The Last Girls (38 page)

She pushes the frosted pane of the door into the sanctuary, where all is light. Not bright light—there is no bright light anywhere beneath this canopy of oaks—but a soft, muted light which seems to rise from the polished shining pews curving in toward each other in a timeless embrace like the oaks themselves; from the white linens on the altar; the gleaming pipes on the old-fashioned organ; the white lilies and baby's breath in the urns, very nice, she has to admit, being an old hand at the altar guild herself; the gold-and-cream-satin standard; the glowing golden cross. Before she knows it, Courtney has knelt and placed her hands on the cool brass rail. A rose glass window shines softly behind the altar. The side windows are stained glass
arches depicting familiar scenes: the woman at the well, Jesus holding a woolly sheep. One of these windows has been opened at the top for ventilation, so that a shaft of light falls on Courtney's folded hands. Her wedding ring flashes in the sun. Oh God. What is this, some kind of a sign? But signs don't come to women like her, they come to tacky fat women in revival tents with scraggly hair and flip-flops. Courtney has run the Altar Guild and served on the vestry all these years because she felt she
should,
not because she was hoping for some kind of actual religious experience. Oh God. She remembers Gertrude Marshall, the totally innocuous old maid who served as Saint Matthews's deacon for years, thin little Gertrude Marshall who nevertheless announced from the pulpit that she had had a vision and then proceeded to speak in tongues for the rest of her sermon. Later she started a woman's prayer group named Sisters on Fire. Well! Gertrude Marshall did not last long at Saint Matthews. Episcopalians simply are not into that sort of thing, which is one reason Courtney is an Episcopalian.

Hawk gave her this ring in August after the raft trip; they married in September, at Saint Matthews, of course, in a much smaller ceremony than they would have had if she had been somebody else, somebody more suitable, or if she had stayed in school to graduate. But Hawk was a boy accustomed to getting what he wanted, and right then he'd wanted
her
. And Hawk loved her, he really did; she didn't force him into anything. Even Miss Evangeline seemed pleased, or at least she had borne her disappointment bravely, promising aloud to “do all in her power to uphold these two persons in their marriage,” as exhorted by the
Book of Common Prayer,
which has a service for everything. Your whole life is covered by the
Book of Common Prayer
.

Courtney didn't mind not finishing Mary Scott either; she'd had enough school by then anyway, and she'd certainly never needed that degree. Oh God. How many times has she knelt at an Episcopal altar,
how many times has she received communion? And yet, as now, she has always been thinking of something else—who to invite to dinner, what to wear, whether she can get a plumber on Sunday afternoon, the little things of life that are holy, too, or so she has always thought, oh, how she loves to set the table with Miss Evangeline's heavy silver, for instance—she sets the loveliest table in town, and it gives her great satisfaction to do so. Gene Minor said her life is a lie, but it's not a lie, it's just complicated. Him and his crazy New Age ideas, his ridiculous demands! Her ring shines like a headlight into the shadows.

Here in this dim old church, everything becomes very clear. Courtney's husband is ill; she needs to fly straight home on Saturday to take care of him. She folds her hands, then bows her head, then stands. Strangely enough, the words come to her in the voice of Gertrude Marshall, who had this little lisp that used to drive Courtney crazy: “The Peath of the Lord be alwayth with you.” Courtney turns and walks back up the aisle and out into the oak grove which strikes her now as yet another church, a big leafy cathedral. She feels dwarfed by the giant scale. She reaches for her camera, but stops. This is a picture she can't take, because she's in it. But suddenly she sees herself in the frame anyway, a tourist in a hat, a silly woman in a silly hat in a large, serious landscape—a little figure whose only function is to show perspective, to demonstrate how big the trees are, how ancient it all is, how insignificant she is, we all are. She'll have to call Gene, too.

AT THE CEMETERY

praying hands

crosses

hearts, vines, roses,

doves, lambs,

even a dog or two

the tree cut down

in the prime of life

draped with a shroud

and angels

angels everywhere

fat cheeked cherubs

angels on urns

archangels

angels with trumpets

(you are my angel, he said)

Beyond Care

Friend To All

He hath come and gathered his jewels.

Precious Memories

Our Darling At Rest

Beloved Brother

To forget is vain endeavor,

Love's remembrance lasteth ever.

Blessed be the pure in heart

for they shall see God.

(But do they want to see God?

He scares the hell out of me)

In Loving Memory

In the Bosom of Abraham

At Rest

I was once

as you are

and as I am now

you also shall be

TIPPLING

Mama keeps that little jelly glass

with her all day long

it's never empty

it's never full

When we work in the flowers

it nests in the grass

When we go in the car

I hold it for her

When she reads in the sunroom

it casts rainbows on the wall

pink yellow purple red

It makes everything

pretty

FOR JEFF

He's so good

he makes me want to

do bad things

shout bad words

put a cherry bomb

in the crèche

shoot off guns

the way we used to do

on Christmas

NECESSITY

ashes to ashes

dust to dust

come on baby

we must we must

OLD SOUL

Mama said, There's nothing

wrong with Ricky

He gets it, that's all

Ricky is an old soul

You are too

Now be a dear

and bring that jelly glass

over here

CAMERA OBSCURA

How do you do,

Ricky Ballou?

You never knew

How I grew.

The eyes of the dead

are red.

Photographs

of catastrophy.

WATCHDOG

Jeff brings out

the bitch in me.

