I concentrated and waited until I could have sworn Daddy was beside me. “Daddy, you’re not going to like this. Mother is being tormented by Trip and Frances Mae. They want Mother to leave Tall Pines so they can have it. And, Millie is getting close to retirement, I think. Anyway, I had a horrible fight with Frances Mae tonight. I don’t know what to do. Please help me. And, please, show me the way with Richard and Eric too. I love you, Daddy, and I miss you. I pray for you every day, but you know that.”
I felt a heaviness in my throat as I concentrated. I tried to quiet my mind so I could hear him. Over and over, I could hear these words: Be my daughter. That was all. I opened my eyes and sighed, half expecting to see him there. I scooped some dirt from over his heart in his grave into the conch shell. Millie came to my side and took it with one hand, giving me something with the other.
“Yanh,” she said, “give him this to taste. No man ever love my gumbo like Mr. Nevil.”
It was a very small Tupperware container with three or four tablespoons of gumbo. I opened it, dug a little hole with my finger, poured in the stew, and covered it up, patting the cool earth. I looked up to see her sprinkle something over the dirt in the conch shell.
Smiling, I looked up at Millie. “If I know Daddy at all, he’d rather have a bourbon! What are you using, salt?” Salt was mixed with the dust to keep it alive with the spirit.
“No, sugar. You’re right. Next time we bring him some Old Crow. It’s past midnight now. Let’s get us on home before your Miss Lavinia come running in her nightgown to find us in the moonlight and your brother for sure carry her off to the crazy house. I got the goofer dust; you got the answer?”
“I’m not sure, Millie, I’m not sure.”
“Well, you think on it for a while.”
On the way home, we stopped at her cottage. It was a clap-board bungalow, with a small front porch. The old wicker rockers with blue-and-white flowered cushions and the hanging plants of full, dark green ferns that decorated it were inviting. It was small, just six rooms, but beautiful. Millie turned the lights on in the living room and then pulled the overhead light on the ceiling fan when we entered her kitchen. She filled her kettle with water and lit the flame beneath it. I was in the mood for tea and she knew it.
“How’s your garden this year, Millie?”
“You mussy be joking with me, girl. You want some tea?”
“Sure, thanks. Warm up my bones!” I knew that come June, she’d have bumper crops. She always did.
“Sit yourself down. You gone tell me what Frances Mae say to upset you so bad or do I have to beat it out of you?”
I sat at her immaculate kitchen table as I had at least one thousand times in my life. All those times I had come here to unburden my heart—just like now. Her table still held the white Popsicle stick napkin holder I had made for her years ago at summer camp. Twenty or so paper napkins stood there all neatly folded in half. I fingered them; she watched me and finally my eyes met hers.
“You gone tell me for three reasons,” she said. “Number one, iffin you don’t, you ain’t getting none of my special tea I been saving for you. Number two, I want to stop this fool mess with your brother and his wife just as much as you do. And number three, somebody in this family needs to start learning what I been knowing all my life ’cause when I go, a library gone be going with me! Now, you gone be my partner or what? Come on!”
She got up, giving me a moment to consider what she had said.
“Like I have any choice,” I said.
Although she faced away from me, I could see her smiling by the way she cocked her head. When she pulled back the red gingham curtain to her pantry, there were the herbs. For the first time in so many years, I saw Millie’s arsenal of herbal weapons. There were gallon-size Mason jars, all of them lined up on the three shelves and filled with whole and crushed ingredients. She put the shell of goofer dust on the counter and paused to consider what she needed, removing several jars from the shelves. She scooped out handfuls into separate small bowls.
Her kitchen window, the one over the sink, was a greenhouse—an extension shelf with large panes of framed glass for heat. It was filled with old clay pots that held carefully tended herbs, waiting for the warm weather to find their place in her garden. She reached up and snapped some lavender from a baby bush and let it drop to the drain board. “Now, where’s my chamomile?” She leaned over to another bush and snapped off some branches. “Thank you, Mother,” she said.
She opened the back door of her kitchen and indicated with a nod that I should follow her. We went across her back porch and down into her garden.
