Faith's Reckoning, page 28
She laid the paper down and looked out across the east pasture. The faint pink of early sunrise gave way to bright gold as the sun broke the horizon. The cows had begun their slow saunter toward the barn for milking. Faith considered how her own life would stand up to scrutiny when measured by another’s yardstick. She had diligently poured herself into her work as a nurse, to the point of exhaustion at times. She had generously given time and money to the congregation at Emanuel and many local causes. She had done good work and traveled the world. Nevertheless, she had had her dalliances. She had reconciled herself a long time ago that she need not be confined to a life of celibacy just because she did not want to marry, regardless of the church’s teachings. There had been a handful of men she had loved, some for a matter of months and one for several years. But she had never compromised her principles. None of her lovers was married and all were clear-eyed about her intentions. She had always kept her love in confidence. Hearts had been broken, sometimes hers and sometimes his, but that has always been the price of love or attachment, as the Buddhists would say. Faith smiled at her remembrances. There was no reason to lament the comings and goings of her life.
She took a drink of her coffee, especially strong this morning with ample cream to blunt the bitterness. ‘Grace has finally learned how to make a great cup of coffee,’ she thought. She picked up the paper to resume her reading and felt something wet on her upper lip. She must have been sloppy with her coffee.
The first red splotch on the newspaper puzzled her. Red ink in the middle of an article? Then another spot formed on the page, and another and another. In the eternity between breaths, as she watched the crimson blossoms form, her mind fell still. Then, as though on a soft slow breeze came the thought, ‘We fall like leaves from a sweet gum tree, carried away by an invisible wind.’
She reached into the pocket of her robe and retrieved a Kleenex to wipe the blood from her nose.
“Grace?” Faith called, trying to mask her own fear. “Grace, could you bring me a cold washcloth?”
Her blood counts had been dropping for the past month. She let herself get another red blood cell transfusion last week to treat her anemia but her platelets, her clotting cells, had not been a problem. Now suddenly, in this suspended moment she knew that it was time to stop bargaining with God. Clearly, her platelet count had dropped. Soon her good white blood cells would be gone, and she would be defenseless against infection.
Grace appeared at the screen with the washcloth. Her eyes widened visibly when she saw the blood. Faith took a deep breath and regained her composure. Tears began to well in her eyes as she came to accept that her time was near.
“Gracie, see if I have some Neosynephrine in the bathroom cabinet.”
Her sister nodded, momentarily frozen before she summoned the courage she had promised to find when Faith needed her.
“Now go call Dr. Prentice,” Faith said when her sister returned with the nose drops, “And I think you might want to call Sylvia and tell her to catch a plane.”
MISSISSIPPI 1999
Rain pelted the windshield. The wipers slapped frantically, unable to disperse the water sheeting across the glass. The slight drizzle in Vicksburg had picked up in intensity as Sylvia headed north, but she had continued on into the storm, wondering if she was crazy to take another detour to Clarksdale on her way home. This downpour had come on so suddenly and was so blinding that Sylvia did not have time to search for shelter beneath an overpass. She pulled over to the side of the road and felt her way to the shoulder by the sound of the gravel and the subtle drop off at the edge of the pavement. She rolled to a stop and turned off the engine. Another wave of grief washed over her as she thought about the past two weeks. She still couldn’t believe how quickly Faith’s health had declined.
Once Faith decided to stop her hydroxyurea and forego any transfusions or antibiotics, she had begun to let go in earnest. She had died ten days after Sylvia’s arrival. In that last week together, Faith found time to talk to Sylvia about her wishes. She wanted three things. She wanted to be cremated and gave instructions for disposing of her ashes. She wanted her entire estate, other than some individual gifts she had set aside, to go to McLeod Walker, and she wanted Sylvia to hand deliver a letter to him. After that was done, and not before, Sylvia was to unlock a safety deposit box at the First Charter bank in Jackson. Sylvia had carefully scribbled notes onto a pad as Faith talked so Faith could witness her wishes being recorded. Once she felt sure they would be fulfilled, Faith had relaxed and turned to her memories of young McLeod Walker. A real music talent, that young man, she had said.
