The Passion of Mary-Margaret

The Passion of Mary-Margaret by Lisa Samson

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Authors: Lisa Samson
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for decades out on the light with Gerald. When Gerald came ashore, sometimes for several days to go into Baltimore for major supplies or to talk to his boss with the coast guard, she’d man the light.
    Hattie saved the life of three watermen during Hurricane Agnes after their skipjack had slammed into the shoals. She got in her motorboat, ripped the cord of the outboard, and rescued them. I can picture her housedress clinging to her comfy exterior, her bottle-red hair sitting like a soaked octopus atop her head, the tensile muscles in her arms tightening as she reached forward, hand-over-handing the men to safety. Nobody would dare drown when Hattie was on duty.
    They weathered out the storm aboard the light with her, the metal pilings creaking and groaning, the waves crashing almost up to the windows as Agnes grew angrier.
    Gerald watched from the shore.
    â€œHonest to Pete, when I got out there, Hattie was playing gin rummy with everybody, the place warm and cozy, and she looked up at me and said, ‘Gere, did you remember the sugar?’ And of course I forgot the sugar, so I took those men back to shore, picked up a sack of sugar, and made Hattie and me a tray of sugar cookies.”
    Hattie was fifty-five years old when she saved those men.
    The lighthouse survived. They all did. Only minor repairs were necessary to Bethlehem Point. Other lighthouses weren’t so lucky, but we all figured that light held together by Hattie’s sheer, strong will. How it lasted the years before she got there, I couldn’t begin to say.
    And now, if she wants to die, she will. Most likely, she knows something we don’t. Or perhaps it’s just time. Who can know but God? And maybe Hattie Keller.
    An hour later it was evident she was dying. Her heart rate slid down to twenty and her blood pressure barely registered.
    â€œWhy is this happening, MM?” Gerald, dressed in plaid pajamas and looking better than he had in a long time, sat in the lounge chair beside her bed. He looked a little lost among the pictures of flowers on every wall (not a lighthouse in sight!), and on every piece of furniture draped a multicolored, granny-square afghan. Little knickknacks—some crocheted with bits of silk flowers cascading from some orifice, some bearing words burned into wood—were evenly distributed around the room. I love Hattie—I hate her taste in decorating being the minimalist I am—but this brave, seaworthy soul can strew whatever she wants around her room as far as I’m concerned.
    At least there weren’t any pictures of kittens or geese. Or farfetched English villages.
    â€œDid Hattie ever talk about dying?” I asked.
    â€œNot much. She didn’t like the subject. You know how some people—morbid people—talk about how they’d like to go? Well, Hattie would say, ‘I’ll go when I want to and that’s that.’”
    I pulled my knitting out of my tote bag. Sometimes, when a patient is sleeping, I’ll sit and knit. Just being there
does a world of good. My propensity was to start something for John and the other brothers, but summer is beginning in Swaziland. The yarn is a mustard gold. So I decided I’d just start on a scarf and see who ends up with it.
    â€œDid Hattie leave you any instructions, Gerald?” I find it’s best to be matter-of-fact about death issues. People appreciate it. It jerks them back from that unreal place where finality hovers in an iridescent hum you can almost see and somewhat hear. But not quite.
    He ran a hand across the strings of his hair. “She left something out at the light years ago. And she brought that up two days ago, real wistful. Said she kept a sack under the floorboard near the refrigerator. Well, sort of important papers, she said. Said you’d appreciate it the most. Has something to do with Jude too, some letter to you or something he told her to give to you after he died.”
    â€œMy

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