Deep Down
"I
don’t think I can go through with it,"
she whispered as we drove past lush green
pastures where cows grazed contentedly. We were
on our way to the small rural cemetery just
beside Cavalry Baptist Church. "Why
not," I asked, "it's been done for
generations?" "Well, the whole idea
gives me the creeps and I’ve been dreading
it for as long as I can remember." She
twitched a little in her seat and settled her
long wrinkled fingers in her lap. "But you
are the oldest in the family, aren’t you
interested in what happened to them?" I
asked. "Oh I don’t know, I guess I am
but, I wish someone else could take my
place." Her shoulders rose and fell in a
sign of resignation and just as we came around
the wide bend in the road the cemetery appeared.
All the memories
of the past came flooding back. I could clearly
see my brothers, sisters and cousins trampling
across the graves bringing great shame and
embarrassment to our parents since we never
learned to show ‘respect’ for the dead.
I can almost smell the fried chicken floating
through the hot stale air as picnic blankets were
thrown down under tall shady trees. Old men, some
in their Sunday best, others in brand new
overalls stood under trees holding old fashioned
Coca-Cola bottles in one hand. While the other
crumpled arthritic hand steadied their large
frames on thin homemade walking canes. From time
to time, one of them would lift his bottle slowly
to his lips for a slow swig. Gurgling it around
inside his mouth, like mouthwash before his
Adam's apple bobbed up and down as the sweet,
syrupy juice slid down into his recesses. We
watched from behind a headstone with trepidation
and jealousy. Who didn’t need a fresh drink
in 100 degree heat? And why, we wondered did we
have to wear dresses and suits and ties when
these old timers were allowed to hang around in
the shade in nothing more than work clothes?
I can see Edith
in a "mad-as-you dare" floral print
dress, laughing heartily with some distant
relatives underneath an intoxicatingly sweet
mimosa tree, loaded with pink fluffy blooms.
Within days, they would ferment and fall to the
ground to the delight of thousands of honey bees.
Just then, I could remember the scent of
childhood, so precious to aging complacency. The
scene brought back forgotten memories of Easter
egg hunts with cousins, fishing in Uncle
Rob’s pond while cows the size of dinosaurs
rex grazed on the other side of the water.
Now as I look at
her tall, thin frame trying to ease out of the
car with some grace and dignity, she seems
frailer than I ever remember. Her only glow comes
from the newly applied "blue hair wash"
from Johnny-Sue’s Beauty Bar. It very nearly
sparkles in the late afternoon sun and it brings
a smile to my face as I marvel at how color and
hairspray can withstand weeks of activity without
apparently losing its shape.
The cemetery had
hardly changed, except for the two large pecan
trees which had been removed to make room for
more graves everything was much the same as I
remember. I hadn’t been back to Alabama for
years. Now, I had come for something unique,
something that I hadn’t known existed all
those years ago when we wandered around examining
names on old headstones. We were looking for left
over civil war veterans or relatives we had not
only met, but those no one could remember. There
was Aunt Sally, who died at the age of three from
scarlet fever, Uncle Jo, who had been shot by his
brother Bert, carelessly wielding a shotgun one
quite Sunday afternoon in 1932. Of course, I
never met him since I was born some thirty years
later. No one ever talked about it. I’m not
sure why, accidents do happen but, I suppose it
was a real sore spot with Bert, not to mention
his parents. He left them with five daughters and
only himself to carry on the male line.
As I stepped out
of the car, my inappropriate high heels sunk deep
into the damp grass. Even though it was only the
first week in May, it was already warm and
bright.
By any orthodox
religious community, it would have been the 1st
of November and the celebration would have been
known as All Soul’s Day. But, as these were
Southern Baptists it was May and the event has
for generations been known as Decoration.
Normally, on the first Sunday in May family
members brought flowers to the graves of
relatives. In the old days, there were picnics of
fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and apple pie
laid out under the two trees which no longer
survive. Now the graves are exposed to the hot
baking summer sun or the cold winter rains, and
fewer and fewer people come to remember those
already gone. But this year is special and I feel
sure many people will attend. Once, every 30 or
so years, family members dig up their
relative’s graves. Instead of bringing
flowers, the eldest family member spends the
night in the grave in order to take courage in
the spiritual presence of the dead relatives.
