Sweetgrass

“You needn’t look so shocked. It’s not all that uncommon after a certain age. And now with the stroke, of course, who knows what?” She carried more rolls to the table.

“Stop serving me, Mama June!”

She froze at his outburst.

Morgan looked at her sheepishly and pulled out a chair beside him. “Come on, sit, Mama. You don’t need to cater. Please.”

Mama June set the rolls on the table, then slid wordlessly into the chair.

Morgan placed his hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry about the way I just showed up on your doorstep.”

“Oh, that!” she said, recovering herself and brushing the awkwardness away. “This is your home. You’re here. That’s all that matters to me. It will mean so much to your father, too. You can’t know.”

She saw anguish flash in his eyes before he dropped his hand. “Yeah, well…”

“It will.”

After a minute he said, “I should go see him. Do they allow visitors?”

She heard his declaration as duty rather than heartfelt worry. It defeated her.

“Of course they allow visitors,” she replied. “The more the better. For the last ten days I’ve been reduced to begging folks to sign up and visit. I’ve received roomfuls of flowers and get well cards and more casseroles than I can freeze. Everyone’s been very kind. And yet, no one seems to have the time or desire to go to the hospital and sit with him. It’s so important that someone just be with him, you see. He’s so helpless. Like a baby.” She hesitated. “You…you’ll be surprised when you see him. I hate to leave him there alone. You hear horror stories of mistakes being made in the hospital, or of things overlooked in the charts. I drive downtown every day and stay as long as I can, but it’s not enough.”

“I’ll go.”

She patted his hand fervently. “Thank you. It will mean so much to him.”

“When will Daddy be getting out of the hospital?”

“That’s undecided.” She drew her hand back and leaned against the chair. She glanced over to the kitchen counter where she saw the cookbooks spread open and the shopping list—all preparations for Sunday dinner. For all the joy of Morgan’s homecoming, she knew there would likely be another round of debate once the family gathered.

“What’s the matter, Mama June?”

She looked at his long, thoughtful face and flashed to the boy who once sat at this table beside her wolfing down cold cereal, swinging his legs as he looked out the window, eager to get outdoors. He’d always been tenderhearted. Yet she’d rarely talked to him about things that plagued her, unlike with her daughter, Nan, with whom she used to talk freely.

“I’m so confused,” she said with new honesty. “I don’t know what to do.”

He sat straighter in his chair, appreciating the confidence. “Are you worried about taking care of him? I’m sure the staff at the hospital will teach you what to do. And you can get help once you bring him home.”

“That’s just it. Your aunt Adele tells me I should not bring him home.”

“Oh.” He paused, his eyes shuttered. “Really?”

There had always been an odd tension between Preston’s sister, Adele, and Morgan. His tone told her that time had not diminished the coolness.

“Adele is worried that he won’t get the care he needs here. She thinks we are risking his recovery if we don’t place him somewhere he can get professional treatment.”

“Like a nursing home?” he asked, aghast.

“More a residential treatment facility. The costs of home care will be very high and…” She waved her hand. “Oh, it all makes sense when she explains it to me. She’s done a lot of homework and went over the numbers with me. I can’t remember half of what she told me—except that I should sell Sweetgrass.”

“Sell Sweetgrass…” Morgan exhaled and leaned back in his chair. “Wow. I hadn’t, I mean, I never considered that a possibility.”

“Adele says that selling Sweetgrass would free me to provide for Preston and myself without worry of becoming a burden.” She looked at her hands and fiddled with the plain gold band on her left hand. “We’ve never wanted that, you know. To be a burden.”

“You’re not a burden.”

“No, not yet. But according to Adele, we could be. Quite quickly.”

“Adele always deals in absolutes. You know that.” He rubbed his jaw in consternation. “If the stroke doesn’t kill Daddy, selling Sweetgrass will.”

“My thought exactly!” she exclaimed. She took great heart that someone was finally understanding her point of view. And that the someone was her son.

“What do the doctors say? Can Daddy even be moved?”

“They feel he can come home, provided we get assistance, of course, like an army of therapists, an aide and equipment.” She could hear the hopefulness in her own voice.

“Hiring support will cost money.”

“Yes.”

“Can you afford it?”

