That Aunt Juna could do such things to a man as kind and simple as Joseph Carl Baine made folks fear for themselves, most certainly not so kind or simple as Joseph Carl. The older Annie grew and the more she favored Juna, the more folks shied away. But folks like a gathering-that’s what Grandma said the first year of the harvest. The lavender would tempt them. It was in the nature of these Kentucky folks, the coming together, so they wouldn’t be able to resist.
Some will come by car, others by foot. They’ll sip iced lavender tea, eat warm slices of Grandma’s lavender bread, punched down twice and left to rise on the sill, and buy freshly cut bundles. Some will choose blossoms narrowly in bloom and hang them upside down to dry in a spare bedroom like the farmers hang tobacco from the rafters of their barns. Others will choose bundles in full bloom and display them on their dining room tables.
Grandma will wear her best blue cotton skirt on that day, its pleats painstakingly ironed for just the occasion. She’ll waltz among the ladies and instruct them on how best to sprinkle lavender oil on their pillows for a good night’s sleep or how many drops to add to a warm bath to soothe a crabby child or even a crabby husband. There will be music and food, and the men will sip corn whiskey and smoke cigars. The ladies who come on that Sunday will wear their churchgoing dresses and hats and will pin up their hair. They’ll listen, though they won’t stand too close, as Grandma rattles off instructions for tending a skinned knee with a cotton ball and a few drops of oil. The ladies will nod, smile, sip their tea, but they’ll be ever so slightly wary of Grandma because she has the know-how, and didn’t Aunt Juna have it too? And what about that Annie? She has those eyes, you know, those black eyes.
Every year, this is how it happens, and this year will also include Abraham Pace and Abigail Watson saying their “I dos.” It was Grandma’s idea. The whole town will join in. The ladies will come and their husbands. There will be food and drink. There will be smoking, chewing, spitting, singing, the gathering of beautiful bouquets, but it all will begin, as it does every year, with the explosion of the lavender. It will be a powerful moment, and Annie has, these past many days, been feeling its approach much like a person might feel an oncoming train through the rattle in her feet that carries first through the rails and then through the ground and finally through the air. The coming of such a lot of splendor will fill a person up, near to the rim. This is what Grandma said when Annie complained of the spark, the sizzle, the something that clawed at her. But Grandma had been wrong. That spark wasn’t the lavender and it wasn’t a yearning of any kind. It was Aunt Juna coming home again.
WHILE GRANDMA SCRAMBLES eggs, Mama begins running the bread through the toaster. It’ll burn if left to its own, so she stands with one finger on the toaster’s lever, ready to flip it up at the first scent of charred crust. Caroline busies herself by rinsing the grounds from the coffeepot and pouring the orange juice, and Annie sits at the table with Daddy and Abraham Pace because it’s her special day and Mama says no chores on a young lady’s day of ascension. She also says that’s why they’ll be skipping church this morning. That and it’s setting day, though Annie thinks it’s mostly because the last Baine is dead and that will have folks talking.
Abraham will eat in a hurry today. Normally, every other year on this day, Daddy would too. The dry weather early last month meant easy work for the plows, and the rains earlier in the week softened the soil. It’s all made for a perfect day. Annie can smell it this year. The rich soil. She can smell it like she never before has. It’ll be black, cool to the touch, silken if rubbed between two fingers. The men will walk in straight rows that have been cut through Abraham Pace’s land. They’ll drop the tender plants, being careful of their green leaves and feathery roots. Some will feed the machine that drops the seedlings. Others will tend the dirt, pat it down just so. Others still will drop water. Abraham inherited all his daddy’s land, so says Grandma, and every year, he buys up more and more as other fellows find the going too tough. It’s Abraham’s best day, Daddy’s worst.
As Grandma whisks her eggs, she occasionally glances over a shoulder to see if Annie is still in her seat and hasn’t yet been taken by whatever put that empty rocking chair in motion. When Annie catches her staring, Grandma makes like she’s looking out the window beyond Annie’s shoulder or checking the clock over the door. Grandma, with hair that isn’t pinned quite as neatly this morning and apron strings that are twisted, is worried because when an empty rocking chair rocks, someone dies. She is fearing that the someone to die is going to be Annie. But someone already did die: Mrs. Baine. All that’s left is for someone to come home.
“You’ll be staying close to the house today, won’t you, Annie?” Grandma asks the third time Annie catches her staring. “Could use your help with the cake and such. You’re better with the icing than me. You whip it so nice and smooth. She should stay close to home, don’t you think, Sarah?”
Mama nods but never turns away from her toaster. “Wouldn’t hurt,” she says. “Yes, close to home.”
Mama would normally scold Grandma for encouraging the know-how in that way, but Mrs. Baine dying has weighed heavy on Mama and she can’t think about much more than that toast and keeping it from burning.
And while Mama is intent on keeping that toaster from burning her toast, Daddy is intent on watching Mama. As Mama stands, one hand resting on the toaster’s lever, the other wrapped around her waist, Daddy leans back in his chair, eyes heavy from being tired or from too much whiskey, and sighs every so often as if he’s feeling sad.
“Buell’ll be coming out this morning,” Daddy says, studying the back of Mama’s head. When Mama doesn’t turn or answer him, he stands, walks up behind her, and rests a hand on her shoulder. “Probably want to talk to you.”
Mama shifts a half step to the right, away from Daddy. “I’m sorry,” she says, reaching for the hand that had been on her shoulder, but before she can get ahold of him, Daddy slips back into his chair.
“I’m sorry, John,” Mama says again. “I’m not myself this morning.”
“It’s no wonder,” Grandma says, wrapping one of her crocheted hot pads around the skillet’s handle and taking up her eggs. “You let her be, John.”
“What makes you think he’ll want to talk with me?” Mama says, turning back to her toast.
“Trying to figure what happened to Cora, I suppose,” Daddy says.
Grandma dumps eggs first on Abraham’s plate, scraping them from the bottom of the cast-iron skillet with a fork, and dumps the rest on Daddy’s.
“I can sure enough tell Buell Fulkerson what happened,” she says, sliding the salt to Abraham.
He holds up a hand and pats his stomach. “Abigail says too much salt is causing me difficulty.”
Grandma picks up the glass shaker, gives two shakes directly over Abraham’s plate, and starts another batch of eggs.
“She’s not your wife yet, so you listen to me. Men who sweat for a living need their salt. That girl is little more than a child. Don’t you let her tell you a thing. And you,” she says, turning to Daddy and pointing at him with her fork, “you tell that Buell Fulkerson we got nothing to say on the subject of Cora Baine or any other Baine. We have worries enough of our own without worrying about those Baines.”
As if saying it out loud has reminded Grandma, she pushes aside the curtain and looks out on the front drive. She leans to get a view to the left and then to the right. She’s looking for any sign of Aunt Juna.