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On Sale: June 28, 2005
Hardcover
368 pages
ISBN: 0778321878
Mary Alice Monroe returns to the heart of the Lowcountry with a richly textured story about family, loss and the heartbreaking compromises people make in the name of love.
Sweetgrass is a historical tract of land in South Carolina that has been home to the Blakely family for eight generations. But Sweetgrass — named for the indigenous grass that grows in the area — is in trouble. Taxes are skyrocketing. Bulldozers are leveling the surrounding properties. And the Blakelys could be forced to sell the one thing that continues to hold their disintegrating family together.
For Mary June Blakely, the prospect of leaving is bittersweet. Her life at Sweetgrass has been filled with both joy and heartache. She's raised her children here, but watched as tragedy drove them away. And though she knows leaving would finally mend her heart, moving her ill husband from the land he loves would break his. So she finds the strength to stay and fight — for her children, her marriage and her home.
For Nona Bennett, the prospect of Sweetgrass being sold is unimaginable. Her family has woven the grass into baskets since the days of slavery, and her stake in the land has endured for generations. Nona's roots are as embedded in the Blakely family as her beloved sweetgrass is in the earth. She has seen firsthand the pain that they have suffered, and she alone understands that they can heal only once they decide what it really means to be a family.
In this poignant novel of hope, acceptance and the powerful gift of forgiveness, Mary Alice Monroe paints an intimate portrait of a family that must learn to unravel old patterns and weave together a new future.
For eight generations, the Blakely family has occupied Sweetgrass, a plantation in the Lowcountry of South Carolina. Now, they're in danger of losing their home because of soaring taxes and developers eager to reap the financial rewards of building housing tracts on such a prime piece of real estate.
As the novel opens, Mary June, the family's matriarch, has an argument with her husband Preston, who suffers a debilitating stroke later that evening. Preston's sister Adele wastes no time in telling Mary June that the best course of action is to sell Sweetgrass, but Mary June resists, knowing it will break Preston's spirit to leave the land he has worked so hard to keep. Adele, a real estate developer, then goes to nefarious lengths to gain control over the fate of her childhood home.
Mary June, though, isn't alone in her quest to save Sweetgrass. When her son Morgan arrives back in South Carolina after a ten-year estrangement from his parents, he proves to be Mary June's staunchest ally in the fight to preserve the plantation. Her daughter Nan, married to a man who works for Adele, eventually finds her way back into the family fold. And Nona Bennett, the former housekeeper at Sweetgrass, once again has come to aid Mary June in a dark hour. Nona, who carries on the Bennett tradition of weaving sweetgrass into baskets, has more than a passing interest in seeing the plantation spared from developers. She depends on access to the indigenous sweetgrass that grows on the grounds for her craft.
As the family cares for Preston, who cannot speak, and fight to save their beloved home, they slowly come to terms with a long-ago tragedy that continues to haunt their lives. SWEETGRASS alternates between the present and the past, adding an element of anticipation as Mary June reveals what first brought her to Sweetgrass nearly fifty years ago --- and the circumstances that made her stay.
Mary Alice Monroe, who lives in South Carolina, is in her element describing the history of basket weaving, the lush land, the threat imposed by developers, and the difficulties of making a plantation prosper in the modern era. And she's equally adept at spinning an interesting story as she is at setting the scene. SWEETGRASS is a poignant and ultimately hopeful tale of forgiveness, family secrets…and finding your way back home.
--- Reviewed by Shannon McKenna
Mary Alice Monroe is the critically acclaimed author of eight novels, including SKYWARD, THE BEACH HOUSE, THE FOUR SEASONS and THE BOOK CLUB. She is an active conservationist and lives in Isle of Palms, South Carolina, with her family.
Mary Alice wrote stories for as long as she can remember. As a child she could always be found curled up with a book or writing. One of her strongest memories is her first trip to the public library. She couldn't believe all those books were there for her! When they gave her her first library card, she felt as though she'd been given the keys to a candy shop for her imagination. She still feels the same thrill in libraries and bookstores, just browsing through the books.
Mary Alice claims much of her creative spark came from her large and very close family. Growing up, she and her nine brothers and sisters wrote and performed in their own plays and musicals. Some wrote, painted, sang or played instruments. Her teachers recognized her talent and encouraged her to write. Today, Mary Alice still credits these mentors as instilling in her the faith to pursue her dream. Yet, she first pursued nonfiction, studying journalism and writing for newspapers or for hire. She did not find fulfillment and, after she married, detoured.
