At the Scent of Water (31 page)

“Those were good climbing trees.” He looked past their dark shapes and the old homestead’s vine-covered chimney as if he could still see the scene. “I remember that big azalea back there used to shield the outhouse.” He grinned, then faced the other direction. “And she had that old sawbuck table there in the cleared spot between the lilacs and magnolias. Sometimes she’d cover it with white linen tablecloths, and we’d have dinner on the ground.” He swept his eyes over it all, hungrily tracing the invisible outlines of things that had long since disappeared.

He put his hands in his pockets and gazed out past the ruins again, then turned to face her.

“I know what I’ve done is beyond forgiveness.” His face was drawn with pain.

She was shocked and silent, and when she didn’t answer immediately, he spoke again.

“I know it is,” he repeated, his voice very quiet, “but oh, what I would give to go back and do things a different way.”

Thirty-three

The actual reunion was held the next day, and Annie enjoyed it even more than the fish fry because the ice had not only been broken, but had melted. It was held at the church campground on Lake Junaluska, the adults congregating in the meeting hall, the children running and playing outside. She visisted with Aunt Valda and Uncle Lewis. She had a long conversation with one of Sam’s cousins, a history professor at the Univeristy of Virginia, and saw more of his distant relatives, many of whom had come from out of state. She laughed with Laurie, and it seemed, for a few hours at least, that nothing had changed at all.

Sam introduced her to even more clusters of relatives whose faces looked vaguely familiar, but whose names she did not remember. After a while she went out with him to the banks of the lake. They stood with a knot of his cousins and watched the children splash and laugh as their shoulders burned red in the beating sun. A few people were beginning to pack up and leave, calling to their children to come out of the water. She and Sam watched in silence.

It was nearly dark by the time they got back to Sam’s parents’ home and the singing began. This was the final part of the reunion, the Saturday evening gospel serenade by Sam’s relatives, some of whom had been professional musicians in their day. All the Ambassadors were in attendance. They rolled the tinny-sounding upright piano in front of the door just inside the living room, and Sam’s aunt Valda sat down and trilled out a rolling melody. Uncle Eldon played string bass, Arthur was on guitar, Mark was lead singer and played mandolin, and James brought out a fiddle.

The family gathered on the porch. Mary insisted that Annie take the front-row seat on the swing, and after a slight hesitation Sam sat down beside her. She felt a current moving her along, and she feared she was headed toward danger and trouble. She did not object though, just sat in the dark and creaked the swing along, just slightly out of time to the music.

As she listened to Sam’s aunts and uncles sing, she had an image of waking up at her grandmother’s to the smell of fatback or bacon frying and the sounds of J. D. Sumner and the Stamps Quartet, the Imperials, or the Blackwood Brothers on the small radio.

She listened to them sing and realized the ones who had written those songs knew what it was like to be weary. To lose loved ones. To feel so tired and heartsick you could barely put one foot in front of the other, and she felt, as she always did, that they were singing just for her. They understood. Sam’s uncles and aunt sang song after song, finishing one and running into the next, and Annie let the words and the music wash over her. She lost track of time.

“Let’s finish up with the ‘Eastern Gate,’ ” Eldon finally said in his gravelly bass.

Valda played the notes of the introduction, regular and steady, and even then Annie felt a sharp stab of tenderness spread outward from her heart.

“I will meet you in the morning, just inside the Eastern Gate,”
they promised in their full-throated voices, not just the quartet this time, but everyone in unison as if, despite their distance and differences, on this one thing they all agreed.

“Then be ready, faithful pilgrim, lest with you it be too late.”

Her heart caught on the warning. Don’t be too late. Don’t miss your appointment, their voices urged her, and she thought how sometimes things present themselves only once. A picture is clear for just a snap second before going fuzzy again. A path is glimpsed only briefly before the leaves close around it. A hand is outstretched for just a moment, and then withdrawn.

“I will meet you in the morning, I will meet you in the morning, just inside the Eastern Gate over there.”

It was an appointment they looked forward to, a promise that wouldn’t be taken away, a meeting place already arranged. She felt the tears rolling down her face and didn’t try to stop them. She took one deep breath after another, held each one for a moment and tried to let it out quietly. She pictured a small lovely face and thought of the joy she would feel if only she could rest her eyes on it again.

Valda sang the next line by herself in her deep, full-throated voice.
“If you hasten off to glory, linger just inside the gate.”

And then, for the first time, Annie caught a glimpse of death as they all seemed to see it—not as a sad, sick exit or a violent snatching away, but a hasty entrance. An apologetic leave-taking for a joyful destination.

“For I’m coming in the morning,”
Valda promised,
“so you’ll not have long to wait.”

Not long to wait? She had a moment of shock, for she saw now that that was exactly what she had been doing. Waiting. Just waiting, with the days and seconds of her life seeming to stretch out for an unbearable eternity. Not long to wait? For the first time she wondered if they could be right. Perhaps it wasn’t long. Not if she looked from the right angle, standing above time, looking over the vast spread of history. What was a few seconds from that vantage? A lifetime?

