Dixie Carver, age 49, died today surrounded by her family and a chorus of parishioners from her family’s church.
Throughout the vigil, everyone kept telling her this would be her opportunity to receive God’s grace. Dixie silently offered her family and guests her willingness to receive the gift. They knew it didn’t matter to her, at least that’s what she said, a statement that always generated headshaking and eye-rolling among the visitors, but they knew the moment was here and this was best for her. Especially now.
According to her mother, Dixie had tried God before and after her daddy went missing in East Asia. Once they received the final word, Mrs. Carver said Dixie only used the bible to tamp down the tobacco in the Pall Malls she stole from her purse. Dixie used to say it was the best use of that book. Mrs. Carver told people Dixie could inhale like a pro by the time she was nine.
Once her doctor said there was nothing left for him or anyone to do anymore, she went home and dyed what was left of her hair. Dixie said since she still had some left, why not be blonde again, and then booked a seat on a Greyhound going north, to Washington, DC, to be with her daddy.
She could hear the dead long before she got to the monument—chatter, low-volume sobbing, even laughter. When she caught sight of her reflection in the imprints on the rambling marble tombstone, her walk became erratic, like after too much whiskey which wasn’t true at this minute, or way too much weed, which was somewhat true but not enough to soften her fear.
Finally, she found his name. She kept tracing the letters, at times stopping to rest her cheek against the imprint. She closed her eyes and swooned into the embrace, sensing a welcoming kiss. Her whispers got ferocious, years of stories of all he missed—always having a chair for him, smoking his brand, having blonde hair again, like her baby self. He had taken a cutting when he left that last afternoon.
“Here I am,” she whispered over and over again.
Dixie pressed into the wall until her blood infused the carving and pieces of his name tattooed her cheek. She sat in the grass nearby for a while, watching people start and then slow down or stop and stand still, many crying and talking. She went home tired and happy. Done, she said to herself, done.
Eventually, the dying papoosed her. On that last day, people stood by her bed, praying and talking.
“So hey,” whispered the soul in repose, “God or someone using his name just called time. Anybody got a smoke?” Dixie chuckled as best she could, aimed her eyes into a private space, and quietly slipped away.
Family and friends figured out seating and waited for Satan or the Lord, whoever came first someone said. Some frowned. Some shouted hallelujah. The group moved around her until she was shrouded amidst a matrix of tightly pursed lips. Some started singing, some were praying. Her eyes stayed lost in the far-away.
The family waited a long time before making the call to the undertaker. Even he had trouble changing her line of sight. Everyone said that was just like the girl.