After an extended trip to Japan with her husband, Mary Alice studied Asian culture in earnest. She was awarded a fellowship, became bilingual in Japanese and earned her master's degree. Later, she helped establish a government-funded English as a Second Language program for Southeast Asian refugees. Working with immigrants and helping them integrate into American society, Mary Alice saw the need to write an English-language survival text, one of several nonfiction titles she has authored or co- authored.
Not until years later did fate intervene. When her doctor confined her to bed for the final months of her pregnancy, Mary Alice's husband handed her a yellow notepad and pencil and urged her to write the novel she had always dreamed about. Knowing she might never again have that gift of time, she wrote and wrote. "I gave birth to a baby and a book," says the author.
Eight books later, Mary Alice cannot imagine not writing. As difficult and painful as the process can sometimes be, she has found her voice in fiction. Although known for her intimate portrayals of women's lives, her writing has gained added purpose and depth with her move to the South Carolina Lowcountry. "Living on Isle of Palms provides a stimulating place for me to think and to write. I've always been interested in nature, but living on the island and near the wetlands has influenced by work. I draw themes for my novels from nature and the parallels with human nature. And, in my own small way, I hope that by bringing to life the beauty and mystery of this fabulously varied ecosystem and various endangered species in my stories, readers will perhaps be inspired to support efforts to protect them."
Mary Alice is a volunteer for several environmental groups including the South Carolina Center for Birds of Prey and The Island Turtle Team. Her work with these groups provided the inspiration for her novels, SKYWARD, THE BEACH HOUSE and SWEETGRASS.
New York Times bestselling author Mary Alice Monroe is best known for her richly textured novels that delve into the complexities of the human psyche and explore the parallels between the land and life. Now she discusses her newest novel, SWEETGRASS, the story of a family's struggle to come together, heal old wounds and weave together past and present as they protect their heritage from destruction. Set in the author's home in the South Carolina Lowcountry, this new book evokes all the beauty, mystery, sorrow and joy of the land she loves.
Q: SWEETGRASS is your third book with a strong environmental setting. What inspired you to write it?
Mary Alice Monroe: Loss of habitat is a serious concern as development encroaches on open space. For families, the loss of their family land or farm, or perhaps just the family home, is a social phenomenon many of us experience. I saw sweetgrass (Muhlenbergia filipes) as a symbol for this loss.
Sweetgrass is an indigenous plant that grows along the coastal dunes from North Carolina to Texas. It used to be found everywhere, but today it is fast disappearing from the landscape. What's also important is this grass is used to make the historic sweetgrass baskets, a cultural craft brought by the slaves from Africa over 300 years ago. The art of basket making is an African-American tradition passed on from mother to daughter along the Carolina coast, but today the basket makers must travel to Georgia and Florida in search of sweetgrass.
So I believe SWEETGRASS speaks to a universal feeling of loss that we all are likely to encounter at some point in our lives: loss of home, of property, of tradition, even of identity.
Q: Your move to South Carolina profoundly affected your writing career. How did that come about?
MAM: We were living in Chicago when my husband accepted an offer in his field, child psychiatry, from the Medical University of South Carolina. We had always been attracted to the Carolinas and visited frequently, so it was an easy decision. I had no idea how much it would change my life, though. In my coming to South Carolina at this point in my life, my personal interests and career just seemed to dovetail. Life is like that sometimes.
Q: How do you research your books?
MAM: For me, there are two approaches to research. One is a very hands-on process. I volunteer and get deeply involved with the topic I'm writing about. For example, I'm a member of the Isle of Palms/Sullivan's Island Turtle Team. That experience was instrumental for my book THE BEACH HOUSE. I'm now going to the South Carolina Aquarium, to their sea turtle rehabilitation program, for the sequel I'm currently writing. My work at the South Carolina Center for Birds of Prey played a major role in SKYWARD.
For SWEETGRASS, I live outside Mount Pleasant, South Carolina --- a center for the sweetgrass basket-making tradition. You can still see the rickety wooden basket stands with the beautiful baskets along Highway 17, the same as you could since the thirties. Lately, however, the development in this area is displacing the basket makers and destroying the habitats where their raw materials grow. It was both fascinating and humbling to learn the craft --- I made two baskets myself! I learned to appreciate their skill. But it is alarming to realize how tenuous the future of their craft could be.