Even though she had never met him, Sylvia had developed a fondness for McLeod Walker from the stories Faith had told. She had done her best to simplify the transfer of Faith’s estate to him, setting up transfer on death accounts for the cash and investments. However, the transfer of the title to the house meant the Last Will and Testament still had to go through probate. She knew she needed to meet with McLeod soon, but she could not do it today. Not until she had sent him a letter of introduction.
Sylvia and Grace had packed up the last of Faith’s things, which she’d so carefully winnowed to the most valuable and personal. Together they had cleaned the house, just as they had washed Faith’s body the night she died, as a last ritual of love. The memorial service was held at the Emanuel Congregational Church on Sunday afternoon and the sanctuary was packed with friends who overflowed onto the front steps. They had invited everyone back to the farmhouse for food and remembrances. The picnic table outside was filled with the dishes people brought, offerings of fried chicken and cornmeal crusted catfish, deviled eggs and potato salad, yellow squash, and fresh purple hull peas. A true Southern wake. It was well after dark before the last visitor hugged Sylvia goodbye.
The next morning she and Grace had tended the garden one last time, unable to turn the plants under just yet. Then they locked up the house and left. Sylvia had seen her mother off at the airport in Jackson early this morning. Grace was going back to New York City and her life there. The parting had been hard for them both because of the intimacy they’d shared. It was one more rent in the tapestry that was unraveling now that Faith was gone.
It had only been a couple of hours since Sylvia had bribed one of the county workers at the abandoned Vicksburg Bridge to let her slip past the chain link gate and walk the three quarters of a mile to its midspan. There she let Faith’s ashes fly, honoring her wish to fall into the arms of Old Man River and dance with him all the way to the Gulf of Mexico and beyond. Sylvia had asked Grace if she wanted to come along but her mother felt uncomfortable with the whole idea of cremation. Brimstone and all that, Sylvia imagined. So she had taken on the task alone. It left her a little wobbly at first, as though her compass had lost its North when the last of the ashes were whisked away. But some part of Faith’s essence, her wisdom, must have breathed its way into Sylvia, who felt a sense of calm after letting go of her beloved aunt in this way.
Now she sat quietly in the car, waiting for the storm to pass. The rain eased up as the clouds moved off to the east. The weather had been fierce at times over the past week with a spate of tornadoes and floods wreaking havoc over much of central and eastern Mississippi, as though the earth itself was convulsed with grief at the passing of such a remarkable soul. Sylvia checked the rear-view mirror to make sure the road was clear before easing back onto the highway. She figured she would be in Clarksdale in little more than an hour.
The tires splashed against the wet pavement. She slipped Rory Block’s ‘Gone Woman Blues’ CD into the dash of the Miata and fast-forwarded to the title song. The soft moan eased her deeper into the bucket seat until the lick of the slide guitar took over, infusing her with the only salvation she could feel at the moment, setting her left foot to tapping and her shoulders to shimmying. She let the album transport her all the way to heaven and then on to Clarksdale.
Sylvia had called ahead to make sure a room was available at the Hellbound Hotel. When she arrived, she found out that Raymond Jackson, the hotel owner, was on a much-needed vacation. The attendant greeted her kindly.
“Evening,” she said, “You needin’ a room for the night.”
“Yes,” Sylvia replied, “Just one night. Is room 8 available by any chance?”
“Let me look. You been here before?” The young woman flipped through a file of index cards.
“Yes, last September.” Sylvia said, as she fought back tears. The past year with Faith had gone by so quickly.
“Yes, it’s available. Shared bath you know, but there’s a lady in room seven.”
“I’ll take it,” Sylvia said, laying her credit card on the counter.
She took the key and walked down the hall to the left, opened the door then closed it behind her. She sat on the bed and rummaged through her briefcase until she found her cell phone.