“Millie!” It took my breath away. She had a rosemary hedge on one side that gave a fierce fragrance to the night air, only to be outdone by the smells of tea olive trees. Sweet. Pungent. Hyacinths bloomed in beds with daffodils and tulips. And everywhere were camellias. I picked a bloom from a bush and held it in my hand, thinking what a miracle flowers were. Its petals were white with stripes of deep pink. It looked too perfect to be real. Then I leaned down to the ground to smell the hyacinth blossoms. “God, Millie, it smells so outrageous out here, I don’t know whether to eat or take a bath!”
That made her laugh. “Oh, do now! I’ll give you some alligator root to soak with before we go. Come yanh, I want to give you a piece of tea olive for your bedroom. Come. We got work.”
We went back inside and Millie continued talking like it was the middle of the day. My head was floating in a cloud of spring’s near arrival.
“March weather makes me think about all I got to do to get ready for summer! I don’t know why I bother anymore with basil and dill. Come June, the monarchs come to town and eat up every scrap!”
“Yeah, they’re like locusts! But June means all the jasmine is ready to pop.”
Her kettle was whistling, so I moved it to the front burner. She moved the small bowls and the shell of dust to the table. Before she would mix the herbs, she poured tea.
“Yeah, God, and it also means your mother will be having fits over her roses for the next six months!”
I shifted in my chair and she put a cup and saucer in front of me.
“Chamomile, orange peel, Saint-John’s-wort, and peppermint.” She poured the steaming water over the herb mix in the bottom of her teapot. “Make you feel wonderful.” I picked it up and it warmed my hands. “Soon’s we drink our tea, I need to find my Red Devil lye and some ten-penny nails. Next we have a little service and then we can go on home and fix your mother’s house against Frances Mae and any kinda bad thing. So talk to me. We ain’t got all night.”
“Promise me you won’t go crazy?”
“I ain’t making no kinda promise till I know the story.”
“Okay. She said Eric was a moron, Millie. I wanted to hit her. I’ve never hit a person in my life and I was ready to beat the hell out of her.”
Millie jumped up from the table and she put her hands on her hips. When Millie was angry, she reverted to Gullah and it frightened me as I watched her spin and pace. I was about to let the tears roll.
“He say what? Fuh true? Dat woe-man gone better watch she mouth! That kinda talk ain’t no good fuh dat chile she carry. Bring bad juju, yanh? Ain’t no right! I got a mind to . . .”
“Millie, Eric’s not a moron. He’s a bright, energetic, sweet . . .” I held the cup to my lips and my eyes filled up with tears. Tears, big old crocodile tears, slipped down my face.
When she saw me cry, her rant ceased. Millie took a deep breath and put her hand on my shoulder and said, “Hush now, Caroline, ain’t nothing wrong with your boy. He’s perfect. She ain’t gone say nothing like that to you ever again and if she does, just tell her we’ll see where we all land in time, ain’t that right? Damn. I’d like to whup her behind. But no use in that. Life’s a river and the water keeps moving.” She dug in her pocket and handed me a tissue. “Yanh. Blow your nose and talk to me. What’d your daddy say, chile?”
“He said, Be my daughter. What the
hell is that supposed to mean? I am his daughter!” The tears kept streaming down.
“I don’t know, but it will all show itself in time. Let’s try to stop now, all right? Come on, baby. Let’s hush.”
I looked up at Millie and her lips were set so hard against each other that they were nearly white.
“Hate’s a terrible thing. We shouldn’t let her get to us, but picking on a child ain’t right.”
“She’s a bitch.”
“Yes, she is, and a stupid one besides. And, she gone get hers by-and-by. Now come on. Dwell on it a little while. I knew from the day you were born with a caul that you had the second sight. Well, no visions so far, but at least you can hear!”