The second prong of my research approach is academic. I pore over historical documents and texts, I interview extensively, and I use the Internet.
Q: What's the most interesting thing that has ever happened while you were doing your research?
MAM: I have a wonderful story. While at the South Carolina Center for Birds of Prey, I was helping to treat a bald eagle that had lost a fierce aerial fight. Raptors are dangerous predators and none more so than eagles, so volunteers approach them with respect and caution. I had progressed far enough in my volunteering to be allowed to assist with anesthesia. The birds are anesthetized during medical treatment and afterward the caretakers hold them upright as the birds come to. I held this huge eagle --- likely a female --- in my arms. Imagine a bald eagle tucking her head in the crook of your arm as you rock her! I knew I was breathing rarefied air and, perhaps naively, felt a bond with this bird.
After several months this eagle was released back into the wild. Well, sometime later, my neighbor called and told me to hurry on outside and look at my roof. There, sitting on top of my house, was a beautiful bald eagle! She was unusually large, and I believe it was the same eagle I had cared for. She stayed for about an hour. No one will ever convince me that it wasn't "my" bird on my roof that day and, like Brady in SKYWARD, I've taken the eagle as my totem. If you don't believe me, check out the photo on my Web site!
Q: SWEETGRASS is a family saga. Are the characters based on people you've met?
MAM: My characters are amalgams. So though the characters are fictional, I'm often inspired by real events and people. I interviewed a number of local sweetgrass basket makers, and Nona is a fictional compilation of some of these women. Other characters, such as Mama June, are universal. She speaks for mothers everywhere. As for events, the Blakely family's solution to establish a conservation easement through The Nature Conservancy and the South Carolina Coastal Conservation League is based on a local family's similar plan. This is not uncommon and, in fact, is happily happening more frequently.
Q: What inspired you to include The Nature Conservancy and South Carolina Coastal Conservation League, specifically, in your book?
MAM: It's been my pleasure to get to know the people at the SCCCL and the South Carolina chapter of The Nature Conservancy very well over the past few years. I know what worthy organizations they are and how dedicated they are to preserving our land for future generations.
This is such an important national and international issue. The underlying premise of this book is preservation: of a family, of a culture and of habitat. Organizations such as The Nature Conservancy, the South Carolina Coastal Conservation League, Ducks Unlimited, the Sierra Club, and others offer viable solutions to families who hope to preserve their property in perpetuity. Conservation easements are one of the most powerful, effective tools available for the conservation of private lands. Millions of acres of wildlife habitat and open space have been successfully protected.
Q: What do you look for in your characters?
MAM: When I begin a book, I don't really know my characters, so the first draft is always a process of discovery. Each character has a role to play, yet facets of their personalities are revealed to me as I write. They always surprise me! I'm always trying to find their "inner hero." This means that in their journey, the character must find a way to solve that which is in conflict with the noblest aspect of their character. Nan, for example, rediscovers the self she had suppressed as a wife and mother, and in doing so, she at last stiffens her spine and questions her husband's motives. Morgan finds the courage to return home and face all the demons and memories embedded there. Mama June, most of all, finds the strength to finally reconcile her past and heal --- not only herself, but her family as well.
Q: What do you want your readers to take away from your books?
MAM: First, of course, I want them to be entertained and to enjoy the world I take them to. Then I hope my books encourage readers to reflect on their own world --- their relationships with the people in their lives, and the environment. So afterward maybe they'll think to turn off the lights for turtles, make a donation, or volunteer for some conservation/wildlife organization in their own hometown. I believe that people really want to know about the world that surrounds them. Good folks who move to a new environment, such as the eastern coast or the Colorado mountains, may not know much about the local wildlife, but they care.
Q: What's next?
MAM: I've received so many letters begging for a sequel to THE BEACH HOUSE. So in my next book I'll be returning to Ocean Boulevard five years later and revisiting Toy Sooner, Cara Rutledge, Little Lovie --- and of course the loggerheads. The story line will be set against the backdrop of the rehabilitation of injured sea turtles. Then I'm off to Mexico to research butterflies for another novel. Did you know there are reports of 75 percent fewer migrating monarch butterflies in Mexico this year?
© Copyright 2005 by Mary Alice Monroe.
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Chapter 1
"Until fairly recently, the coastal region of islands, marshes, placid rivers and oak-shaded roads had seen relatively little change- but now change is widespread, often overwhelming and sometimes devastating."
