer when you grow up,” she yelled to him, winking, even though it
seemed more like she had dirt in her eye. The car swerved near a tree in front of the big stone boundary wall of Petal’s End.

“Ma, watch the road.”

She hauled on the wheel and we shot across to the other side, almost going in the ditch before she straightened the car out. She grabbed another cigarette. “Don’t you go telling me how to drive, Fancy. Don’t you go telling me nothing. Just like having your grandfather around. Holy Mother Mercy.” All of a sudden she started weeping and took a big breath in, a big huge gasp, and then she stopped. “Forgive me, Fancy. I ain’t myself today. Forgive your old Ma.”

“So where we going, Mrs. Mosh … I mean, Marilyn?”

“Oh, we’re just going on a little country drive,” she said.

As we passed by the driveway into Petal’s End, a small thing glowing in a white dress stepped out, its hands clasped against the fairy-green leaves and the grey stone walls. Ma let out a scream. “Do you see it, Fancy?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Praises to Holy Mother Mercy. You got the gift. You believe.”

“It’s Jenny Parker, Ma,” I shouted at her.

“When did she go and die? No one told me.”

“She’s not dead, Mrs. Mosher.” Art was yelling over the car engine too.

“Well, praises, praises, look at that. She ain’t dead. I never thought she’d make it to five, let alone twelve. Scrawny, ain’t she? Looks like her grandmother does now. I hear she ain’t aging well. That’s what the cleaners say.” Ma pulled over and Jenny came over near the car. She did look like Marigold standing there, like she was turning into a withered old lady.

Ma eyed Jenny. “I thought you was a hobgobbly. Maybe you are and you snuck into Petal’s End. Marigold better take care with you running about.”

“You shouldn’t speak that way about my grandmother.” That
was all Jenny said, like us driving up with a crazy lady in a beat-up, swerving car somehow made sense to her.

Ma seemed transfixed, looking at Jenny, a doll that sprung to life before her eyes.

“I’ve been waiting all day to see them. We play together, you see,” Jenny said, her voice stern and low.

Ma laughed, her body jerking. “Oh yes, the Parkers playing with the Moshers,” she said.

“How silently, how silently,” Jenny said, in a soft voice.

“Well, we’re going on a drive, dear Jenny Parker. I’m Fancy’s mother.” Ma’s voice was purring again.

“I know who you are. You’ve got the Mosher eyes.” There weren’t a lot of people who could unnerve Ma, especially when she was drunk. Grampie or Loretta maybe. But Jenny was affecting her.

“Get in then, if you’re coming. Art, don’t be rude. Open the door for little Miss Parker.”

Art got out and opened the door for her, and Jenny slid in beside me. She squeezed my arm with her cold, claw-like fingers. “Hello, Fancy.”

Art was laughing nervously. Ma pressed on the gas and we zoomed off, pebbles flying, the air getting warmer as we drove away from the bay.

Ma locked eyes with Jenny in the rear-view mirror. “Is your Granny still afraid of hobgobblies, little girl? Because she should be. She should be very afraid. Hobgobblies is coming to get her one of these days, and don’t she know it.” Jenny didn’t seem to take offence. She even gave a twitch in what I thought might be agreement. “You don’t need to see the dead if you keep company like this girl, Fancy.”

We almost went into a tree then. “Please, Marilyn!” Art yelled, grabbing the wheel. “Please keep your eyes on the road. Why don’t I drive? I love to drive on a dirt road.”

Jenny leaned forward on the seat. “I could as well. Hector has been giving me lessons in the big car while you’ve been helping
Loretta. He’s also been letting me drive his truck but my legs are too short. Don’t worry, Fancy. He thinks I’m five years old. They won’t let me do any work around the house or anything at all except play, so Hector takes me along with that moronic Buddy. Hector thinks I’m like a puppy who likes to go for a drive.” She coughed from the dust kicking up from the dirt road.

“Jenny, you might want to get out. You can still walk home. There’s a door in the wall up a bit and you can walk back on the path.”

“She can come along. You haven’t seen your mother in a long time, Fancy.” Ma burped. “It’s almost time, Honeysuckle.”