“For a while. Maybe a very little while.” Mama June sighed heavily. “I don’t know why I keep fussing about the decision. Adele was pretty clear about what I should do. Sell Sweetgrass and move. Hank and Nan agree.”

He considered this a moment, then asked, “What do you want to do?”

“I have to think about what’s best for Preston.”

“That’s not what I’m asking you right now. I’m asking what you want to do.”

She sat back against the ladder-back chair. It occurred to her that in all the many conversations with Adele, Nan and Hank, with the doctors, with the banks and lawyer, everyone had told her what he or she thought Mama June should do. No one had ever asked what she might want to do. No one, except Morgan.

“To be honest, I don’t really know. When your father had his stroke, I was unprepared to make even small, everyday decisions concerning Sweetgrass. Now suddenly I’m thrust into the position of making all the decisions. Preston is going to need a great deal of care before he gets well—if he gets well. I’ve tried to think what’s best for him, and for all of us and…”

“You’re veering off again,” he said gently.

“Oh, Morgan, I’m sixty-six years old. I’m too old to start over. I’ve lived in this house for nearly fifty years. This is where you were raised. This is our home. We’ve been happy here and…” She raised her eyes to his in mute appeal for understanding. “All my memories are here.”

“Mama, what do you want to do?”

Mama June reached up to pat his cheek affectionately. Dropping her hand, she said, “I can’t separate the decision of what I want to do for myself from what I must do for the family. To my mind—and to your father’s—the Blakelys are Sweetgrass.”

“You’re beginning to sound like Daddy.” He brought his face closer. “What do you want to do?” he persisted.

She found his pressure exhausting and lowered her forehead into her palm. “I don’t know.”

He leaned forward and this time kissed her cheek. “Don’t fret, Mama. I’m not trying to annoy you. I was just hoping to hear what you wanted, for a change. Tell you what. You stay home today and mull it over. I’ll go downtown to this hospital and check on Daddy.”

3

During the days of slavery in the Old South, men made large work baskets from bull rush because this marsh grass was strong and durable. Women made functional baskets for the home using sweetgrass, which was softer and abundant. Today’s baskets are made with sweetgrass, bull rush and long-leaf pine needles bound together by strips of the unopened center leaves of palmetto trees.

NAN’S HAND RESTED ON the telephone receiver as she gathered her wits.

“Close your mouth, Mama. You’re catching flies.” Harry jabbed his younger brother in the ribs as they laughed. They were gathered around the table, waiting on dinner.

Nan snapped her mouth shut only for as long as it took her to smile. She hurried over to the table.

“You won’t believe it!” she announced, her voice rising. She was rewarded with the rarity of the complete attention of her teenage sons, Harry and Chas, as well as her husband, Hank.

Looking at the bunch, she thought there could be no doubt who the boys’ father was. Not that she and Hank looked all that different from each other. The boys both had their parents’ blond hair and bright blue eyes. Harry, at seventeen, had the Blakely height and slender build, while it looked as though Chas would be shorter and more muscular, like Hank. Though at fifteen, he might sprout another few inches and be taller than his father.

Hank’s neatly cropped blond head emerged from behind the Post and Courier. “We won’t believe what?”

“That was Mama June. You’ll never guess who’s home!”

“Morgan,” answered Hank with little enthusiasm, returning his attention to the newspaper.

Nan felt a flutter of disappointment that his quick answer stole the thunder from her announcement. She rallied. “Yes! That doesn’t surprise you?”

“Not really. Your father is in the hospital. It’s only fitting he’d come home.”

“What’s the big deal?” Chas asked sullenly, disappointed in the news.

“Yeah, who cares?” added Harry. “We barely know who he is.”

Her pale brows furrowed with displeasure at their lackluster reaction as she cut the heat on the stove with a quick twist of her wrist. “Well, it took me by surprise.”

Sometimes it was just plain hard living with a bunch of males, she thought. They just didn’t get it. Matters of family didn’t register. She was sick to death of listening to their endless sports reports or excruciating details about cars. Sometimes she felt as though she were talking to herself throughout the meal, desperately trying to engage them in conversation while they ignored her and shoveled food.

