Gone

Abstract

Gone Linda Wastila (bio) The late-May morning I drove east from Chapel Hill, I didn't pay much mind to the tracts of yellowed corn and soy or the tobacco-curing sheds standing derelict. As I headed home, Ma beside me, my junior year and final exams behind me, all that filled my head was catching up on sleep and getting ready for my summer internship at the National Institutes of Health. [End Page 18] Click for larger view View full resolution Photo by Renee Grayson [End Page 19] "Fred Jarvis had a heart attack over Easter," Ma said. "Didn't get the seed in. Probably a good thing, what with this drought." "I hope you made him pay the lease," I said. "Don't be cold, Clayton. Poor man's bedridden." "Jesus, Ma. He has kids to help. We can't afford to take on his twohundred-acre problems." She patted my thigh. "Don't worry. I leased ten acres to a girl from up north. She's farming daylilies." The space behind my eyes pinched. "Flowers? Now there's a real moneymaker." Ma got quiet and scribbled in her sketchpad. I mumbled an apology. She coughed low in her throat, polite, like she was holding back. The AC rattled, working hard. The road curled through Kingsboro, past the Barbeque Lodge and the Purina factory. When we passed the hog-rendering plant, the air took on a sulfuric edge. At the east end of town, I steered right at what had once been the far corner of family land, now a used-car dealership. The town peeled away in the side-view mirror, replaced by red clay. Ma leaned against the window, eyes closed, sketchbook fallen at her feet. Her cheekbones jutted sharp against her skin. The zygomatics, I remembered, from my anatomy final. Yesterday, when we'd met in the cool dim of the art museum, I'd found her sitting on the leather bench, gazing at sepia-colored paintings of tobacco leaves and buds, her botanical creations that she'd donated to the collection. The same spot where I sat when I needed to destress from school. When she stood up and I pulled her into my hug, she felt as insubstantial as a dragonfly wing. The car rolled into the next intersection. An ancient oak anchored the corner. The Kissing Tree, we'd called it in high school, for the mistletoe dripping from its uppermost branches. Fifty feet back, under the oak's shade, stood one of the original slave shacks, modernized with electricity and running water. I'd helped Daddy install the porcelain on my tenth birthday. The year before he passed. Ma stirred. "That's the lily farm," she said. "The owner lives in the cabin." "I hope you're charging rent." "She's hiring," Ma said. "Needs someone with a strong back and a sharp mind." [End Page 20] "Plenty of strong backs around here," I said. "The sharp minds, though, that's a problem." "Don't be a snob—I raised you better than that. There's more to smarts than book learning." Her words stung. Money was tight. My scholarship helped, and if I shaved off a semester and got early admission to med school, all the better. The NIH internship paid a small stipend, but I'd use most of it for room and board. State school was fine, but I aimed higher—Duke, Yale, maybe Harvard. "Sorry, Mama," I said. "I'm tired from finals." "You have all summer to rest up." "I'm leaving for my internship in two weeks," I reminded her. "I'll be back Labor Day." To pack my belongings, share a few meals, and head back to school. Back to the real world. Ma reached over and stroked the back of my neck. "Well, get a haircut before you go," she said, soft-like, then stared back out the window. ________ Too tired to sleep, I wandered the three-bedroom ranch that had never felt like home, flipping through her sketchbooks, the piles of overdue bills, turning the television on, then off. From her bedroom in the back, Ma hacked and wheezed. She...