They sang together, broke into parts, then joined back again. The high tenor’s voice sounded plaintive, as if to ask, When? How long will I have to wait? Does anyone hear me crying? A few steady beats followed, pulses of the bass fiddle, then the other voices answered his cries in sweet harmony, as if saying, Soon. We know. Anyone would feel the same. Then the low voices, steady like a big man’s heartbeat, comforted. Everything is hard, they seemed to murmur in her ear, death and sickness and pain, and seeing people you love taken from you. But look here, they all seemed to remind her in chorus. Listen. That’s not all. They joined together, unanimous and emphatic.
“I will meet you in the morning,”
they repeated. You need to hear it again? You just listen. We’ll sing it as many times as you need. It’s the truth, they seemed to promise. This can be your North Star, the appointment you aim toward.

Annie wiped away her tears, glad it was dark. She could feel Sam, solid and warm beside her, his legs the only part moving, bending slightly back and forth, keeping the swing’s rhythm. He leaned away from her, reached into his back pocket and, without saying a word, handed her a handkerchief.

The quartet was finishing now, winding down, and she was losing it, she thought. She was losing the tight control that had kept her world together these last years. Little by little it was going, evaporating into the moist night, invisible bits of it rising up to join the glittering sky full of stars.

The song was over. Annie heard Valda’s stool scrape away from the piano. The night grew quiet except for the regular creaking of the swing and the chirring of crickets and cicadas in the field. One by one the singers were getting up and going inside, gathering children, wives, husbands, purses, empty plates and dishes, saying muffled good-byes. Then came the accompaniments of country leavings: slammed car doors, engines starting, the crunch of gravel, then the bright trail of taillights disappearing down the dark road.

One by one they left, and soon it was just Annie and Sam on the dark porch, and between them and the bright kitchen, more dark and empty rooms. Sam still rocked the old swing.

Annie gave her nose a final swipe with the handkerchief.

“Here.” Sam held out his hand, and Annie folded the handkerchief and handed it back to him. He put it back in his pocket, then leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and lowering his head, and for the first time, she wanted to help him. Wanted to ease his pain, but when she thought of it all, it seemed an overwhelming tangle, a puzzle too complicated to solve.

He turned his face toward her, and his eyes were grieved. “I know I shouldn’t have stayed that day, Annie,” he said, and she knew what day he meant. He was answering her question. The one she had thrown at him that first day they had met. “I don’t know why I did it. Something came over me. I don’t know what it was.”

“You were in shock,” she said and thought how odd it was, what a reversal that now she was trying to convince him of his innocence and he was the one denying it.

He shook his head. “There’s no excuse,” he said. “There. Is. No. Excuse.” Each word emphasized, standing alone. “There’s no excuse for any of it.” There was silence for a moment. “Not for what happened to us. Not for what happened to Margaret. Not for what happened to Kelly Bright.”

All was silent but for the shrill of the crickets.

“She’s going to die soon.” He said it quietly but with certainty. Annie nodded. She felt so, as well. “And I don’t know anything about her,” he said, nothing but desolation in his voice. “I feel I ought to know. But I don’t. I don’t know any more about her now than I did then. I would like to.” He said it simply, then turned his eyes toward her.

Annie nodded, her eyes meeting his, unflinching. It seemed to comfort him to speak to her about it, and she knew why. They were both companions of death now, not like before when he ventured forth into its realm and she stayed sheltered and protected.

Annie listened to the cries of the insects, their ringing the only noise in the silent night. His brown arm lay close beside hers, and she reached out and touched it, let her hand stay upon it, felt it warm and strong underneath her palm. “That is something I might be able to help you with,” she said, and she thought of that bucket of facts again, of sifting and sorting and finding the person beneath them.

Thirty-four

The next morning Sam rose early and was out on the porch drinking his coffee and watching the birds when his mother came out to join him. She was wearing a pink dress and the pearl necklace and earrings he’d given her for Christmas last year. Dressed and ready to go to church. It was Sunday morning, after all.

“The quartet is singing at the church this morning,” his mother said. “And Elijah’s giving the message. Do you want to come?” She looked hopeful, her face lit with something he hadn’t seen in such a long time, and something he had the power to do or not do could keep a little of that light in her eyes.

He hesitated. The reunion had been one thing. Meeting the extended church family would be another. Though to be honest, he wasn’t sure if that was what he dreaded, or if it was an encounter with the Almighty. But he supposed he might as well find out who loved him and who didn’t, both human and divine. He gave his head a shake at his melodrama. He would go. It wouldn’t hurt him, and it would be good to hear his uncles sing again. Even though he had heard a makeshift version of their repertoire last night at the reunion, he realized that there might not be many more opportunities left. They were good, too, at least had been in their day, though two of the original members had been replaced due to age and illness. The Ambassadors had shared the bill with The Blackwood Brothers, J. D. Sumner and the Stamps, the Happy Goodmans. He remembered going to his uncle’s home once and finding him on the large front porch sipping coffee with George Younce, Hovie Lister, and Jim Blackwood.