Nan looked at her sons. Despite their outwardly good looks, they sometimes struck her as spiritless. She didn’t detect the spark of drive or ambition or dreams that gave even ordinary-looking boys such appeal. She brushed aside her disappointment and told herself they were just going through a phase.

With practiced efficiency she gave the rice a final lift and poured the mass into a brightly colored serving bowl that coordinated with the dinner china. Then with a quick grab of serving spoons, she carried the rice and a bowl of buttered beans to the table of waiting men. She sat in her chair and they all bowed their heads and said the blessing.

“It’s a sorry state of affairs that y’all feel so blasé about your only uncle being in town.” Nan handed Harry the bowl of rice to pass.

“He’s not our only uncle,” corrected Harry, taking hold of the serving spoons and helping himself. “We’ve got Uncle Phillip and Uncle Joe living right close. We see them all the time.”

“On my side, I meant. In the Blakely family, there’s just me and Morgan.”

Hank relinquished his newspaper to take his turn with the rice. “I don’t know where you get this me and him stuff,” he argued. “Seems to me your brother is a me only kind of guy. In all the years I’ve known him, Morgan’s made it pretty clear how he feels about family. How long have we been married? We’ve seen him, what? Two or three times? It’s his own fault that his nephews don’t know who he is.”

“I know, I know,” Nan released in a moan, bringing the country-fried steak on a matching serving platter closer. Still, the criticism seemed to her unfair. “Morgan has a lot of history to deal with, don’t forget.”

Her hands rested on the platter as she paused and looked around the table. It was moments like this, seeing her family gathered together, that she treasured most. “I’m truly blessed to have you and the boys,” she said, gifting each of them with a loving look. “Morgan has nothing or no one. It’s just so sad, is all.”

“Uh, Mama…” Harry lifted his brows, his gaze intent on the meat.

“Oh.” The moment was gone. She reached out her hand with alacrity to pass the platter of meat around, followed by the beans. One by one the plates were topped with enormous mounds of rice, thick slices of fried steak and scoops of beans.

“Pass the gravy, Chas,” Harry demanded.

Nan rose to carry the serving dishes to the sideboard. The boys were growing faster than cotton in July and she never seemed able to fill the bottomless pits they called their stomachs. She sighed as she watched them dive into their plates. The thought that it would be polite to wait for their mother to be seated at the table before eating never even crossed their minds. She looked at Hank for support, but he was ladling gravy on his rice, oblivious to the poor manners of his sons.

“Boys…” she muttered as she reached for her glass and poured herself a liberal glass of wine. When she took her seat at the opposite head of the table, no one so much as lifted a head. Nan sipped her wine, shoving her plate aside.

At least they were eating together as a family, she told herself, tamping down the disappointment she always felt at mealtime. Mama June had always maintained lively discussions at the dinner table, encouraging each of her children to join in. Nan remembered heated debates and merciless teasing and, always, laughter.

At least until Hamlin died. Her brother had been so alive! A natural storyteller with a joke or a quip always dangling at his tongue. Everything had changed after he was gone. To this day, she mourned.

When Nan married, she’d tried to restore the vitality in her own family that she’d felt was lost in the Blakelys after the tragedy of her brother’s death had torn the family apart. At the very least, she was keeping the family dinner tradition alive.

Suddenly, she remembered something else.

“Oh, yes! Mama June wants us all to come for Sunday dinner.”

This announcement was met with rolled eyes and groans from the boys.

“You just stop that, hear? You haven’t been to see your grandmother in so long, she’s taken to asking after you. Don’t you realize how lonely she is with Granddaddy in the hospital? You two boys are the apples of her eye and it’s a scandal how seldom you pay her visits. I should take your car privileges away.” It was a feeble threat and everyone knew it. Still, she felt compelled to assert some semblance of authority. “You are going to Sunday dinner.”

“Yes, ma’am,” they muttered, sullenly appealing to their father with their eyes.

Hank polished his glasses with his napkin, a habit she’d come to recognize as a preface to a lecture. “Morgan’s being here will just complicate things, you realize.”

“I don’t see how. He’s here to see Daddy. I don’t expect he’ll stay long.”

“Not if he’s true to form, he won’t. But you know your mama’s been real uneasy about leaving Sweetgrass, no matter how we’ve tried to reason with her.”

