Sweetgrass. Mary Monroe Alice

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      Morgan swallowed his retort with the smoke, feeling the burn. He dropped the cigarette and ground it with his heel. “Have you given any thought to what we talked about this morning?”

      Her face grew troubled. Turning, she gripped the porch railing. “I’ve thought of little else.”

      “Have you reached any conclusions?”

      She looked out into the darkness for a moment. When she turned back, curiosity shone in her eyes. “Tell me, Morgan, you’ve looked into his eyes today. What did you see?”

      He exhaled slowly. “I never thought I’d see fear in Daddy’s eyes. But I saw it today.”

      “I’ve seen it, too!” she exclaimed, seizing the moment. “Every day. He’s trapped in there. He can’t even tell us what he wants.” She took a breath. “But I know what he wants. His eyes are speaking to me. They’re screaming bring me home!”

      “Then that’s what you should do.”

      Her expression shifted from elation to worry. “I wish it were so easy. It’s rife with problems. I know that bringing Preston home to Sweetgrass doesn’t make a whit of sense in dollars and cents. But his recovery isn’t just about money, is it?” she asked. “His recovery also depends on his spirit and his will. And I assure you, Preston’s will and spirit are intricately connected with Sweetgrass.” She looked up at him, her eyes entreating. “But I can’t do it alone.”

      He knew where she was heading and placed his hands on the railing, leaning heavily. “Mama June…”

      “Wait.” She drew back her shoulders. “All right, I’m ready. Ask me your question. One more time.”

      A wry smile played at his lips upon seeing her rail-straight posture. He delivered his line sincerely. “Mama June, what do you want to do?”

      She lifted her chin. “I want to bring Preston home to Sweetgrass. I want to care for him here, in his home, for as long as it takes him to get his voice back and let me know what he wants to do next.” She paused to take a breath. “And, I want you to stay.”

      He barked out a laugh. “Well, ma’am, when you finally get around to answering a question, you sure deliver a mouthful.”

      “You did ask.”

      His jaw tightened, holding back the reply on his tongue. He’d been considering the option all day, wrestling with it with every bit as much desperation as Jacob with the Angel. He didn’t want to stay. Every instinct told him to get in his truck and hightail it back to the quiet isolation of Montana. Then he looked at his mother, waiting expectantly, and his decision tumbled into place.

      “All right, then, angel,” he said with resignation. “It looks like you’ve won this one. I’ll stay.”

      “Thank you, Morgan!”

      He leaned back against the pillar. “Don’t thank me yet, Mama June. I don’t know how long we’re going to be able to hang on here. It won’t be easy. You may regret this.”

      “Regret you coming home to help your father? Regret bringing Preston home to heal? Never!”

      He chuckled at the passion of her statement. “All right then,” he said again. He ran both hands through his hair, scratching away the last of the bourbon from his head. “Now that that’s settled, I’m starving.” He patted his lean stomach. “Got anything to eat?”

      Smiling at the age-old question, she stretched up to kiss his cheek. “Music to my ears. You go on and wash up and I’ll fix you something. I’ll be there directly.”

      She watched him go inside, heard the soft clap of the screen door close behind him. Alone, she turned toward the vast darkness beyond, then looked to the heavens. The stars sparkled with a brilliance nearly as bright as the hope shining in her eyes.

      Later that night a storm barreled through the Lowcountry, bringing with it crackling lightning and rumbling thunder that shook the rafters. Mama June roused from her sleep, blinking her eyes slowly as she grew accustomed to the deep darkness. She could see nothing save for the intermittent flashes of light from the storm. She wasn’t afraid. Ever since coming to live at Sweetgrass she’d thrilled to the fast-moving storms that swept from the mainland toward the ocean.

      Restless, she turned over to her back and, placing her hands on her chest, played the game of counting the seconds between lightning and thunder. Rain tapped against the windows and the roof as she reviewed her decision to bring Preston home.

      The tapping grew louder, interrupting her thoughts. Mama June glanced over to the window. Her breath hitched in her throat as she caught sight of a misty white mass hovering near the window. Squinting, she thought she saw a figure in the mist. The outline of a woman’s form in a nightcap and a long period dress appeared, looking directly at her. Mama June felt the hairs on her body rise.

      Then lightning flashed again, bold and bright, and thunder clapped so near and loud that Mama June clutched her gown and nearly jumped from her skin. When she looked again, the apparition was gone.

      Mama June sat up in her bed and, with a trembling hand, flicked on the bedside lamp. Instantly, a soothing light filled the room, reassuring her that she was indeed alone. Only the curtains flapped at the window. She brought her hand to her heart, and as her breathing came back to normal, she tried to dredge up the memory of what she’d just seen. It had happened so quickly, she couldn’t be sure if what she’d seen was real or a dream. Perhaps it was merely the strange light patterns from the lightning against the curtains.

      “You old fool,” she muttered to herself, lowering back into bed and turning off the bedside lamp. “You’re just imagining things.”

      The storm quickly passed out to sea and only a gentle rain pattered on the rooftop. Mama June felt a heavy weariness droop her eyelids and weigh down her bones. She lay her head down on the pillow and brought her blanket close under her chin, telling herself for the thousandth time that her imagination had got the best of her on this emotional day.

      And yet…a persistent voice in her mind told her that she’d not been imagining anything at all. She knew what she’d seen in the floating mist—or rather, who.

      It was the ghost of the family’s first matriarch, Beatrice. And she’d been smiling.

      4

      The art of basket making was brought to South Carolina by slaves who came from West Africa more than three hundred years ago. “For generations, the art has been passed from mother to daughter to granddaughter.”

      —Vera M. Manigault, basket maker

      MAMA JUNE’S HANDS TIGHTENED on the steering wheel of her ’95 Oldsmobile sedan as she leaned forward and squinted, focusing on the steady flow of traffic that whizzed past. Her heart beat like a wild bird in her chest.

      The private road to Sweetgrass was accessed directly from Highway 17. In colonial days when Sweetgrass was a plantation, the roadbed was called Kings Highway and was a major artery for planters. In the twentieth century, it grew to become a sleepy highway for people traveling between Charleston and Myrtle Beach. As construction of housing developments, shopping malls and tourism burgeoned, however, the traffic roared СКАЧАТЬ