I sat there with my forehead resting on the heels of my hands, sniveling like a schoolgirl. The caul. They all said it was true. I was delivered by a midwife at Tall Pines. Millie was there to help. They were surprised to see the caul over me, the thin membrane, that Millie swore meant I had some psychic powers or potential or something. All I know is that she kept it, spread it out on cardboard and dried it. It sounded disgusting to me, but I never doubted Millie’s word. And the tiny chips she used of it, when she did a ceremony for my safety or protection, must have had some strong luck.
“Lord, chile, you got too much worriation in your head.” She looked at me and saw that I was reasonably calm. “Let’s do what we come to do; it’s getting late.”
I felt better—relieved. It was so good to be able to talk to her. All my life I’d told her things that I never told Mother. Giving my trouble to Millie’s heart nearly solved my problems. But not quite. I was still as angry as all hell with Frances Mae.
I followed Millie with the bowls and shell to a closet in the living room that, in a normal home, would have held coats. Not in Millie’s house. When you opened the door there was an altar dedicated to her orisha, the angelic deities of her Yoruban religion of Ife. Needless to say, Millie was a high priestess. It was no secret. For decades, people had come to her from all over the Lowcountry for cures and for advice.
The altar was a curious collection of plaster and wooden Christian statues and clay statues of African deities. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph were there in various representations from the Holy Family to Jesus alone as the Infant of Prague or the Sacred Heart. A large plaster Madonna held the center on an elevated surface covered in pristine white linen, edged in lace that, no doubt, Millie had tatted. Photographs of our family and Millie’s family and friends were propped against candles in various glass containers and of various colors. There were small clay statues of Ori, Obatala, Eshu, Oshun, Ogun, Oya, Shango, and the rest of the sixteen angels, or odu. I had played with them as a child, like dolls, while Millie told me their stories. Each one stood for a particular ethic and served to remind the devotee to find the highest good in everything and everyone.
I knew that each candle represented a deity and that each color held a special meaning. Strings of cowrie shells, and rattles made of gourds and decorated with feathers, were placed among the other objects. It had been fifteen years or more since I had seen her altar and what used to make me giggle, I now accepted and respected as serious.
First, she sprinkled a little water on the floor. Next, she lit the red candle dedicated to Eshu Elegba. When she did this, she rattled the gourd and said, “Iba! Elegba esu lona!” (Praise to Elegba who owns the road!) Without a pause she dropped and touched her right hip and elbow to the floor, and repeated this with her left side. The gesture was very much like a genuflect, but it also meant she was going to send her prayers to a female orisha. But first, she appeased Eshu, because he was the prime negotiator with the other ancient elders.
Then she lit a candle for Oya, the goddess of the cemetery, the departed, and rebirth. Much like eastern religions, Ife held that some things must die so that others can be born. Oya was invoked for protection, as she was known to be a great warrior. She was recognized as the wind and possessed great psychic abilities. Millie called to her in Yoruban and mixed the dust in the mortar with the herbs. Then she rattled the gourd several more times and rang a small handbell twice. She blew out the candles and turned back to face me. She put the ground herbs and goofer dust in a Ziploc and said, “Now, come on, let’s get you back to the big house before the sun starts coming up.” Then, she put something in my hand. “This is a piece of Saint John the Conqueror for you to carry wherever you go and this is alligator root for your bath. Make you sleep good.”
“Thanks,” I said, knowing it would work. The last thing I wanted was to spend the night wide awake, thinking of ways to kill my sister-in-law.
Rolling back across the uneven land, Millie’s conjure ingredients rattling in her pockets, my roots in mine, I felt completely at home. I could not believe it, but I felt that I was exactly where I belonged on the planet. Why had I condemned this place? In the blue night air, in the fullness of pine and floral suffusion, in that moment, I could not remember.
I hopped off the golf cart and we went around to the front of the house. She put the lye under the front steps along with the herbal mixture and a can of nails.
“That will have to do until tomorrow. Millie’s pooped.”
We walked around to the back porch where we said good night. I stood on the back steps and watched Millie drive off in the direction of her home. As though she had eyes in the back of her head, she threw her arm up and waved to me. I waved back and, sure enough, I saw her bob her head in recognition.
What a night! I hadn’t even been home twelve hours!