-The National Trust for Historic Preservation
March is a moody time of year in the Lowcountry. On any given day,seemingly by whim,the weather is balmy and sweet-smelling and can lure reluctant smiles from the hopeful who dream of cool, tart drinks on steamy afternoons, creamy white magnolia blossoms and scented offshore breezes.Then overnight, everything can change.With a sudden gust of cold wind, winter will reach out with its icy grip to draw a foggy curtain over the gray marsh.
Mama June Blakely had hoped for an early spring, but she was well seasoned and had learned to keep an eye on the sky for dark clouds. A leaden mist hovered close to the water, so thick that Mama June could barely make out Blakely's Bluff, which stretched out into the gray-green Atlantic Ocean like a defiant fist.A bittersweet smile eased across her lips. She'd always thought it a fitting symbol of her family's turbulent history with the sea.
Perched high on the bluff was a weather-beaten house that had been in the Blakely family for generations. Bluff House had withstood countless hurricanes and storms to remain the bastion of family gatherings long after most of the old Charleston family's land holdings were sold off. Each time Mama June looked at the battered house, waves of memories crashed against her stony composure.And when the wind gusted across the marshes, as it did now, she thought the mist swirled like ghosts dancing on the tips of cordgrass.
Thunder rumbled, low and threatening. She tugged her sweater closer to her neck and shifted her gaze to the lowering skies. Weather moved quickly over the South Carolina coastline, and a front like that could bring a quick cloudburst and sudden winds.Worry tugged at her mouth as she turned on her heel and made her way across the polished floors of her home, through the large, airy kitchen, the stocked butler's pan-try,the formal dining room with glistening crystal and mirrors, the front parlor appointed with ancestral furniture and straight out to the front veranda.Gripping the porch railing, she leaned far forward, squinting as she searched the length of ancient roadbed bordered by centuries-old oaks.
Her frown lifted when she spotted a broad, snowy-headed figure walking up the drive,a lanky black dog at his heels. Mama June leaned against the porch pillar, sighing in relief. At that pace, she figured Preston would beat the storm. How many years had she watched and waited for her husband to come in from the fields? Goodness, could it really be nearing fifty years?
Preston Blakely wasn't a large man physically, but his manner and personality made him imposing to anyone who knew him. People called him formidable in polite company, bullheaded in familiar-and she couldn't argue. He was walking with a single-minded purpose, heels digging in the soft roadbed and arms swinging. His square chin jutted out, cutting the wind like the mast of a ship.
Lord, what bee was in that man's britches this time? she thought with a sorry shake of her head.
On reaching the house, Preston sent the dog to the back with a jerk of his index finger."Go on, now. Settle, Blackjack," he ordered.Then, raising his head, he caught Mama June's gaze.
"Hellfire,"he grumbled louder than the thunder, raising his arm and shaking a fistful of crumpled papers in the air. "They've gone and done it this time."
Mama June's hands tightened on the railing as her husband came up the porch stairs."Done what?"
"They done got me by the short hairs," he said on reaching the porch.
"Who got you, dear?"
"The banks!" he roared."The taxes.The whole cussed economy, that's who!"
"Sit down a spell, Press, before you pop a valve. Look at you. You're sweating under that slicker. It's too hot for such a fuss and, I swanny-" she waved her small hand in the air "-I don't know what you're talking about. Taxes and banks and short hairs…"
"I'm talking about this place!"
"There's no need to shout. I'm old, not deaf."
"Then listen to what I'm tellin' you, woman. We're going to lose it."
"What? Lose the land?"
"Yes, ma'am, the land," he said. "And this house you're so fond of.We'll lose it all."
"Press," she replied, striving for calm."I don't understand any of this. How can we lose everything?"
Preston leaned against the railing and looked out over his land. A cool wind rippled the wild grasses like waves upon the ocean.
"Remember when we were reassessed a few months past?" When she nodded, he continued. "Well, here's what they say this property is worth now. And here's how much they say we've got to pay. Go on," he said, waving the papers before her. "Read it and weep."
Mama June reached out to retrieve the crumpled papers and gingerly unfolded them. Her mouth slipped open in a soft gasp. "But…this can't be right. It's three times as much as before."
"Four times as much."
"We can't afford that.We'll appeal.They can't force us to accept this."
"They can and they will."
"There are lots of folks round here that won't stand for it," Mama June said, hearing aloud the indignation she felt stirring in her breast."This can't just be happening to us."