“I don’t expect his visit will make a difference one way or the other. More’s the pity. Mama June could use the support of her family now. I wish he would take an interest.”

“Are you so sure? We haven’t seen the will and he is the only remaining Blakely.”

She swirled her wine and replied dryly, “Last I looked, I’m still alive and I’m still a Blakely.”

“You know what I mean,” he said.

She tilted her head and drank. “I’m afraid I do.”

“You’re not a Blakely any more,” Chas said, looking up with an obstinate glare. “You’re a Leland.”

Hank chuckled and raised his brows at his wife.

Nan’s gaze swept the three sets of eyes that looked at her from across the table with a possessiveness she found oddly comforting. She thought back to the time her father had said those same words to her. Preston’s tanned and deeply lined face, usually thoughtful, had been hard and his eyes were like blue chips of ice. She shivered at the memory. That day she’d told her father that she’d decided to follow her new husband’s wishes and sell the fifty coastal acres deeded to her at her marriage. Hank had brokered a deal with a local development firm and it had been a major boost to his career in real estate.

She had been a young bride, behaving in the manner in which she’d been bred. A woman’s place was at her husband’s side. As the wife, she was the accommodator, the peacemaker, the right hand to her husband. She was doing what her culture—what the Bible—taught.

That deal had cost her. To her father’s mind, selling the family land had severed her tie to the family. Her father cast her from the status of an “us” to a “them” in his polarized vision of the world. It wasn’t something spoken; he was never one to confront her about it. He held his disappointment inside, simmering under the cool surface. The separation was felt indirectly, subtly, so that the relationship cooled not overnight, but over the course of months and years. Nan had always felt his silent treatment was undeserved. And it had hurt her, deeply.

“I surely am a Leland,” she replied to Harry’s assertion. “But you have Blakely blood running through your veins, too, don’t forget.”

“Forewarned is forearmed,” her husband joked, jabbing at the meat with his fork.

“Now, that’s not nice.” Nan flushed as the boys barked out a laugh. She sat back in her chair, feeling as though a chasm had expanded between the two sides of the table, dividing them. She narrowed her eyes as she regarded her husband. For all his jokes, Hank had been plenty thrilled to be part of the historical Blakely clan when he’d married into it.

Though she couldn’t blame him for his change of heart. Daddy’s indifference toward him had been positively embarrassing.

She looked at her hands, tanned and slim. Beneath a thick diamond-and-gold wedding set, the skin was white, like a brand on her left ring finger. She was Nan Leland. For eighteen years, Hank and the boys had been the epicenter of her life. Wasn’t a wife and mother supposed to be the heart of the home? Now, however, the boys were poised for leaving and her husband seemed more and more distant. Her father was near death, her mother was alone in that empty house… She took a ragged breath, then a thought brought a half smile.

But Morgan was home.

Her mind turned to the long, welcoming avenue of oaks at Sweetgrass. While the boys laughed between themselves, Nan was listening to the voice of the little girl still alive within her, fiercely whispering, “I’m a Blakely, too.”

Across the churning, gray-green Ashley River in Charleston, Morgan was clenching his fists at his thighs, a nervous reaction to the strident ding of the hospital elevator. Seconds later, the metal doors swished open and he faced the mint-green walls of the medical center’s third floor. He sucked in his breath and drew inward as he followed the yellow arrow painted onto the polished floors that would lead him to the stroke rehabilitation center. As he walked, an elderly, pasty-faced inpatient clothed in the flimsy, dignity-depriving hospital gown limped past him with great effort, clutching a stainless-steel walker and supported on either side by some family member offering encouraging comments.

The nurse at the station looked up in a guarded greeting.

“I’m looking for Preston Blakely’s room. I’m his son,” he added. “Morgan Blakely.”

“Your father is in room 321,” she said after a quick check. Her voice seemed too loud for the hushed floor. “He’s finished his therapy session and is resting.”

“Will I disturb him?”

“Oh, no. He’ll enjoy the company, though he might not show it.” Her rigid face shifted suddenly to reveal concern. “This is your first visit, isn’t it?” When he nodded she leaned forward and said kindly, “You do know that he can’t speak? Or move much?”

“Yes.”