I try to keep her locked

behind the chain-link fence

where she paces

back and forth.

She's worn a path

in my yard.

When he comes over,

she goes crazy—

charging the fence

leaping over,

tunneling out.

She goes straight for his throat.

THE TRIP TO FRANCE

She passed away

is what we say.

But in point of fact

she died drunk

in a wreck

on Highway 43

heading for Mobile

with her lover.

She left a note behind.

It said she loved us.

Also she loved flowers,

peignoirs, shoes.

Once she had lived in France.

He always drove too fast.

Hit a tree

just south of Demopolis

doing ninety.

Mama died instantly

her neck snapped

just like that.

Today he's a restauranteur

in Boca Raton, Florida.

She didn't even make it

across the county line.

Mama, you slut

you darling

Mile 265.5
St. Francisville, Louisiana
Thursday 5/13/99
1015 hours

S
OMEHOW
H
ARRIET HAS GOTTEN
on the wrong bus. Here she is taking the Rosedown and Myrtles tour without anybody else from their group. They must have taken the other tour or the shuttle into town. Somehow she misunderstood. But it's oddly relaxing to sink down into this blue plush seat all by herself, nobody next to her. She doesn't have to talk. It's an enormous relief. All this talking and talking is too much, this is why she feels so hot in spite of the air-conditioning, in spite of her hysterectomy. It's hard to go from living alone to being part of a group—no wonder she's exhausted. Or maybe she needs to have her estrogen adjusted. Maybe she's taking too much. This might account for her silly reaction to the attentions of the Riverlorian, for instance. She knows it's not a big deal, he's just a widower looking for a little company. She tries to pay attention as they tour Rosedown, which really is lovely, especially the gardens, twenty-eight acres in all. Fanciful topiary boxwoods (a duck, a dog, a bell) line a crushed-shell lane winding down to a lily pond ringed with roses. By this time the sun is killing everybody, but the roses love it, you can tell, thrusting their red faces greedily up for more. This
part of the garden makes Harriet think of Alice in Wonderland; she scurries back to the bus. She hated the Red Queen.

The Myrtles, also antebellum, is much better, smaller and less grand, set on a gentle hill. It is furnished with French antiques, including a chair that once belonged to Napoleon. Harriet doesn't quite get its bee motif needlepoint upholstery; what did bees have to do with Napoleon? Yet they seem appropriate here, where real bees buzz in and out of the open windows and butterflies flit about the garden just outside.

Harriet lets the tour go on ahead of her. She wanders into the grand hall, empty now, though voices sound like music, or echoes of music, from other parts of the house. She's drawn to the spiral staircase. Soon she's up on the first landing, looking down through the little leaded panes at their silver bus, then she's up on the next landing where she can see the river. A cool breeze comes from somewhere. It lifts the hair off the back of her neck, it touches her skin in a way which is both intimate and familiar. Someone is here. Harriet does not move. The light through the diamond panes grows brilliantly, blindingly bright until it's like an explosion. Harriet whirls around, but she sees nothing. Though someone is still here, very close to her, and then not. Harriet puts her hand on the wall to steady herself while she waits for her vision to clear. Down below they're calling her name. But again her eye is drawn upward, where she perceives a kind of shimmering brilliance, a white radiance on the top landing. The single door beyond it closes silently. Immediately Harriet can breathe again. She can see. She runs down the steps like a girl. In the wide hall below, she almost collides with one of the Myrtles hostesses, a tiny trim silver-haired woman who stares at her curiously out of shiny black eyes like seeds. “Are you all right?” Her voice is sharp.

“Yes,” Harriet says after a minute.

“You're not supposed to go upstairs.” The woman comes closer. Her minty breath is overpowering. “Did you see something?”

Harriet pulls back. “Why?” she manages to ask.

“This house is haunted, everybody knows it,” the woman says matter-of-factly. “Sometimes, certain guests . . . well. We have the ghost of a young woman from New Orleans forced into an unwelcome marriage to the son of this house, who died here mysteriously on her wedding night, whether murdered or killed by her own hand or the hand of God we shall never know; yet she is seen from time to time about the house and stairs, dressed in her wedding gown. Now, did you see her? Did you? Is this what you saw?”

“No.”
Harriet pushes the little woman aside as easily as if she were a curtain, and rushes out into the day.

“Miss,” the woman calls from the door.

But Harriet swings up into the bus whose doors close behind her in a pneumatic wheeze as they pull out.

“Some people don't even consider the rest of the group,” a woman's nasal voice says acidly.

“Hey, are you okay?” somebody else asks.

“I'm fine,” Harriet announces, which is not true. She's all wrought up. She crumples into her seat. Of course she would be the one; of course it would know her. It
is
her, the way this trip keeps forcing her back again and again to stand outside that door. Perhaps, in a certain way, she even knew this would happen if she came. Miles pass in the steady rumble of the wheels beneath her feet. Voices rise around her; a man laughs.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Come on, baby, we must we must
. Holding her breath, closing her eyes, Harriet pushes the door open.

S
HE'D GONE BACK
to school a few days early in the fall after the raft trip, to set up the
Redbud
office and help with registration, one of her scholarship duties. Courtney was already married. Anna was still in West Virginia, teaching drama to kids at some arts program. She'd be back tomorrow. And Baby? Nobody had heard from
Baby since New Orleans, and Harriet still hadn't figured out exactly what she'd say to her when she saw her again. Didn't she sleep with that civil rights guy in Natchez? Didn't she?