"That's true enough. It's happening all over. And there's nothing any of us can do. Folks keep coming from the north in a steady stream." He shrugged. "And they all want to live along the water for the beautiful views.Trouble is, there's only so much property to go around. So property values just keep climbing and developers, like my own sweet, avaricious sister, are licking their chomps just biding their time.They'll wrestle away any and every acre of earth so they can turn around and plow it over with cement." He raked his thick, short white hair with his fingers."Hell, I knew it was coming-we all did. I reckon I just didn't think it would be so quick."
He gave a rueful smile. "Kinda like a hurricane, eh? Well," he said with resignation,"looks like we miscalculated on this one. Just like we did with Hugo."
"We've always managed to hang on before.Through the war, the gas crisis, the bad economy, even Hurricane Hugo."
"I know it. I've done my best-God knows I've fought the good fight. But I'm old now. And I'm worn out. I don't have it in me to fight them anymore."
Mama June stepped forward to rest her hand on his drooping shoulder, alarmed to her core to see her usual bear of a husband so defeated. She was about to offer some platitude, to say "don't worry, we'll be fine," when she felt his shoulders cord up again beneath her palms. He exploded in renewed fury.
"Maybe if that no-good son of ours had stayed home we wouldn't be in this mess."
Mama June dropped her hand and wrapped her arms around herself."Let's don't start in on Morgan…"
"Don't you go defending him," he said, whirling around to face her."Not to me! He's my son, dammit. He should be here, helping his father run this plantation. It's too much for one man. I need his ideas, his energy. Is it too much to ask my only son to take his father's place?"
"He needs to take his own place in the world," she countered softly, even as she felt herself harden against her husband. This was an all-too-familiar argument.
"The hell with the world! It's Sweetgrass that needs him. It's his duty. His heritage! A Blakely has run Sweetgrass Plantation for eight generations, and though there may only be a few hundred acres left, by God, Sweetgrass is still in Blakely hands."
"He's got his own land," she reminded him.
"His own land?" Preston's eyes widened with incredulity. "You mean those few measly acres in the wilds of Montana that he hides out in when he's not out breaking some laws?"
"Oh, for pity's sake. He's not doing any such thing. He's protesting!"
"And for what? To protect some bison? Hell," he said with a snort."Bison… He grew up calling them buffalo like the rest of us."
"He's trying to protect them."
"He's playing around. He's not working that land. He's not working, period."
"Stop, Press." His angry words were shredding her compo
sure like razors. "Worthless," he muttered, ignoring her. She turned and began walking away."I can't listen to this…." "What did I bother working for all these years?" he called
after her. "That's what I want to know. I have no one to pass this all down to." She stopped and faced him with a cold stare."You have your daughter." Preston scoffed and brushed away the suggestion with a
sweep of his hand. "You can't keep brushing Nan aside." "Didn't she do just that to us when she sold off her land?" "Her husband…" "That weasel! He only married her for her land." "What a thing to say!" She'd thought as much herself but
had never granted it voice. "Lest you forget, I sold my land
when I married you." "That wasn't the same thing at all, and you know it." "I know no such thing." "See, there you go.You always take their sides over mine." "I do no-" "I'm your husband! I should be your first concern. For
once! I've worked all these years like a bull in the harness to keep this land intact, to keep hold of this house with all those antiques you love so much."
"Don't even…"
"All of this." His arm swept out in a grand gesture. "I've sweated from dawn to dusk. I've spilled blood. I've given my heart and soul to this place. My dreams. My youth. And now…" He stopped, clamping his lips tight and looking out at the land with desperation shining moistly in his eyes."And now it's gone."
"Good!" she replied with heart.
Preston spun around to look at her."What'd you say?"
"You heard me. I said good. Good riddance!" she cried out with a strained voice. She saw the pale blue of his eyes swimming with pain and shock at her outburst. But rather than take it back or soften the words, as she ordinarily might have done, she felt years of anguish burst forth with a volcanic gush.
"All you think about is the loss of this land!" she cried, thrusting the papers into the paunch of his belly."What about your family? What about that loss? You haven't spoken with your son in years.Your daughter feels like a pariah.They don't come around anymore.You've driven our children away. But you don't care about that, do you? You didn't fight to keep the family, did you? All you care about is this piece of earth.Well, it won't be long before we'll die and be buried on this precious land. But who will mourn our passing? I ask you, Preston, will our children weep when we're gone?"
