Just as I expected, the house was filled with folks sipping hot coffee, dipping their forks into Mrs. Patterson’s banana cream pie, and alternating between thunderous exchanges about Uncle Jim’s antics and the quiet moments that came with the memory of his death.
I had left Mother and Aunt Stella in the kitchen, fretting over where to put all the food that had come in. “You won’t have to cook for a month of Sundays,” Mother was saying.
As I pushed my way through the heavy swinging door, I glanced over my shoulder at the two of them. They were a picture of opposites. Mother, tall. Her aunt, short. Mother’s hair, dark and wavy and straight from a bottle. Aunt Stella’s hair, thinning and cottony white and straight from nature. Mother’s posture always upright. I can’t remember when Aunt Stella didn’t hump over. When Mother speaks, her voice is quiet but firm. Aunt Stella, a smoker from the age of nine, has a raspy voice. Though she is a gentle, sweet soul, most of the time her words sound harsh and a compliment sounds more like a reprimand.
I smiled, released the door, and walked down the long, cold hallway toward the living room, where most of the people had gathered. In my desire to suspend time, I took deliberate steps then stopped. I drank in the sights and sounds of the old house. I called upon imagination and heard the laughter of all those who’d called this their home. The children who had run through this hall, then up the stairs. The adults who’d called after them. “Stop your running in the house, now!” they’d say. And the children would call back, “Yes’m” or “Okay, sir.” I turned a slow circle, dipping my neck back, and peered upward. Ceilings of dull white paint—bearing water stains amber with age—towered at twelve feet. The walls were cracked and peeling. The floors—made from wide heart of pine boards—could have used stripping and refinishing years ago. Four oblong wool rugs, their design faded beyond remembrance, ran the length of the room. As I started toward the living room, they muffled my steps with a familiarity I found strangely comforting. They brought a rhythm I’d long ago lost. This was the sound of my childhood, when I’d known exactly where I was going and what I was doing, if only for the day. This was the tapping of heels on wood and the padding of soles on carpet.
I reached the closed French doors leading to the living room. I opened one of them slowly, not wanting to be jarred out of my reverie. I closed the door behind me, and life returned in an onslaught of conversation and heat from the fireplace. I spotted my father right away, sitting in the middle of the overstuffed and outdated sofa. Uncle Bob, Mother’s older brother, sat next to him. They were engaged in conversation, as always when the family got together. I couldn’t hear them over the other banter, but I caught words like “bow hunting” and “next deer season.” These were the words all Southern men knew, possibly from birth.
I made my way past the clusters of people toward a small table in front of one of the half dozen floor-to-ceiling windows in the room. Atop it sat an antique lamp, the tattered family Bible, and a small box stuffed with black-and-white photographs with curling edges. I knew the box well; digging into its contents was one of my favorite things to do when I came to the big house.
“Jo-Lynn.”
I turned. “Doris, hi.” I stepped forward to give Uncle Jim and Aunt Stella’s daughter a quick hug. “I’m so sorry for your loss.” I drew back and looked at her. If the frayed edges were any indication, her long blonde hair had been bleached one too many times, and it appeared her makeup had been applied with a shaky hand.
“Daddy was a cap pistol, wasn’t he?” The question was rhetorical. “He’s going to be missed.” She took my hand and squeezed it. “I know you’ll also be lost for a while. The two of you were always so close.” She wrinkled her nose at me and shook her head ever so slightly as if by making a face everything would suddenly be okay again.
“He was the closest thing to a grandfather I had on Mother’s side.” Mother’s parents had died within six months of each other—one of a heart attack, one in a car accident—when I was five.
“I was only six when my grandfather died, but I remember it so well. It was February, and it was raining. Mama always told me it was sleeting, but I don’t remember that part. I just remember coming back to this house and searching every room in the house for Pops and not being able to find him.” “And now you’ve lost your father.”
“And you’ve lost an uncle.”
Even though technically Jim was my great-uncle, in the South an aunt is an aunt and an uncle is an uncle, “removed” or not.
She squeezed my hand again. “Your parents get to a certain age, you begin to expect the day when . . . well, you know . . .” Doris turned her head as her eyes scanned the room. “I haven’t seen Evan.”
“Evan couldn’t make it . . . his work. And the holidays being just two months ago . . . he felt he should stay . . . he . . . he sends his condolences, of course.”
Doris’s smile was wry, and I wondered if she could see through my lie. The truth was, Evan hadn’t come because I’d asked him not to. We hadn’t said a civil word to each other in weeks, had only tolerated each other for the past few months. In spite of his attempt to reach out to me when I’d received Mother’s call telling me of Uncle Jim’s death, I’d brushed him away. “Please,” I’d said. “Just leave me alone. I’m a big girl; I can drive myself halfway across the state.” I’d shaken my head. “Besides, I just don’t want to be with you.”
“So, his business is good, then?” Doris now asked.
“Business is very good. It’s amazing how many people are moving into the area . . . It’s an architect’s dream world over there.” I forced out a laugh. “Evan and his partner are among the most successful neighborhood developers in the entire Atlanta area.”
Doris looked down at her hands, studied the elaborate diamonds and long red nails gracing her fingers. “And you? How’s your business?”
I crossed my arms and squeezed, attempting to stop the quivering rising from within. “Um . . . it’s going.”
Doris’s brow lifted. “As in going, going, gone?”
I nodded, unable to say anything at all. Truth was, my work as an interior decorator for the design firm of Stanley, Stanley, and Miller had come to an end. By mutual decision, I’d left more than a month before. With my life and marriage at a crossroads, my creative juices had dried up. I wasn’t able to give to the clients and, therefore, was of no use to the company.
I raised my hand and shooed away the memory. “As in going, going, gone. I’ve taken a leave of absence. For about a month now.” I gave a nod to Doris. “But, I’ll go back to work. In time.” As soon as I can figure out who I am and why I’m here in this world . . .
Doris looked relieved. “Well, thank you, Jesus.”
“Excuse me?”
She reached over and touched my arm with her fingertips. “Jo-Lynn, Mama and I need to talk to you later.” She looked around the room. “After everyone is gone. You stick around, ya hear?”
“What’s going on, Doris?”
Doris didn’t answer. Instead, her attention shifted as a hush swept over the room. I turned to watch as Aunt Stella made her way through the French doors, past a few mourners, and to the closed door leading to the bedroom she’d shared with her husband for more than sixty years. She moved like a woman on a mission, opening the door with a jerk and closing it firmly behind her, the old glass and brass doorknob rattling in the wake.
Moments later, we heard the wail . . . the gut-wrenching cries of a woman who knew she would sleep alone every night for the rest of her life. The sobs of a wife no longer with a companion to share the days . . . to cook for . . . to clean up after . . . to make love to.
Uncle Bob stood. “Y’all leave her alone, now.” He adjusted the waistband of the dark pants around his hips. “She’ll be all right.”
I turned back to the window, peering through the lace curtains yellowed by years of cigarette smoke and neglect, to the barren land on the other side. In many ways, Aunt Stella and I were very much alike. The only difference being I couldn’t find it within me to cry.