As Edith and I
ascended the three crumbling stone stairs onto
the oldest part of the cemetery, work was nearing
completion. Mounds of damp earth had been piled
neatly beside each grave. Uncle Bob stood up,
resting his sweaty arm on the top of his shovel
as he watched us approach. "That just about
does it for me," he said as I handed him the
cold bottle of water I’d brought with me.
Edith pulled a wrinkled Kleenex tissue out of her
skirt pocket and pressed it tightly to her nose.
She wandered around looking into empty pits
before the damp, musty smell sent her into a
sneezing frenzy. Looking up with red eyes she
said, "See, I don’t know if I can do
it."
"Sure you
can, there’s nothing to worry about," I
said trying to sound convincing, even as the
stench of decayed bodies nearly brought me to my
knees. Bob either ignored her or did not hear
her. He said nothing, and with one arm still
propped on his shovel he drank his water in
silence, then jumped back down into the pit,
continuing his task. Every now and then a
gravedigger would stick his head up, like a mole
in a hole, to notify those around that he’d
found a coffin or a body spilling out of a
coffin. After a moment of excitement, there
followed a brief pause of remembrance for the
deceased. The gravediggers took their job very
seriously indeed.
As I stood there
watching him throw shovels full of dirt to the
top, I began to wonder if she would go through
with it at all. Then, suddenly I had an idea. The
bright blue sky and the crisp spring breeze no
doubt contributed to my giddy feelings. I would
make sure she fulfilled her duty by keeping a
night time vigil at the cemetery when the time
came. I wondered if it had been done before. If
it had, no one to my knowledge had ever mentioned
it. But, I looked forward to the idea, creepy as
it may have been.
It was late
afternoon, early evening by the time all the
plots had been uncovered. Edith and I decided to
meet some of the men at Perry’s Fish House
restaurant a few miles down the road. It was a
country-style restaurant in the middle of
nowhere. It served fish, fish and fish with soggy
French fries and hush puppies. Edith hardly
touched her deep fried platter. Her mind seemed
far away and everything I tried to bring her back
around with small talk or with a topic like
quilting, which would usually elicit hours of
discussion but she just nodded absentmindedly.
Afterward, we
went back to her house to find something to wear
to the grave. Standing in front of her closet,
which overflowed with frilly dresses and somewhat
dated polyester pantsuits in cranberry and mint
green she suddenly said "Do you think they
will be able to see me? Should I wear my Sunday
best or maybe this hat?" She picked up a
feather and bead encrusted hat which was covered
in so much dust it was hard to make out it’s
right color. "It was my mother’s you
know. I wonder if she would remember it?"
She sat down on the edge of the bed and said once
again, "I don’t think I can go through
with it. I feel queasy and I have a stomach ache,
maybe I’m ill. I think I’ll just lie
down for a while." "I don’t think
that’s a good idea," I said knowing
that she wouldn’t get up again if she feel
asleep.
"Why
don’t you have a little sip of Uncle
Jim’s whiskey?" I heard myself saying
"I might steady your nerves."
"Good Lord,
girl what’s come over you, you know I never
drink… never have, never will, and
that’s that. Now, don’t you go
mentioning it again, I won’t hear of it, me
Edith Lancaster sippin' whiskey, I deeeclare
I’ve never heard nothin more upsettin in all
my days!" "But I wouldn’t mind a
tall glass of ice tea if there’s some in the
fridge."
She drank her
tea quietly, contemplating the task ahead.
Luckily, the
Lancaster family plots were in the corner of the
cemetery near the edge of a large fenced cow
pasture, surrounded by thick hedges of boxwood
and juniper bushes. I had plenty of room to hide
and at the same time observe what went on around
the grave. It was eerily quite at 11:00pm when
people began to arrive. One by one, I saw
flashlights flicking here and there as they made
their way to open pits. Finally, Edith came along
between a row of graves and with a flashlight in
hand she bent down until she was squatting next
to the large hole. Her arthritic fingers
struggled at the edge of the pit as she lowered
herself down. She wasn’t very tall to begin
with maybe 5 foot 3 and she had to descend down
nearly six feet. "Thump," she hit the
bottom. I didn’t dare sneak up and look over
the edge but, I’m certain she was lying down
trying to make herself comfortable.
