No Dark Valley Read Free Page A

called her. The last time Celia had seen her, Candy was still dragging a blanket around and sucking her thumb. But that was over eighteen years ago, Celia realized, which would make her twenty or more now.
    â€œAnd Ralph’s coming to the funeral, so you can see him, too,” Doreen was saying. “His boss is letting him off early today. He’s one of the pallbearers—I didn’t know if you knew that. Your grandmother picked ’em all out herself before she passed.”
    Celia shook her head. “No, I didn’t know.” She waved back at Doreen as she steered Ralphie toward the kitchen. As they disappeared through the swinging door, the sound of a baby’s wail broke forth, then suddenly stopped. A rushing sound filled Celia’s head, like a semi passing by, and she took several deep breaths.
    â€œWow, there goes one classy woman,” Al said, then laughed. “I can’t understand how you escaped all this, Celia.”
    Celia watched him for a few moments. He had already picked two chicken wings clean and was busy now with a mound of spaghetti casserole. He was having trouble getting it to stay on his fork, however, so he finally took up his spoon and, with the aid of a corn-bread muffin as a pusher, began to make headway. Celia looked away. Bringing Al with her on this trip had seemed like such a good idea a couple of days ago.
    She wondered if her grandmother had planned out the whole funeral. That would be just like something she would do. She probably had it all written down in one of her notebooks somewhere, right down to the songs that would be sung. This was something southerners were fond of doing. And knowing Grandmother, there would probably be dozens of songs.
    Next to her Bible, her grandmother’s favorite book had been the old brown hymnal they used at church. She even had her own personal copy of it that she carried back and forth to church. Tabernacle Hymns Number Three it said on the cover. And she sang those songs at home all hours of the day and night the whole three years Celia had lived with her. During that last awful year Celia would often turn her radio up full blast to block out the sound of her grandmother’s singing.
    Looking up at the roses on the wallpaper, Celia suddenly thought of the words of one of Grandmother’s favorite songs: “I come to the garden alone, while the dew is still on the roses.” She could remember her grandmother singing it over and over at home and calling out its number time and again at church on request night. In Celia’s opinion it was a sappy maudlin song, one of those that sounded pretty but meant nothing. Well, Grandmother , Celia thought, it looks like the dew has all evaporated now and the roses have wilted and died on the trellis, just like you .
    And even though she tried hard to keep it from coming, she could clearly hear her grandmother’s abrupt answer. “No, Celie, I haven’t died. I only changed addresses is all. And the dew is still on the roses up here, and there’s not a single thorn on ’em, either.” As much as she disliked it, Celia couldn’t stop a picture from forming, one of her grandmother strolling through a lush celestial garden with Jesus by her side. Or rather stomping through the garden. She had never known Grandmother to stroll anywhere.
    Grandmother loved the second stanza of that song and would always close her eyes when she sang it at church: “He speaks, and the sound of his voice is so sweet the birds hush their singing.” In Celia’s opinion, if Grandmother was the one in that garden with Jesus, that explained the birds’ falling silent. It had nothing to do with his voice—the poor birds were terrified of hers.
    In the doorway from the living room appeared the bent figure of an old man with a white goatee. For a moment he stood absolutely still, peering into the dining room at Al and Celia. Then he shuffled forward