Мэри Элис Монро – Sweetgrass (страница 10)

Smiling at the age-old question, she stretched up to kiss his cheek. “Music to my ears. You go on and wash up and I’ll fix you something. I’ll be there directly.”

She watched him go inside, heard the soft clap of the screen door close behind him. Alone, she turned toward the vast darkness beyond, then looked to the heavens. The stars sparkled with a brilliance nearly as bright as the hope shining in her eyes.

Later that night a storm barreled through the Lowcountry, bringing with it crackling lightning and rumbling thunder that shook the rafters. Mama June roused from her sleep, blinking her eyes slowly as she grew accustomed to the deep darkness. She could see nothing save for the intermittent flashes of light from the storm. She wasn’t afraid. Ever since coming to live at Sweetgrass she’d thrilled to the fast-moving storms that swept from the mainland toward the ocean.

Restless, she turned over to her back and, placing her hands on her chest, played the game of counting the seconds between lightning and thunder. Rain tapped against the windows and the roof as she reviewed her decision to bring Preston home.

The tapping grew louder, interrupting her thoughts. Mama June glanced over to the window. Her breath hitched in her throat as she caught sight of a misty white mass hovering near the window. Squinting, she thought she saw a figure in the mist. The outline of a woman’s form in a nightcap and a long period dress appeared, looking directly at her. Mama June felt the hairs on her body rise.

Then lightning flashed again, bold and bright, and thunder clapped so near and loud that Mama June clutched her gown and nearly jumped from her skin. When she looked again, the apparition was gone.

Mama June sat up in her bed and, with a trembling hand, flicked on the bedside lamp. Instantly, a soothing light filled the room, reassuring her that she was indeed alone. Only the curtains flapped at the window. She brought her hand to her heart, and as her breathing came back to normal, she tried to dredge up the memory of what she’d just seen. It had happened so quickly, she couldn’t be sure if what she’d seen was real or a dream. Perhaps it was merely the strange light patterns from the lightning against the curtains.

“You old fool,” she muttered to herself, lowering back into bed and turning off the bedside lamp. “You’re just imagining things.”

The storm quickly passed out to sea and only a gentle rain pattered on the rooftop. Mama June felt a heavy weariness droop her eyelids and weigh down her bones. She lay her head down on the pillow and brought her blanket close under her chin, telling herself for the thousandth time that her imagination had got the best of her on this emotional day.

And yet…a persistent voice in her mind told her that she’d not been imagining anything at all. She knew what she’d seen in the floating mist—or rather, who.

It was the ghost of the family’s first matriarch, Beatrice. And she’d been smiling.

4

The art of basket making was brought to South Carolina by slaves who came from West Africa more than three hundred years ago. “For generations, the art has been passed from mother to daughter to granddaughter.”

—Vera M. Manigault, basket maker

MAMA JUNE’S HANDS TIGHTENED on the steering wheel of her ’95 Oldsmobile sedan as she leaned forward and squinted, focusing on the steady flow of traffic that whizzed past. Her heart beat like a wild bird in her chest.

The private road to Sweetgrass was accessed directly from Highway 17. In colonial days when Sweetgrass was a plantation, the roadbed was called Kings Highway and was a major artery for planters. In the twentieth century, it grew to become a sleepy highway for people traveling between Charleston and Myrtle Beach. As construction of housing developments, shopping malls and tourism burgeoned, however, the traffic roared by.

Mama June didn’t care much for driving in the first place, and it was no time for daydreaming if she didn’t want to get clobbered just trying to get out of her own driveway.

There was a break in the traffic and Mama June eased her great rumbling sedan onto the highway, earning a nasty honk from a speeding car that careened over to the left. As the car passed, the driver gestured rudely, yelling. Mama June smiled sweetly and returned the wave.

Most likely a tourist, she thought, her smile falling hard. She was smugly gratified to see the out-of-town license plate as it sped past. Mama June smoothed her hair, feeling both indignant and embarrassed. No one local would be so rude as to honk like that, or yell such things, she thought. Especially not to an elderly woman.

“What’s becoming of this town?” she muttered as she gradually eased her Oldsmobile up to just below the speed limit. She didn’t want to go so fast that she’d miss the stand. It ought to be coming up right soon.

The rickety wood stands that bordered both sides of the four-lane highway had been there for as long as she could remember. Beginning in Mount Pleasant and progressing clear up to Georgetown, African-American women could be found sitting in the shade beside their basket stands. They’d sit weaving the indigenous sweetgrass into baskets, patiently waiting for some local or tourist to stop alongside the road and purchase one of their works of art.

In bad weather, the lean-to stands stood stark and empty. In good weather, however, soft yellow-and-brown baskets by the dozens dangled from the wooden slats, some with bright red ribbons affixed during the holidays, some with paper price tags dangling gaily in the wind. All kinds of baskets were available: some with handles, some with tops, some large and flat and others with curves and twists. Mama June slowed down, her eyes peeled for one basket stand in particular.

Mama June remembered the day, so long ago, that her mama drove this same road to Myrtle Beach. It was her eighth birthday and her mother was taking her on a special holiday—just the girls. There would be swimming on the long stretch of pearly beach, shopping and eating out at restaurants. Oftentimes, her parents went off to the Grand Strand, giggling like teenagers. So this time was very special. She’d packed her new yellow dress with the stiff pastel crinolines that made her feel like a princess and shiny patent leather shoes bought specially for the trip.

Her mother had to make a stop in Charleston, so afterward they drove north along Highway 17. It was the first time she’d seen the many rickety, wooden stands that lined the road. In her child’s mind, she’d thought they were ramshackle houses and had felt sorry for the poor people who lived in those lean-tos. How her mother had laughed at that one!

Her mother had pulled over the big red Buick alongside one of the stands, Mama June recalled as if it were yesterday. Being young, she was nervous about approaching the two African-American women who sat in a companionable manner, weaving. They were kindly and took the time to show her how they wove the narrow strips of palmetto leaf through the sweetgrass to create a basket.

Mary June was mesmerized. As she watched the women’s strong fingers twist the yellow, sweet-smelling grass into shape, her own fingers moved at her sides. Impulsively, she begged her mother for a basket, saying she’d rather have one than a trip to the Strand, a comment that made the weavers roll their eyes and chortle. Because it was her birthday, her mother let her choose any one she wanted. Mama June still had that basket in a place of honor on her dining room shelf. It was the first of many baskets she’d collected over the years.

Mama June smiled at the memory, then shook her head, focusing on the road. She didn’t have to drive far before she spotted a basket stand that had a large number of more intricately designed baskets than most of the other stands held. Mama June pulled over to the side of the road and cut the engine just as an eighteen-wheeler pushed past her, causing even her large Olds to rock.

“Heaven, help us,” she exclaimed, holding tight to the wheel. Coughing lightly from the dust, she peered over her shoulder before pushing open the car door and scurrying out from the sedan to safety. As she approached the stand, Mama June’s experienced eye recognized the evenness of the stitches, the uniform rows of sweetgrass and the clever, subtle shift of color from the golden sweetgrass to the coffee-colored bull rush. To her mind, this weaver was a master.

One woman in a dull brown skirt and blue patterned blouse sat in the shade of a sprawling live oak. The woman’s hands stilled and her face lifted in expectant welcome. She had short, steel-gray hair worn in tight curls around her head, a straight nose that flared wide, bold cheekbones and a jawline that could have been carved of granite. Her appearance was regal and might even have been regarded as rigid were it not for her eyes. They were wide, deep and full of expression, so that one would always know her opinion on a matter without her having to speak a single word.