Cion (33 page)

After the funeral I receive payment from those relatives who believe in the concept of a professional mourner, and congratulations seasoned with references to my purported Egyptian origins. The payment is token, but I do not complain. I am not exactly poor although I do not flaunt my wealth. I made a reasonable fortune from mourning the boring deaths in southern Africa. That is why I am able to travel the world in search of mourning. Now I mourn for the joy of it. For fulfillment rather than remuneration. But then for professional mourning to have any meaning some payment should be made, even if it is only token.

I walk back to my RV, which is parked in the grounds of the Center, thanks to the generosity of the women who have given it a temporary home until I decide what to do next. In return I continue to be useful as a handyman—fixing handles on the cupboard, mopping the floor, loading and unloading foodstuffs, and taking old clothes to the incinerator behind the Center. These are clothes that have been lying around the porch for too long without anyone choosing them. We burn them to make room for new arrivals after selecting those that may be useful as batting for quilts.

Orpah did not want me to move. She pleaded with me to stay. She even cried. Orpah cried for me. Or was she really crying for herself?

She didn’t think I was serious when, at the dinner table one night, I first brought up the idea of moving. All five of us were present when I announced my intentions. Obed was not surprised because I had spoken with him about it already. Mahlon maintained his smile. Ruth wanted to know if I was going back to Africa.

“Ultimately, yes,” I said. “But not yet. I am still in search of mourning.”

Orpah said if there is any search for mourning at all she wants to be part of it. I thought she was not serious. Perhaps it was her way of challenging her parents; of getting back at them; of showing some rebellion. She didn’t think I would actually move. She didn’t think I would take to the road in search of mourning either.

Obed, on the other hand, encouraged the move. He suggested that I buy an RV, which would make my wanderings more comfortable. The idea was worth exploring, though it seemed farfetched at the time. After all, my ways were no longer austere and ascetic as they used to be when I was still a votary who adhered strictly to the self-imposed discipline of my own order of professional mourners. A little comfort here and there would not corrupt my soul.

“What do I do with an RV when I can’t even drive?” I asked.

“I’ll teach you, homey,” said Obed. “It’s easy.”

“I’ll teach you too,” said Orpah.

I couldn’t help thinking that Obed really wanted the RV for himself, to use in some of his scams. Or even to travel to Oklahoma since his mama refused her GMC.

Obed knew exactly who would help us find a good used RV. Nathan.

Nathan was quite open about his motives for helping me find an RV. He hoped I would move out of the house and out of everyone’s life. I had caused enough troubles for the family. If I left, Orpah would surely regain her sanity and would appreciate what he was trying to do for her. He was aiming at the Grand Ole Opry for Orpah. She would surely make it big there because she had added a new dimension to what used to be disparagingly called hillbilly music. With his guidance she could easily be at the Grand Ole Opry. I was misleading Orpah because I was from Africa and did not know what was at stake here. If I left, my evil hold on Orpah would leave with me. And everything would be as it was before. Except for the fact that Orpah would agree to marry him and they would live happily ever after with him managing her lucrative career.

The RV that Nathan found for me was a 1982 Ford Shasta. I went to fetch it from Lancaster with Obed and as we drove back to Athens he assured me that the engine was still very good. I, on the other hand, was impressed by the red-carpeted interior, the refrigerator, the gas stove, the two couches newly covered with pink corduroy fabric, the dining area, the roominess. It was like owning a house.

When I took my suitcase and went to say goodbye to Ruth at her workstation I was surprised when she said she did not want me to leave. If I was going back to Africa she would understand, or at least if I was leaving town altogether. But to vacate her house only to park at the Center was an insult to her.

“I have enjoyed your hospitality for seven months, Ruth,” I said. “It is time to move on. I will always remember your house as my home.”

I was going against her wishes, she said. After one or two sniffles she added that in any event she would not expect her wishes to count with me because they don’t count even with her own children.

I could hear more sniffles as she gave me some of her bottled sauces and relish and a glazed clay jar of stewed tomatoes, which she said I should keep until winter and only eat the contents then. After that I must return her jar. Did she expect me still to be here next winter?

Mahlon was quite dispassionate about my leaving, if you discount the smile. He was sitting on his swing when I said goodbye. Obed and Orpah were helping me to my RV with my suitcase, Ruth’s bottles and other odds and ends that I had accumulated during my stay in Kilvert. These included manila folders with Orpah’s designs saved from the tsunami. All he said as I shook his hand, assuring him that I would see him from time to time at the Center, was: “Don’t let the bedbugs bite.” And then he went back to gazing at his garden while swinging to the rhythm of the chimes.

“Todoloo! You ain’t gonna see nobody at the Center,” said Ruth standing at the door. “You’d better come and visit and have a wholesome meal.”

I feel like lord of the manor as I open my RV and am welcomed by a whiff of stale cooking oil. I like the way they have refurbished the RV. It is worth every penny of the seven thousand dollars I paid for it.

The interior is enhanced by a dogwood quilt with yellow, brown and green sunflowers on white. The backing is of bleached muslin. It is a gift from Barbara and was made by her grandmother in 1935. I did not think I deserved such a valuable and highly sentimental present but she told me: “It needs to be given to someone who will love it. So, I figure you’d do that.” It’s been in the family for all the years, and what makes it even more valuable is that it was hand-sewn—nine stitches an inch, which look so fine they can easily be mistaken for machine-sewn stitches. I would have loved to keep this quilt in a box so as to preserve it for posterity, but Barbara insisted that I hang it on the wall.

Mourning can be exhausting, so I kick off my shoes and sprawl myself on the bed that is covered with another quilt: a green and white Irish Chain that I bought from Ruth months before I left her house. At first she had been reluctant to sell it to me, and then later agreed to part with it at a great discount, adding: “I don’t sell nothing to my kids. Might as well not sell nothing to you neither.”