“I haven’t seen my mother in a while either. She never takes me on outings. You’re lucky, Fancy,” Jenny said.

We raced down a hill and as we came up there was a man walking on the side of the road. It was Harry, swinging his arms, long legs striding along, a pack on his back, same khaki shorts and a pair of binoculars around his neck. He was just past where the Petal’s End wall turned and ran west through the woods along the southern border of the property.

“Now who is that good-looking man? He looks a bit queer but there’s nothing wrong with that,” Ma said, staring, almost running him down. “Look at his funny hat. He looks like an explorer.”

“It’s my cousin, Harry. We should offer him a ride. He’s a scientist.” Jenny tapped Ma on the shoulder.

“Well, you don’t have to get all pushy about it, my God. I never had much time for a man of science.”

“Pull over, Mrs. Mosher.”

“It’s Marilyn. You don’t need to go all formal like you people at Petal’s End like to.”

“Pull over, Marilyn.”

Maybe it was not being able to see Jenny’s eyes behind her glasses. Maybe it was because she had that Parker way about her. Or maybe it was the creepy low voice crawling out of such a small child. I don’t know. Ma slowed right down and peered out the open window.

Harry was out of breath from the heat and Ma was making him trot along there in the full sun beside the car, with sweat dripping off his nose and chin. He had his hat in his hand now that he was jogging. “Very good, then, look at all of you, out for an afternoon drive,” he said, voice bouncing with his stride. Finally Ma pulled over. “So kind of you to stop. It’s hotter than I anticipated. I’ve been used to the fresh breezes at Petal’s End but when you go inland, well, it’s a different climate. You must be Fancy’s mother. I was under the impression you were on a holiday … of sorts. Have you come back early?” He had this puzzled look on his face, and he kept his eyes on mine like he thought I’d mouth him a secret message.

Ma laughed and pounded the steering wheel as she stared out the window. “You talk like a retarded man,” Ma said. “Sure you aren’t left over from when they had the mental hospital back up there, one of them crazy choir singers?”

“Why don’t you get in, Cousin Harry.” It wasn’t put as no question. Jenny’s voice was loud.

“Well, how kind of you to come and fetch me,” Harry said hesitantly.

“Open the door for the man, Fancy. You heard your midget friend. Make room for the man,” Ma said.

I opened the door and moved over. Jenny and I were so thin we took up one space together.

Harry got in. He wiped his forehead and leaned forward, holding out his hand. “I’m Harold Prescott, Marigold’s cousin. My wife and I are visiting for the summer. What a sensational region, I must say.”

Ma looked at his hand briefly then hit the gas and we roared off. She took a drink from a bottle of gin she held between her legs.

“Slow down,” Harry yelled. Jenny and I started laughing. She was laughing like it was funny. I was laughing because if I stopped I’d start crying and crying never led to anything good with Ma.

Ma turned on the radio and gospel music came blasting out, and she started talking to Art about the graveyard, about how many Moshers were buried in it.

“Is your mother drunk?” Harry whispered.

Jenny giggled. “You’re slow on picking things up. But most adults are. Don’t feel badly, Cousin Harry. You mean well. I know you do. Did you know Granny wants to open up the Annex? She wants to renovate it. She thinks my father would want that.”

Ma turned the radio down, like she had an attack of manners. “Don’t talk about your corpse of a grandmother. We’re going to the Flying Squirrel Road on family business, to the graveyard. You can sit in the car, you Parkers. I’ll drive you home after,” she hollered.

Ma pulled up at the cemetery and the car heaved to a stop. She got out and put her hands on her hips, taking it all in. She took a step forward and her high heels caught on the grass. “This is where my son’s buried,” she said in a soft voice, looking straight ahead, like there was things in front of her that were listening. “John Lee. He’d be a grown man, if he was alive. He was the first-born and the first to die. No mother should outlive her first-born.”

Jenny got out and tilted her head back as though a movement up above had caught her attention. “Risen with healing in his wings.”

“Jesus wept. Yes sir, he did, and he also rose. You are a wise little girl,” Ma said.

“From the realms of glory,” Jenny said. “My grandfather paid for John Lee’s tombstone. The finest marble. My father told me so.”