“I suppose I could go,” he said. He rose, and his mother’s face lit with joy and hope, as if merely being under the roof with godly people would do him some good. It couldn’t hurt, he admitted.

He showered, shaved, and dressed in the record time he’d perfected. She was waiting on the porch, and Elijah joined them after a few minutes, looking remarkably dapper in a suit and tie.

“I can drive if you like,” Elijah offered.

Sam smiled. Elijah was awfully fond of that car. He gallantly opened the passenger door for Sam’s mother, and she seated herself. Sam climbed into the back and thought about what Annie had said about Elijah and Mary. He didn’t put much stock in it. He expected Elijah would go on back to Africa as soon as a mission board signed him on, and he had no doubt but that one would, in spite of his age. Doctors were hard to come by. Someone somewhere would have a place for him, and he hoped fervently that his mother would not be disappointed. He had a moment of amusement when he considered warning Elijah away from her. He supposed at their age they were both capable of managing their own affairs. Besides, who was he to give advice on affairs of the heart?

The church parking lot was crowded. Sam heard the gravel pop under the tires, and he knew he was home then if he hadn’t known it before. Elijah parked the car, came around and helped Sam’s mother out, and the three of them walked toward the church. It was a white-steepled box and could have been there in the century before. They climbed the concrete stairs, and everyone he saw greeted him warmly. They sat down by Ricky and Laurie and their families, and one by one people rose up from all corners of the church, came toward him, gave earnest greetings, and pressed his hand. “We’ve been praying for you,” they murmured, over and over again, and his heart felt stretched and full.

One of the deacons greeted them all, read the Scripture, and Sam looked around, thinking some things never change. The building looked the same as it had when he was a boy. There was the piano on one side, the organ on the other. The hymnals were placed neatly on the backs of the pews beside the offering envelopes and stubby pencils. It even smelled like church, he realized. Like hairspray and musty hymnbooks. He listened through the announcements, the Scripture reading. The quartet rose up and began singing about a happy meeting with loved ones gone on before.

“. . . Gathered on the festive hilltops with hearts all aglow

That will be a glad reunion day.”

They sang of the blessed hope, he realized, but he thought of Kelly Bright and Margaret. Their voices rang out. Sure. Victorious. He listened to them weave and flow. He looked at the neatly shaved necks of the men sitting in front of him, their collars tight, and the women with their styled hair and pretty dresses. The quartet moved on to the next song in the set, one about being homesick for heaven and longing for a land without sorrow and heartache.

He closed his eyes and listened, and he remembered what he had been at one time. A believer. He had believed. Jesus had been real to him then. He had spoken with Him every morning and had heard Him answer back in that still, small voice. He had felt His blessing on his life. On his hands. Oh yes. He had believed. He remembered the warmth in his chest, the settled peaceful feeling when all was in His hands. He remembered that freedom of having nothing protected, nothing held back, of releasing everything into His sure and mighty power. Sam nodded and suddenly the gray coat of cynicism and hurt seemed tight and uncomfortable rather than a protection from the cold winds of his life. It chafed and constricted him, and for the first time in many years he wished he could be free of it. Why had he put it on to begin with? Why had he stopped believing? He knew the answer at once. Because he had been betrayed.

He sat up straighter and listened as Elijah walked to the pulpit and spoke. He gave a simple, heartfelt message interspersed with stories of God’s faithfulness. Stories of miracles. Of people delivered and healed. Of supplies lasting longer than they should have. Of people being able to carry on in unbearable circumstances, and Sam began to see clearly, for perhaps the first time, that he was not alone in his pain. It was universal, this death and decay and ruin. Oh, he had known it. But hearing Elijah confirm it yet still ring out with triumphant faith was stirring something inside him that hadn’t been awakened in years.

“God is who He says He is,” Elijah’s voice rang out triumphantly. “He can do what He says He can do.”

A murmur of agreement ran through the crowd, and Sam reflected how easy it was to say amen to those words. Until they were tested.

Then Elijah said the very word he had been thinking. “God tests us,” he said, “as gold is tested to reveal its quality and to remove its impurities. He tests us, not because He wants us to fail, but because we are of great value and precious in His sight. He is making something beautiful of us, whether we see it or not. He wants to see His reflection in us, to make us beautiful masterpieces for His kingdom. Do we believe it?” he challenged. “Do we believe we are who He says we are? Or do we believe the lies of the enemy who wants to destroy us? When the Son of Man returns, will He find faith on the earth?”

Sam sat up straighter at those last words. Not about the Son of Man returning. The words before that. The ones about the enemy who wanted to destroy him. Something like a low thrum of electrical voltage hummed through him, and suddenly the gray, fuzzy outlines that had been taking shape in his vision snapped into sharp, clear focus. What came into view hit him with the force of a revelation. His eyes opened wide. Why had he never seen the events of his life from this angle before?

His mother looked at him with concern. He gave her hand a reassuring pat, but his mind was whirring with thoughts. Pieces of life—events, large, sharp, ungainly things—were settling into place, and he realized if he was right, if what he was thinking was the truth, then he had been going about things all wrong.