The crescent
moon sat high over my left shoulder, and it
caused a dark night. The only extra light was
provided by a lone street lamp at the edge of the
cemetery, which cast a long shadow over most of
the graves. The warm sultry wind set the pine
trees dancing, casting ominous shadows on the
nearby lawn. The lone howl of a dog rang out
somewhere down the road, I wanted to run but, I
forced myself to stay. As I crouched beside a
juniper bush, its leaves rustled lightly, then as
the wind picked up they began to shake violently.
I held my breath until it died down. The hot,
sticky wind pushed hard against my face, I could
hardly breathe, my pulse was racing. A putrid
smell, of decaying flesh, oozed out of the mound
of soil beside the grave, like a gas released
into the air. I could see it in the dark, clouds
like fog rising up and up until they disappeared
into the air. Voices rose and fell on the breeze,
words rang out louder and louder until a chorus
of men and women were clearly identifiable. I
heard Uncle Jim’s voice in the distance,
faintly at first then it rang out on the wind and
passed just near my arm. He was agonizing over
his betrayal of his four wives, one was already
torturing him down under. Aunt Margaret shouted
verses from the Bible as her voice rose out of
the pit. "All lies," it screamed as it
drifted by "All lies." Another voice
rose out of the dirt mound hoarsely crying out,
"tell everyone there is no afterlife, its
all an illusion."
Suddenly, I
heard the voice of Edith’s father pierce the
night air, "Everything we taught you was a
lie. There are no pearly gates, no everlasting
peace, no redemption or rapture. There is nothing
but damp, musty earth for eternity and boredom.
Oh God, the boredom I can’t cope with the
same people, the same dirty hole day in day out.
But don’t worry dear, I can hardly smell it
anymore, my nose has decayed and nearly rotted
off my face."
His voiced faded
almost as suddenly as it appeared. Another voice
I didn’t recognize floated by: "We
should have been Buddhists, that’s what the
centipedes Down Under tell me. I could have been
reincarnated. But, oh no, that wouldn’t do.
Now I’ll have to spend an eternity down
here."
Another voice
passed by: "Live now, make no sacrifices
before you slip into nothingness." Just as
that one had passed, another ascended from a
grave next to me. A hoarse female voice rose up
saying: "Does anyone have a remedy for the
worms. I’ve only been here a few months and
half of my face has been eaten away, can someone
please help me." No one replied, but a
silence fell on the other graves. How lonely it
must have been for that one. During all this
time, I was frozen to the spot, I wasn’t
sure, I was still breathing, but I must have been
because I’m still here. I felt as if I had
been suspended for eternity, but when it was over
it seemed as if I’d only been there ten or
fifteen minutes.
The Day began to
break over the cemetery. The voices died down and
the putrid smell was replaced by the sweet
morning dew and the honeysuckle vine dangling
from an electricity pole. My head was light and
tired, but I managed to move back behind the
bushes so I wouldn’t be seen. Slowly, the
visitors crawled out of pits and Edith hoisted
herself out of her hole with great difficulty.
Her clothes were covered in red dirt but, she
made no attempt to tidy herself. I could see the
stunned expression which covered her pale, ashen
face. She moved like a ghost. No one lingered by
the graves, corpselike and without a word to each
other they walked slowly to their cars and drove
off. I was alone except for a noisy mockingbird
cackling into the air. With the sun pulling
itself over the horizon, I made my way to my own
car further down the road. I drove the 15 miles
back to Edith’s place in a daze. I wondered
what she was thinking and what she would say
later that day as the rest of the family arrived.
When I arrived,
Edith was sitting quietly in her bedroom reading
the Bible. I was surprised, after last night I
wondered why bother. She seemed highly agitated.