Harry tried to catch my eye but he didn’t understand. Art looked back at Harry and held his hands up in defeat. Our helplessness seemed to spur Harry on and he jumped out of the car, slamming the door behind him.

Ma lurched off to the rusted gate and pulled it open, the door creaking as it swung. The roses by the garden gate had been chewed off, mangled. The graveyard was surrounded by thick leafy forest and it was shady and cool. I smelled sweet cicely. It was growing
all through the ditches, having escaped from the gardens at Petal’s End a long time ago. Neither Art nor I had said a word and we were still sitting in back seat of the car.

I guess then Harry thought he’d be a man, take control and be an adult. He followed Ma. “Mrs. Mosher, my dear lady …” he started. “I really think you need assistance—”

“Marilyn. Please just call her Marilyn,” Art called over to Harry.

“Don’t you tell me what to do,” Ma spit out—but we weren’t sure at who. Then from far up in the branches came a horrible screaming, like it, too, would tell her what to do. The screaming stopped. We had no idea what was hidden in the foliage, and whatever it was, we hoped it would not come down.

Jenny looked where the noise had been coming from, a weird rapture on her face like she was in church, her hands tightly clasped together.

“Don’t you think you can go telling me what to do. You could have helped me and you didn’t. No sir, you didn’t, you just kept what you had to yourself and left me on my own, wondering. I don’t need no more judgment.” Ma shook her fist. Another scream came piercing down through the air. Art and I got out of the car then and went in through the gate to stand beside Jenny.

“Ma,” I called. “Ma. Grampie ain’t there.”

“You get over here, Fancy Mosher, and you do your job. You wouldn’t even tell me if you could see your Grampie. You’re stubborn, just like him. I want you to believe. I want you to be a believer.”

“Just stay here,” Harry said. “Fancy, just stay here. It’s all right. Marilyn, perhaps it would make more sense to come back at another time, without the children. I think that’s a splendid idea, don’t you?” He came and stood beside me, his arm out, like he thought Ma might try to snatch me.

“It’s the day,” I said. “The same day. All those years ago. It was the day John Lee drowned.”

As if in a reverie, Ma touched John Lee’s tombstone, talking as she stroked it, telling a story about silver moons and a baby’s boat sailing across starry skies, like we weren’t there anymore but rather a young boy was sitting beside her on the grass with the shining Mosher eyes and soft tousled hair just like mine. John Lee, she sang, her low aching voice entrancing and holding us as she brought the past to life in a brief graveside moment that plays out for me still.

We could not take our eyes off her as she stood amidst the midsummer green foliage, smeared ruby lips and sparkling necklace bright against her black mourning clothes. With her peculiar audience of children and a stiff middle-aged man, Marilyn Mosher gave her lament for the dead. I’ve seen Ma upon a stage in my mind every summer since that moment, and as the words come forth from her mouth with them comes the laugh of a boy who appears on the beach and watches his mother wave to him as she walks down the beach with a tall man. The boy has a toy boat, and he giggles because it looks funny playing in the waves. He follows it, and then he is soaring up and down the waves that cover the steep beach while his Mama is behind the cliff in a shallow cave. This is how Ma recalled it. Her back is against the wet rock, her back going up and down, the skin rubbing raw, absent as the man pushes deeper inside her, and fireworks explode in her belly and travel up to the same breasts that used to fill with milk for the little boy now floating face down in the big waves beyond the surf. The big blue sky and the island out on the horizon watch quietly as he drowns. The other boy who has come to the beach looks up from his rock castle, screaming. There is a woman there collecting amethyst and holding a parasol. She doesn’t know how to swim, she cries. The other boy keeps screaming at the water’s edge. And Marilyn Mosher comes wobbling, woozy from the gin, over the rocks in her high heels and falls, cracking her forehead open, her hands slipping on the rocks, crawling over them to get to the waves. The
other child is in the water trying to reach the boy but the older woman pulls him back. The man from the cave runs to his truck for a rope. The incoming tide brings the little boy closer to the beach and he is caught up on a wave, on the top of the wave, and it breaks and he comes in on the surf, his hands moving like small sea stars as the water pulls back and leaves little John Lee Mosher dead on the beach.