Sweetgrass. Mary Monroe Alice

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.

      His mother, in contrast, prayed in church. The Blakelys were long-standing, staunch members of the Christ Church Episcopal Parish, and his mother was no exception. When he was little, his mother used to settle him on her lap during service by whispering the names of all the Episcopal ministers that graced the family tree. Or she’d tell of how she, along with generations of Blakely women before her, had stitched the fine needlework that graced the altar. He remembered how he’d slowly relax in her arms, surrounded in her scent of gardenias, a fine sheen of sweat from the stifling heat across his brow, while the murmurs of the faithful droned on.

      Morgan felt a sudden longing for the years lost. Each great oak that he passed seemed to him as one of his ancestors, erect and silent, watching with judgment as this last remaining Blakely heir slunk along the worn path, his pockets empty and his dreams unrealized.

      Unworthy, he heard in the rustle of leaves.

      “You’re all dead!” he shouted, then swallowed hard, struck fresh with guilt at the sudden memory of his brother.

      Morgan brought the bottle to his lips and drank thirstily. Why was he dredging up things he hadn’t thought about in years? Families had a way of tossing one straight back to the nursery. He didn’t have any intention of playing the role of angry young rebel again. He liked to think he’d traveled beyond that point in his life, at least.

      Straight ahead, soft yellow light flowed from the mullioned windows of his family’s house. When he reached the porch stairs, Blackjack paused, tail wagging, and looked up expectantly.

      “You’re like a ronin, aren’t you, boy? Just an old, master-less hound, like me,” he said, reaching over to pat the velvety fur. “No point in pretending any longer that you’re staying in your den, huh? Mama June’s wise to your tricks. Tell you what. She ain’t going to chase you off the porch. Nope. Truth is, no one has the heart. So, come on, then.” He grandly waved the dog up toward the house, tottering with the effort.

      Blackjack’s tail wagged and he bounded forward. Morgan took the stairs more slowly. Once on the porch, Blackjack brought his muzzle to Morgan’s hand, demanding. Morgan patted his broad head. Comforted by the motion, Morgan obliged until Blackjack was at last satisfied and ambled at a soft, padded pace to the cushioned settee he’d claimed as his own. After climbing up, the old dog settled with a low grunt, worn out from the long walk.

      Morgan eyed the curled-up dog and wished he could settle in as easily for the night. His joints were stiff from sitting all day in the hard hospital chair and, rolling his shoulders, he knew he’d ache tonight. Despite his fatigue and the bourbon running through his veins, however, his mind was still churning. He felt restless and wasn’t ready to go in just yet, so he took a final swig from the bottle, leaned against one of the eight porch pillars and lit a cigarette.

      What the hell was he doing here? he asked himself. He’d been away from Sweetgrass for more than a decade, yet even in the darkness he knew the land as well as the lines of his own body. Looking out, he could readily mark the Blakely borders along the shadowy, ragged outline of the marsh. It extended far out to where the cordgrass met sea and sky to form the horizon. The landscape seemed unchanged in all the years he’d been gone—at least within the gates of Sweetgrass.

      He’d half expected his parents to remain the same, too. Yet, today he’d seen for himself the ravages that time wrought on the people he loved and had left behind.

      He ran his hand in a sulky sweep through his hair. Time had not been kind to him, either. The years of wandering had not brought him the answers he’d hoped they would. The answers he sought were not on the open road, nor in the mountains of Montana. This he’d learned today while sitting at his father’s side. As he searched those eyes that stared back at him with the intensity of an acetylene torch, the excuses had burned clean away and he’d realized that the answers he sought were here, at Sweetgrass, with his father.

      “Aw, hell,” he muttered, pulling a long drag from his cigarette and tossing the bottle into the darkness. It fell with a satisfying crash.

      Behind him, the front door creaked open.

      “Morgan? There you are! I thought I heard a noise.” Mama June closed the door behind her and joined him on the porch.

      “Just havin’ a smoke.”

      “Thank you for smoking on the porch.” Mama June pulled her sweater a little tighter around her neck and came closer.

      He glanced to his side. His mother seemed small and slight beside him, more girl-like than he’d remembered. “Kind of chilly tonight.”

      “But it’s so bright and clear. Look! Venus is flirting with the Carolina moon.”

      The moon was an upturned sliver of light cut in a swath of black velvet. Venus, piercingly bright, punctuated the curve like a beauty mark at the tip of a courtesan’s smile.

      “How is he today?” she asked. “It’s the first day I haven’t been in to see him.”

      “I expect he’s much the same as when you last saw him.” He flicked the ash and took another drag on his cigarette. “But he’s sure as hell not at all the same as when I last saw him.”

      Her gaze searched his unkempt appearance with concern and he knew that she caught the scent of bourbon that clung to him.

      “I was anxious about how you’d react,” she replied at length. “Are you all right?”

      “Sure.”

      “I see,” she said.

      And he knew that she did.

      “It was damn hard seeing him like that.”

      “I tried to prepare you.”

      “How do you prepare someone for something like that?”

      She sighed. “I suppose that’s why Nan and the boys have such a hard time visiting.”

      Morgan