Swaying from side to side as she repeated verse
after verse to herself. Later that evening
everyone in the family gathered in a silent pious
atmosphere to hear what the distant spirits
conveyed to Edith. Everyone that is, except Uncle
Jim. He was sitting outside on the long front
porch with his whiskey in one hand. I could see
him out the living room window, his hound dog,
Jeb was lying next to his rocking chair while he
tapped his walking stick on the ground with his
free hand. Every once and a while he would take a
long, slow sip of his whiskey and then rest his
arm back on the chair rail staring out into the
front yard. He was trying to give the impression
that he had more important things on his mind
but, I wasn’t convinced. I knew what he was
thinking, "I just made the hole in the
grave, nothing else, I don’t want anything
else to do with it". He didn’t really
believe in God anyway, it wasn’t the manly
thing to do in his view. He only went to church
on Sundays so he wouldn’t have to listen to
Edith nag him all week about it. He knew it was
better to take the path of least resistance
otherwise the prayer club would be hanging around
his house all the time trying to convince him of
the importance of being called to God. He
didn’t have time for that. He and Jeb
preferred to spend their time in the wood paneled
den with a beer and one hand, a cigarette
dangling from the corner of his mouth, watching
baseball or NASCAR racing on the television.
Right now, he was trying to pretend he
wasn’t interested in what was going on
inside. I couldn’t help noticing he’d
pushed his chair closer to the window and
I’m sure he was trying to eavesdrop on
Edith’s show.
Edith was
reigning like a queen from the middle of the
green and beige, floral print sofa. Uncle Bob was
sitting next to her, trying his best to quietly
unwrap a piece of peppermint candy to soothe his
nervous cough. Edith refused to let him smoke
inside the house. Aunt Caroline, Bob’s wife,
was perched on the edge of a faded green chair on
the other side of the room, her fingers gripped
the armrest so tightly that they were beginning
to turn blue. In between, on the other side of
the sofa was Aunt Margaret, holding the old worn
out family bible that Edith insisted on keeping
nearby. It was so big and bulky with soft patches
of brown leather peeling around the edges, it
seemed almost human. Uncle Bill and Aunt Ruby
were trying to share a large chair next to the
window. While Edith’s youngest son, Timothy,
stood at the entrance to the living room, leaning
against the wall with his hands firmly clenched
in his pockets. All the younger family members,
cousins Jeff, Samantha, John, William, Gary,
Katie, my brother Andy, my sister Rachael and
myself, sat huddled in small groups. We listened
divided by age and sex sitting on the floor. It
was reminiscent of a Christmas gathering with
everyone waiting anxiously for presents to be
passed around.
We sat in
silence for some time, I tried to look around,
but all eyes were fixed on Edith. She seemed to
be meditating. Her stiff gray hair remained
unruffled as she swayed forward and backward on
the sofa. The silence was deafening and it went
on for some time, when without warning Edith
jumped up, grabbing the Bible out of
Margaret’s hand. Shouting, "Hallelujah,
Christ is coming to meet us all at the pearly
gates, rejoice, rejoice." I heard Uncle Bob
say, "Amen" then, another
"Amen" came from someone else. Edith
continued on with spit flying out into the air
like a fine mist. She sounded like a preacher in
an outdoor summer revival tent, but I could no
longer hear the message. A word,
"faith", "redemption"
"revelation" passed over me every now
and then, but I couldn’t comprehend the
meaning of it all. I had heard the spirits and I
knew what they said. But, I couldn’t muster
the courage to speak out. My mouth was dry, words
evaporated in my mind, I felt nailed to the
ground. And I knew then and there that
everything, EVEVERYTHING, would continue as
before. I stumbled out of the living room like a
drunkard, passing through the foyer and the front
door onto the porch without a word. I sat down
next to Uncle Jim and I silently wondered what I
would do in thirty years time. Surely, I would
rip the veil from everyone’s eyes. No doubt,
I was confident I will tell everyone exactly what
the spirits tell me when I come back from the
grave. Absolutely, I have no doubt! But, what do
you think, will I be able to?
*
©2012scm - 3351
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