“Hello,” Joe answered.
“Hey, Love. I’m in Clarksdale.”
She imagined him smiling as he paused before speaking.
“I thought you might end up there on the way home. How are you?”
“Sad and missing you.”
“Me too, Babe, me too.”
“How’s the ranch?”
“Same old, same old. Baling hay and fixin’ fences. I’m starting to realize that I am not thirty years old anymore. There comes a point when a body can’t keep doing this work.”
“You could play piano in Austin instead.”
“Then I’d need to rent a house and buy my own car. You know how much a piano player makes?”
“You could live with me, at least until you get steady gigs,” Sylvia said.
Joe laughed out loud, “What are you proposing, Miss Sylvia Barbarino?”
She paused before she responded, afraid to promise a future she couldn’t deliver. “You know how much I love waking up with you, Joe. If you need a place to stay for a while you would be welcome. I really called to thank you for coming to the memorial service.”
“You know how much I cared about Faith. I wanted to be there, for you and to say my goodbyes.”
“I know,” she said, “But it was still kind of a big deal for you to come.”
“Like I said, I was happy to.”
“I’m serious about you playing piano full time, Joe. Think about it.”
“I will. But in the meantime, would you please get your sweet ass back home. My bed is cold and empty without you.”
“Well warm it up as best you can. I’ll be there tomorrow night.”
“OK, drive carefully.”
“I will.”
Sylvia clicked the phone closed and put it back in her briefcase. She really missed Joe. Right now, all she wanted was to lie next to him, to rest in their love. But was that fair to him? The therapist she was seeing had displayed great empathy for Sylvia’s situation as well as the impact on Joe’s life. She had encouraged Sylvia to be honest with Joe about her past before taking any steps to contact the adoption agency. Joe needed to know how certain Sylvia was about not having another child and about her intention to find the son she had. Honesty was the first step toward any future, with or without Joe. Sylvia had tried to bring herself to have the conversation with Joe on a couple of occasions but hadn’t found the courage. Then Faith had relapsed and she had turned to Joe for comfort, delaying any difficult discussions. Sylvia was suddenly tired.
She leaned against the pillows, thinking she would lie down for just a few minutes. She was out cold before she knew it, and when she awoke it was a little past seven o’clock. The string cheese and bag of peanuts she had eaten after stopping for gas in Beulah had whetted the small appetite she had. She decided to go straight to Maizie’s instead of finding a restaurant. She knew the music would not start until later, but she needed to get out, and that juke joint was the only place she wanted to be.
When she arrived, Sylvia found Mike behind the bar. There was a momentary lull in the evening’s business. He was wiping down the counter with one hand, holding a sturdy looking baby in the other arm.
“What can I get ya’?,” he said looking up.
“Whatever you’ve got on draft,” she said. “It’s Mike, right?”
“Yep, I’m Mike and this is James Lucas,” he said, holding up his boy with both hands and letting his little round feet touch the freshly cleaned counter. The baby reflexively began a stepping motion.
“Well, Mike, I’m Sylvia Barbarino and I’m sure you don’t remember me, but I passed through here last September.”
“Sorry, Sylvia, I’m not so good with faces. Lots of folks come through here.” He shifted James Lucas back to his hip and drew her a cold glass of beer. He placed it on the counter in front of her. “But we’re glad you decided to drop back by.”
“I didn’t know you were a father.”
“Yep, this is me and Rosie’s first. Of many, I hope. She’s in the kitchen grilling some burgers for dinner. Do you want one?”
“Yea, that would be great.” Sylvia said, suddenly discovering her appetite again. “I forgot to eat dinner.”
“Sure, I’ll bring it out when it’s done” he said, then nodded toward the stage.
“Those guys are just finishing up a jam session. Tonight’s band won’t start warming up for another thirty minutes. Right big guy?” he said, lifting his son over his head and dropping him back down, eliciting a belly laugh.