I reach for one of the manila folders next to my bed and look at Orpah’s latest work. The ghost trees are still there. But on them there are collages of ghost orchids made from bits of plastic, paper and fabric. I remember her telling me this morning when she delivered this last batch before we went to the funeral: “I want them pictures to tell a story. Like back in them days if something happened there’d be a song wrote about it.”

These collages are a song.

The women have remarked on how vastly my quilting has improved. It is because I do nothing much but quilt. I sit at the Center and cut blocks—not with the rotary cutter, but the scissors that the women insist I should learn to master. I arrange the blocks on the long table into the pattern I want, and listen to gossip. Often my opinion is sought since the belief that I am some kind of a shaman persists. They believe that because I am from Africa I have knowledge of mysterious cures. Such as the plant they tell me cured Sissy—I think she was one of their relatives—who suffered from diabetes. She had tried some of the best doctors to no avail. Then she went to Africa and learned of a plant from an old shaman. The shaman told Sissy to boil the plant and drink half a cup a day. When she returned to the U.S.A. she discovered that the plant was in fact rhubarb. She boiled the rhubarb every morning and after a few months Sissy’s blood sugar became normal. Sissy died at ninety-five from old age—after suffering from diabetes from the time she was a child.

The common wisdom among my quilting partners is that I know more of such cures but am hiding my light under a bushel, which is what Jesus preached against in the Sermon on the Mount. One of them adds: “Because he don’t like folks that hide their talent and don’t share it with nobody.”

Orpah takes to hovering around the Center, doing what they call here “hanging out.” Women, and an odd man now and then, usually hang out at the Center for the conversation. I have heard some of the hottest political debates in these hanging out sessions. But Orpah never participates in the conversation. She just sits there and watches me quilt, with a deep longing in her eyes. I take it that she wishes she could be doing what I am doing at that time, although I suspect she despises it for it is not as adventurous as her own would be. Mine are blocks and triangles that any traditional quiltmaker can do. Now and then she giggles or chuckles when someone says something funny.

When Mahlon is tending his garden of gnomes Orpah is at the Center. When Mahlon is brooding with the other elders at the Center Orpah goes home and locks herself in her room, I suppose drawing or playing the sitar or reading what her mother once referred to as ghost stories.

Her first visit to my RV was unannounced. She just knocked at the door, and when I opened she dumped new drawings in my hands and left. Not a single word. Then the visits became more frequent even when there were no new drawings to keep. I love these visits, although I fear what Mahlon will do one of these days because she defiantly walks into my RV even when she can see that her father is looking on from the porch at the Center. The women have jokingly said that one day he’ll burn my RV. Obviously they find the whole thing entertaining. My life has become the village’s soap opera.

When Orpah visits we just sit and talk. Nothing else happens. She is usually here at lunchtime and she opens a can of Spam or takes out a frozen pizza from the fridge and tosses it into the microwave. Then she tells me about her troubles with Ruth. Her eyes light up when she talks of her works that have escaped her spring cleaning, which has become more frequent. One day when I am better skilled, I promise her, I will translate some of her designs into quilts.

Sometimes Obed visits as well and the siblings talk about their own things that I know nothing about, or about Nathan. From what I gather things have soured between Nathan and Orpah since the festival. Now she makes cruel jokes about him.

“I look at that guy and I don’t like his haircut,” she says. “He looks like a Muppet and I find that disturbing.”

“Which of the Muppets?” Obed asks.

“The mad scientist…I forget his name.”

“He can’t be no scientist…not even a mad one. He’s just a dumb-ass prick.”

And then they laugh.

He is saying all these mean things about Nathan because he has had a falling-out with him, for a different reason. To raise money for his trip to Connecticut Obed disposed of a trophy that he, Nathan and two other guys won at a tractor pulling contest at the County Fair last August. They had agreed that the trophy would be with each one of them for three months at a time. After it had graced the two guys’ mantelpieces they had handed it over to Obed in February and at the end of May he was supposed to give it to Nathan. Nathan discovered that Obed had pawned the trophy. He is now so pissed off with him that they almost came to blows at a bar in Athens. Obed tells me: “He threatened to whup my ass and I told him, ‘Bring it on, bitch.’” The denizens of the bar stopped the fight before it could become bloody and messy.

I am happy that things are back to normal between me and Obed. For a number of days after his return from Connecticut he sulked a bit and didn’t want to have anything to do with me because he blamed me for his failure to meet Mr. Kerzner—the man who developed and operated the casinos on behalf of the Native American tribes. He discovered that the man was basking in the sun somewhere in the Caribbean and rarely visited any of the casinos. If I were there, Obed reckoned, some dialogue would have happened between me and the Native Americans who own the casinos, and they would have listened to me because I am Mr. Kerzner’s countryman.

He came back without making any headway with the casino owners because they didn’t take him seriously. If Kilvert was not a reservation, how could he even dream of opening a casino there? they asked. When he told them about the Shawnee claim that was already in the courts they said he should come back to them when the Shawnee had won their case and Kilvert had been declared an Indian reservation. Only then would they consider going into business with him on his new casino venture.

Although he was not impressed by the way he was treated by the casino operators, who even denied him an audience with the chiefs of either the Mohegan or the Mashantucket Pequot tribes, he was encouraged by what he discovered there. The Mashantucket Pequots, for instance, own what they claim is the world’s largest casino. Yet only thirty-five years ago they were not a tribe at all but were down to one person—one Elizabeth George. The descendants regrouped from other parts of the country and now they are the richest tribe ever. What can stop his Kilvert people from rising like the Mashantucket Pequots?