“Just checking. Didn’t want you to be shocked. It’s never easy to see a loved one the first time in that condition.” Her eyes remained dubious but she waved him on. “You let me know if you need my help for anything.”

He clenched his fists again and swallowed hard. His feet moved as though on automatic pilot as he scanned the faux-wood doors for 321. When he found it, he paused outside the silent, dimly lit room.

Morgan rarely saw his father in bed. Preston Blakely was a man who prided himself on rising before the sun, the kind of man who liked to get a head start on his day. Morgan perceived his father as someone vertical, standing erect, upright and plumb. So to see him lying prone on the thin, hard, unforgiving surface of a hospital bed was unnatural, like coming across a buffalo down in the prairie. The first time he’d witnessed that lifeless mountain of a beast, it had sent a numbing chill straight to his core. He felt the same helplessness now, unsure of what to expect or of what to do next.

It wasn’t courage that compelled him to take the step into the dim, sterile room. Nor was it a son’s sense of duty. Compassion brought him to his father’s side. A thin blue cotton blanket covered his father, giving him a mummy-like appearance as he lay flat, toes pointed, one arm curled oddly against his chest, the other lying still by his side.

Preston seemed small. His usually tanned and ruddy complexion had turned pasty white, and skin sagged from his prominent cheekbones like putty. His mouth, which could deliver orders and a good story with equal authority, now hung slack and drooped to one side. It frightened Morgan to the core to see him this way. He was acutely aware that he was on his feet and his father was not.

Morgan pulled a chair closer to the bed and slumped into it. He folded his hands across his belly and sat quietly staring at his father while, inwardly, memories raged with an old, seething anger. After what seemed a long time, he checked his watch, then groaned, knowing he’d be here for hours more. Already he felt depleted. He got up to walk around the room, checking out the flower arrangements, recognizing the names of old family friends on the cards.

There was a chart posted on the door, a simple hand-drawn box with lines marking date and time of day. It was colored in red, blue and yellow, and he knew for certain that it was made by his mother, who had always made lists of the children’s chores with little stars pasted on them. On the chart were the signatures of those who had volunteered to sit with Preston. The same few names appeared over and over, and as the days turned to weeks, even those names appeared less frequently. In the past few days, most of the slots were blank save for his mother’s name.

Morgan was sorry to see how few times his sister’s and nephews’ names were listed. Today, his own name stood alone in his scrawling script. Writing it, he’d vowed it would appear on the chart every day until his father was released.

When he turned toward his father, he jerked back, stunned. His father’s eyes were open in the cadaverous face, staring at him. Morgan’s heart pounded as he looked into the vivid blue eyes so much like his own. The eyes that stared back at him widened, and Morgan could have sworn his father acknowledged him.

Morgan licked his lips, parched with nervousness. He moved the chair closer, the wood scraping loudly on the floor, and sat down. Yet there wasn’t any reaction, not even a twitch, from his father. His stillness was eerie. Morgan thought of all the times in the past when his father had roared at him to do this or that, or berated him for what he’d done wrong. All those times, Morgan had wished his dad would just shut the hell up. But this mute, sad-eyed, terrified silence was far worse.

Morgan reached out and hesitatingly placed his hand over his father’s. Touching his father like this was strange, even unprecedented. The bones of his large hand felt fragile and his skin felt dry and cool. Morgan leaned forward and in a hoarse voice choked with repressed emotion spoke his first words to his father in more than a decade.

“I’m here now, Daddy. You’re not alone.”

Later that evening, Morgan walked under the canopy of the avenue of oaks with a bottle of Jim Beam and Blackjack for company. The dog, delighted with the attention after weeks of neglect, shuffled at his side. The old dog’s gait was stiff and labored, and his heavy paws dragged the dirt in the soft roadbed. Overhead, gnarled gray branches soared high into the sky to intertwine and form an arch that rivaled the flying buttresses of a European cathedral.

It was his father who had made that comparison, Morgan remembered. Preston used to walk this path daily, often with his head bent as though in prayer. Morgan flashed back to a time he and his older brother, Hamlin, were walking along the avenue with him. Preston had been in a rare mood of introspection and told his sons in a solemn voice that he felt closer to his Creator walking in this church of God’s making than he ever did in one of man’s.