Sweetgrass. Mary Monroe Alice
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 composure 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