“Look, she’s feeding the birds,” Maggie had said during her first visit to the farm. “Your granmama is so nice.”
“She’s killing the birds,” A.J. corrected her. “She’s like the Joe Stalin of the bird world. She’s killed more birds than Colonel Sanders.”
“That’s not funny,” Maggie replied, taking Granmama’s side. She looked so sweet out there with her straw hat and apron, slowly working her way to the left in an attempt to flank an especially cunning blackbird that was resistant to her wiles. Coo, coo could be heard wafting in the breeze, although A.J. had no idea why Granmama was trying to lure a blackbird by making pigeon noises.
“I swear it’s true,” he said to Maggie. “Every day I go down with a bucket and pick them up. This place is bird hell.” So Granmama had been a tad judgmental with the avian population, but that was small potatoes when compared to the sins of the wretched world.
They toasted her quietly once again, and she in her pine box accepted their tribute with quiet repose. More stories emerged, testimonials to the life she had led and the woman she had been. Maggie shared the advice that had been offered upon her marriage to A.J.: Now, honey, you’ll have to put up with a certain amount of that business if you want to have children. Much good-natured kidding was heaped upon A.J., and for a few moments the cat had his tongue. Doc Miller told of the time he suggested she take a tablespoon or two of wine at mealtimes to aid her digestion. This was sound medical advice, and often the old ways were the best. Clara took right to the idea, and before long she was consuming a bottle of wine per day, but always one tablespoon at a time.
“She enjoyed her tablespoon of wine,” John Robert agreed, smiling slightly as he remembered the exact manner in which she poured her dosage.
“Damn, Doc,” Eugene said. “It’s a good thing you didn’t put her on salty dough.” Eugene had consumed uncounted tablespoonfuls of good Canadian whiskey by this time, but his observation had nonetheless been presented with the greatest respect.
They moved out to the porch, and the narrations continued into the night, verbal monuments carved on the gentle Georgia breeze, a celebration in flesh and word of one of the good Lord’s finer pieces of work. There was a sweet sadness underlying the vignettes, and a gentle humor. She had not been perfect, and she did not change the world, although in her small part of it she had been a force to contend with. Her legacy was right there on that porch, friends and family who remembered her well and who wished she had not gone, plain people gathered together to try to fill the empty space now left in their lives. Her harvest was the dozens of visitors earlier in the evening who had felt the need to express a fare-thee-well. Her eulogy was the quiet murmur drifting from the porch in a generally starward direction, simple soliloquies in which no hard word could be discerned from people who would not let her face her last dawn aboveground alone.
The night passed, and the sky to the east shaded from black to blue. The quiet before the sunrise was broken by the chirping of birds as they got an early start on the daily business of survival. The early ones got the worms, and the rest would be left with the salty dough. The group on the porch began to move around and stretch. A.J. stepped out to the old pump by the well house and worked the cast-iron handle. The antique was there long past its necessity because Granmama had liked it. A.J. washed his face in the cool gush of water. Eugene joined him.
“Are you in the mood to dig a hole?” A.J. asked. Eugene had his head under the spout. He came up and shook his head like an old hound.
“Let’s do it,” he said. Granmama wanted her final resting place opened and closed by hand and had specified this requirement in terms that held no ambiguity. So while Eugene threw some digging tools into the truck, A.J. walked up to the house to see who wished to participate. Doc did, but he had checked with Minnie and had to go. There were still some out there he could save. Slim wanted the honor but was duty bound to go make a round. He promised to return shortly if no criminal activity detained him. Charnell also wanted to be of service, but Doc forbade it.
“You know what I’ve told you about your heart, Charnell,” Doc said. “If you try to help dig this grave, we’ll end up putting you in it.” So Charnell agreed to help Maggie make some breakfast. The plan was formed to bring the gravediggers hot coffee and fresh biscuits presently. John Robert appeared on the porch. He was clean shaven and wore a fresh white shirt.
“Are you ready, John Robert?” A.J. asked.
“Ready.”
“You’re going to ruin that shirt.”
“Expect so.”
The burial party piled into A.J.’s truck and headed for the grove. John Robert marked off the grave while A.J. unloaded the tools-spades, a mattock, and an axe for the inevitable tree root. They set to, one on the mattock and the others on the shovels, and before long they were shin deep. A truck pulled up, and they looked over, expecting to see Charnell and the biscuits. They saw him, and he had more than breakfast with him. In the cab were Slim and Bird Egg, and a group of Sequoyah’s finest filled the cargo compartment: Hoghead, T.C. Clark, Brickhead, John McCord, and Jackie Purdue. The second shift took over the digging as A.J., John Robert, and Eugene took a coffee break. The work progressed swiftly, and the task was completed before the sun had climbed to the tops of the oaks. They adjourned back to the house, where Eugene and A.J. meticulously washed A.J.’s old truck, which would serve as Clara’s caisson to the grove. She had possessed a soft spot for the vehicle, calling it a good old pile of junk, and A.J. thought she would prefer it to a hearse. All was ready for her bon voyage.
And so they sent her off. On a spring afternoon so blue and mild that it snatched the breath, Clara claimed her reward. Her mortal remains were placed carefully beside her husband, and the Reverend Doctor offered kind and comforting words. Angel sang so sweetly that surely even God above turned His vast attention toward high Georgia and looked with favor upon His gathered children. Then dozens of willing hands-men, women, and children-quickly replaced the dirt that had been earlier removed. It was done. Clara Longstreet weighed anchor and set sail, and neither she nor her equal would again grace the lives of her loved ones.
A.J. snapped out of his reverie with a start. He had not thought of Granmama’s death in a long time. The misty rain had grown to a drizzle. The chill in the air had turned to cold. He did not know the time and could not swear to the day. A deep melancholy descended upon him, a profound sadness, and he could not remember ever being as totally alone as he was in that instant. A tear slid down his cheek, then another. His throat closed, and his body shuddered as he tried to deny the emotion. His self-control crumbled and he began to cry.
“Well, shit,” he said between clenched teeth. He was grateful that Maggie and the children were not present to witness the spectacle.
A.J. sat and cried in the cold rain. He cried until his eyes were dry and his voice was hoarse. He cried for Eugene. He cried for the millions of souls who never saw it coming. And he cried for Granmama. She had been cold in the clay for ten long years. Finally, A.J. had found his tears.
CHAPTER 9
Whatever you do, don’t marry someone like me again.
– Excerpt of posthumous letter from Eugene Purdue to Diane, his ex-wife
A.J. WAS SITTING AT THE KITCHEN TABLE EATING fried Spam when his family arrived home from Eudora’s wedding. Spam was a treat reserved for when Maggie was elsewhere, because she could not tolerate the smell of the sautéed delicacy. A.J. had never understood this point of view and finally came to the conclusion it was a gender phenomenon, something to do with the Y chromosome. So he ate faster when he heard the van door slam in the driveway. His one thought was to remove the evidence. The can was already in the garbage, and he had rinsed the pan right after sliding the greasy brown rectangles onto his plate. Long years of illicit Spam eating had taught him to eradicate the trail. He swallowed the last bite just as J.J. burst through the door, followed by his two older sisters. Maggie brought up the rear looking somewhat the worse for wear.