His face went still before he swung his head away, averting his gaze.
She took a breath to gather her strength and stepped closer to her husband, narrowing the distance. Pounding her breast with her fist, emphasizing each word, she said in a voice betrayed by a shaky timbre, "This land has stolen my children from me. And that is a far greater loss to me. Good riddance, I say. I despise this land!"
"You don't mean that." Preston's voice was low and husky.
She took a long, sweeping glance at the landscape she'd called home for close to five decades.The roiling line of clouds rolled overhead like the closing of a curtain.Then she met his gaze and held it.
"I surely do. From the day I first stepped foot on it, all this land ever brought me was utter and complete heartbreak."
They stood face-to-face, silently recollecting the wide swath of years cut low by that statement.
Around them the storm broke. Fat drops of rain splattered loudly on the dry ground in gaining crescendo.With each gust of wind the grasses swayed and shook, rattling like castanets. Then the sky opened up and the heavens cried.The roof provided no shelter from the torrents of rain, and both felt the lash of water that whipped through the air.
Mama June doubted the rain hid from Preston the tears coursing a trail down her cheeks.Yet he did not move to console her or offer any word of either argument or comfort. Her shoulders slumped and she retreated inside the house.
Preston stood rock still and watched her go. He was unmoving as he listened to his wife's tread on the stairs, knowing she made her way to her bedroom. She would likely cloister herself for hours, perhaps for the rest of the evening, shutting him out.
Same as always.
He wouldn't go after her, wouldn't try to talk things through lest the words dredged up the past. She couldn't handle that, and he didn't know if he could anymore, either. Besides, it wasn't worth the risk of her retreating to a place far more inaccessible than her bedroom.
He sighed heavily, her name slipping through his lips. "Mary June…"
He'd spoken harshly and was sorry for it. She was delicate when it came to matters of the family. He'd always tried to shelter her from bad news. But this… He squeezed the papers once more in his fist. This had hit too hard. He couldn't bear this alone. Hellfire, he'd needed someone to share this burden with, and who better than his wife? She was his wife, wasn't she?
He cast a final glance up toward her room, where she was crying, and knew a sudden pain, as if the lightning in the sky just shot through his heart.
"To hell with it!" he cried, drawing back his hand and throwing the cursed papers into the storm.
The wind caught the papers, hurtling them toward the marsh faster than a Cooper's hawk.They landed, tangled in the tall grasses, beaten by the rain. Lightning flashed in the blackening sky, and by the time he heard the rumble of thunder, he was in the house, reaching for the snifter of brandy.
The storm passed quickly on its march from the mainland to the sea. Now the air was fresh and the pastel pinks of the sunset had deepened to a rich ocher. Preston sat on the porch, his clothes damp and his skin cold, staring out at the purpling sky while the brandy did its work. Usually Mama June sat rocking beside him in a companionable silence. He felt her absence deeply.
"At least you're here, aren't you, boy?" he said, reaching down to pat the black Labrador retriever curled at his feet. Blackjack, who had sneaked back onto the porch the moment Mama June left, raised his dark, melting eyes and gazed at Preston with devotion while his tail thumped with affection."Good ol' dog."
With a heavy sigh he turned his gaze back to the westward slide of the sun. In the years past, he used to relish these waning hours of the day, just rocking and watching the sun set over Sweetgrass, knowing that, at least for one more day, he'd kept the Blakely heritage intact. The plantation once consisted of 1300 acres, yet over the span of three hundred years, one thousand of those acres were sold off. He'd always felt it was his duty as the last remaining Blakely male to try to hold on to what was left so that a Blakely would always have a place to call home. Thinking about this used to bring him a bone-deep satisfaction.
Tonight, he felt no satisfaction in anything.Tonight, he felt that all his efforts had been in vain.
Mama June's words had cut him to the quick.They'd extinguished the flicker of hope he'd harbored deep in his heart that someday, in the not-too-distant future, his prodigal son would return.Though he'd told no one, night after night he'd see that dream in the hallucinatory hues of the sunsets. In that dream he would be just like that father in the Bible he'd read about. He'd see his son coming up the road and go running out of the house to greet him with outstretched arms. He'd call for a feast to be held, for music to be played, for riches to be shared-all to celebrate his beloved son's return home after years of fruitless wandering. In his dream he would smile at Mama June and quote,"My son was lost but now is found."