Sylvia looked over at the stage and listened to the two men improvising blues rifts on the guitar. One was quite a bit older than the other. The older man played with his eyes closed, fingers dancing up and down the fret board, keeping time with his right foot. The music he made was like the salve of cool water on a burn. The sound of a familiar voice turned her attention away from the men and towards the hall leading to the restrooms.
“Put another club soda on my tab, Mike. I’ll get it myself so James Lucas can keep up his flying lessons there.”
“Louise!!” Sylvia squealed and jumped off her bar stool. She had kept up a scant correspondence with Louise after they had met at Maizie’s last September, but she had let it slip lately.
“Well, rocka my soul in the bosom of Abraham,” Louise said opening her arms wide, “Welcome home, Miss Sylvia Barbarino.”
Sylvia hugged her longer than she had intended and found herself crying. Louise did not flinch, prepared to hold the broken sparrow of a gal all night if needed. Sylvia finally let go and wiped her eyes with the bar napkin that she retrieved from underneath her beer.
“Faith’s dead,” she blurted out.
Louise looked into her eyes for a moment then nodded.
“I was wondering, after you told me she relapsed this spring. Figured you’d be in touch after the dust settled.”
“I’m surprised how much it hurts,” Sylvia said, wiping her eyes again.
Louise motioned to Mike to hand James Lucas over.
“Your Aunt Weezy wants you,” he said.
“Mike, I told you I’m gonna have to shoot you if you call me Weezy again.”
“You don’t have a gun, but OK. Here you go, Aunt Louise,” he chuckled, passing his son across the counter.
James Lucas settled onto her lap and nuzzled the side of his head against her breast. She placed her hand on his cheek and held him close.
“Lucas, I think I’m going to have to put you to work for a few minutes.”
She kissed the top of his head then handed him to Sylvia.
Sylvia did not know what to do at first. She looked at Louise, waiting for direction.
“Nothing takes the sting out of death like holding a baby,” Louise smiled. “Just confuses the hell out of the brain having all that death and new life mixed up together. Like they’re both true at the same time.”
Sylvia took him from Louise and held him so that his head rested on her shoulder, his crown tucked beneath her chin. She stood up and began to rock gently side to side. She felt his body loosen in trust, the full weight of him against her. Soon she heard his breathing take on the quiet rhythm of sleep. She sat back down and closed her eyes, just holding this baby boy. Mike excused himself, letting the women have a moment alone.
“You know the hardest part,” Sylvia said, her eyes still closed, “I was just starting to think that maybe I could trust in something, a Presence as Faith called it.”
“And now?” Louise asked.
“Well, I don’t know if I can find it without Faith around to point me in the right direction.”
“Darlin’ you don’t need to understand the Mystery to have a relationship with it.”
Sylvia was quiet. She breathed in the pure sweet smell of James Lucas and opened her eyes to see the two guitar players packing up their instruments. She waited for Louise to continue.
“It’s where the music comes from. You can find it in the blues or in the forms released from Michelangelo’s marble. It is in the roll of the tides and the love you make with Joe. It’s in whatever brings forth life. At least that’s God enough for me.”
Sylvia reached over and held Louise’s hand.
“Thank you, Louise. I knew I needed to come to Clarksdale on my way home.”
Mike returned from the kitchen with Sylvia’s hamburger. When he saw his son sleeping in her arms, he decided to invite her to join them for dinner.
“Sylvia, why don’t you eat in the kitchen with Louise and Rosie and me? Looks like James Lucas has decided to adopt you as his newest aunt.”
The bell over the door jingled as the musicians from the jam session made their way out.
“See you tomorrow, Mike,” said the shorter Black man, carrying his six-string.
“Sure thing, McLeod. You guys are the show next Thursday, right?”
“That’s right, man.”
Sylvia stole a glance at the man. The crown of his head was balding and there was ample gray in his well-trimmed beard.
“Did you say McLeod?”
“Yeah, McLeod Walker. He is a lawyer here in town. And the best blues guitar man from here to New Orleans,” Mike said as she watched McLeod disappear out the door.