MISS LAVINIA’S JOURNAL
I saw them go off in the night together, Millie and Caroline. That Millie makes my nerves act up with all her hocus-pocus. But I do so hope they figure out a way to fix that Frances Mae.What a disgrace she is! I’m sure my rug is all right, but what in the world is the matter with that woman? Am I obliged to give a shower in her honor? Heavenly days. I imagine I’ll buy diapers for the new baby and diapers for her as well.Wait until I tell Sweetie and Nancy this one! What a night!
Seventeen
Gone Fishing
MORNING came with an early sunrise, the sounds of hundreds of baby birds begging to be fed and their mothers squawking for them to just wait a minute. I drifted off, waking again soon at the sounds of Trip hollering at his dogs for yelping at the birds. It was time to go see what hazards men had heaped on the Edisto. If I still owned anything around here, it was a piece of that river.
I gave in to Saturday morning and got up to stretch, surprised by how well I felt. I had slept so soundly! The bed was barely wrinkled! Then I felt pretty naïve—after all, I had drunk tea with Millie. Only God knows what was in it. And, I had taken that quick soak with freaking alligator root, for God’s sake. Richard would have laughed himself sick over that.
I pulled on my jeans, a white T-shirt, and a chartreuse cotton cardigan. One brush tamed my bed head, and then another scrubbed away the sleep from my teeth. I was pulling my hair into a rubber band when I went looking for Mother. Taking the steps two at a time, I found her with Trip in the kitchen. Still in her robe, she was reading the newspaper intensely and having a cup of hot tea. Her everpresent cigarette, Benson & Hedges 100, menthol please, waited. Its smoke rose in soft spirals with the same patience evil uses in baiting human souls. Some things would never change.
“Morning!” I said, kissing Mother’s cheek and giving Trip the hairy eyeball.
“Caroline,” he said, putting his mug down on the table, “I want to thank you for not knocking Frances Mae’s teeth out last night.”
“She’s a piece of work. Don’t menshone eet,” I said, pouring myself a glass of orange juice. “That’s French for ‘don’t mention it.’ I learned that from Miss Nancy.”
“Nancy is a veritable wealth of information,” Mother said, to no one in particular.
“Although I must admit, it was tempting,” I said.
“Well, thank you for exercising your excellent personal discipline. Wanna go out in the boat?” Trip asked
. “Tide’s perfect. I’ll even let you drive.”
He must have been feeling guilty to let me drive.
“I get to drive?”
“Yep.”
“Okay, deal. You must be desperate for company.” I grinned at him, raising my eyebrows in a dare. Poor bastard. Frances Mae was more color and drama than he deserved.
“Must be hard up as hell,” he said. He got up and slapped me on the shoulder. “Let’s go, missy.”
“I do believe my children have scales on them somewhere. God knows they’d rather be on the water than the land.” She wasn’t snide, but it was another tiny dart to the neck from her quiver of guilt weapons—said smilingly, meant seriously.
Mother looked up from her place at the kitchen table and did, in fact, smile at us. She was reading the obituaries. At least she seemed pleased that my sister-in-law’s incontinence couldn’t rattle our cages to the point where Trip and I would fight with each other. I mean, it was pretty humiliating to have a wife who did those things.
I wrapped one of Millie’s biscuits in a paper towel and put it in the microwave for ten seconds. Then I slathered it with some of Miss Sweetie’s strawberry jam and ate it as fast as I could get it in my mouth.
“For heaven’s sake, Caroline, put it on a plate and sit at the table! You’re eating like you were born in the trees!”
I swallowed the last bite, drained my orange juice, and put the glass in the dishwasher. “It’s okay, Mother. Trip will have me back in an hour and we can plan the day. Alright?”
“I imagine it has to be alright! What say do I have in the matter?”
“Aw, come on now, Miss Lavinia, I’ll be back in an hour.” I gave her cheek another light kiss and she smiled around the corners of her mouth. She loved it when I called her Miss Lavinia. Sometimes.
“Oh, go on and leave me my peace. Oh, my! Look at this! Dale Clarkin has gone off to Glory!”