Preston's frown deepened.Tonight he couldn't see his dream in the shadows of the sunset. His rays of hope had extinguished along with the sinking sun, and all that was left was this cold, dark silence. He felt as if he were already dead and put in the earth. Mama June's words came back to him: Will our children weep when we're gone?
They would not, he concluded bitterly. Then he downed his drink.
Gripping the sides of the chair, he pulled himself out, tottering as a wave of dizziness swept over him.Too much brandy, he thought as he plodded across the porch. Inside, the warmth of the house enveloped him. Glancing up at the tall clock, he realized with surprise that he'd been sitting out on the porch for several hours. It was no wonder he was chilled to the bone. He moved closer to the staircase and cocked his ear, straining to hear sounds from Mama June's bedroom.All was quiet. She must have fallen asleep, he thought, resigned to the fact that he would not likely be getting a hot meal for dinner this night.
Truth was, he wasn't hungry, anyway. All that fighting and drinking made his gut feel off. Besides, he was feeling too restless to eat. He never could settle down after a quarrel with Mama June. Couldn't rest until they'd made peace.That woman had his soul in her hands and he wondered if she even knew it. Some days, it seemed that she hardly even knew he was here.
He felt his aloneness acutely tonight. It was thrumming in his brain with a pulselike rhythm. He removed his slicker, letting it lie on the back of a chair, and wandered restlessly. His damp feet dragged and his blurry eyes barely took in the rooms as he meandered. His mind was fixed on Mama June's words.
I despise this land!
Could she have really meant that?
From the day I first stepped foot on it, all this land ever brought me was utter and complete heartbreak.
For him, the day Mary June Clark first stepped her tiny foot on Sweetgrass land was forever etched in his mind. His boyish heart had never known such infatuation, and later, much later, that youthful adoration had matured into a man's utter and complete devotion.
He'd never heard her speak so plainly. She usually kept strong opinions to herself, never wanting to make another person feel uncomfortable. But those words…it was as if they had all bubbled up from some deep, dank well.Very deep, he thought with a grimace.What was it that Faulkner had said? The past is never dead. It isn't even past. It nearly broke his heart to think that his life's efforts had been for naught. No man could bear that.
During one circuit of the house he poured himself another drink. After another, he headed toward the small mahogany desk in the foyer and dug out Mama June's blue address book. His eyes struggled with the letters and he fumbled for his reading glasses, an indignity of old age to which he'd never become reconciled.After a brief search through her feathery script, he picked up the phone and dialed the number in Montana.
His heart beat hard in his chest as he waited. Steadying himself against the wall, he listened to the phone ring once, twice, then two more times. At last he heard a click and the dreaded pause of a machine.
Hi.This is Morgan. I can't come to the phone right now. Leave a brief message and I'll call you back.
Preston was unprepared for the impact of his son's voice after so many years of silence. He fumbled with the phone cord a moment, his tongue feeling unusually thick in his mouth. When the beep sounded he skipped a beat, then blurted,"Uh, Morgan, it's your dad. I, uh…" Preston felt a sudden confusion and struggled to put his thoughts to words. He gripped the phone tight while his heart pounded."I called to…to talk to you. Anyway, I-"This was going badly. He had to end it. "Well, goodbye, son."
Preston's hands shook as he hung up the phone. He leaned against the desk, panting as if he'd just plowed the back forty. Damn, he was even sweating! What bad luck that on his first call in years he got some damned answering machine.
The sadness in his heart weighed heavily in his chest. He couldn't catch his breath and he felt as weak as a woman, barely able to bear his own weight. He pushed back from the desk, straightening, then felt again a surge of light-headedness, as if he might pass out. He staggered out to the porch, determined to let a few deep breaths of the cool ocean air balance him.
At the creak of the door Blackjack leapt from the cushioned settee and came trotting to his side, tail wagging.
"Back, boy," he mumbled, stumbling past him.
The dog whined and pressed his muzzle persistently against his leg.
"Back!" he cried, swinging his arm. He lost his balance and reached out in a panic, searching for something-anything- to hold on to. His eyesight went blurry, and with frightening suddenness, he was teetering in the darkness.The thrumming in his head became a brutal pounding, building in crescendo, louder and louder. He was going down. His arms reached out toward the house as he hit the floor and it felt as if the lightning struck in his brain this time, jolting him, seizing his muscles. Everything went white with blinding pain.
"Mary Ju-"
The white faded to black.Then all was still.
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