Clay's Quilt

by Silas House

  Clay pulled on his Levi’s and went outside. Alma didn’t get up. She turned Clay’s pillow over to the cool side and put it between her knees.

  He stepped off the porch and out into the yard, where the grass was wet but already warming with the new day. He looked up and down the holler but saw no one. The only sign of life was a blue stream of smoke from the big house at the mouth of the holler, where Aunt Sophie was standing on her own porch savoring her forbidden cigarette.

  He sat down on the grass and looked at his own house. He had spent his whole life listening to stories from the past, and now he had his own, and it was slowly building, chapter by chapter. It was just like a book that he could pick up and hold in his hands. He could feel its weight, could put his face against cool pages and breathe in the scent of words. That’s the way it felt, looking at his home the first morning after it had been lived in.

  “Feels good, don’t it?” Easter said, walking into the yard. She carried two cups of coffee and offered one to him.

  “You must have read my mind,” Clay said. The coffee was strong and black, so hot that he could feel it sliding all the way down his throat.

  Easter sat right down on the grass beside him. She made a lot of noise getting settled—popping bones and a barely audible grunt—but finally they sat there and looked at the house, drinking their coffee.

  “I remember when they built my house. I was real little—probably bout eight year old—but I remember it plain as day,” Easter said, leaning back on one hand. “Soon as they got the door hung, they cooked the awfullest big meal you ever seen and all the men set in to drinking. I never will forget how happy my granny was to have a solid house. We was always poor, and I still don’t know how they managed to raise such a good house. But that house meant the world to Granny. She turned to me and said, ‘When I’m dead, this’ll be your and Anneth’s. This is where you meant to be.’”

  “I stayed homesick the whole time I was gone from it.”

  “That’s the way we all are. I never knowed of none of our people that could stay away from here long. I swear, I half believe that’s why Anneth had such a hard time staying married. None of her men would live up in here, and she couldn’t stand living off. Even if it was just a few miles off, she couldn’t tolerate it. Bout ever six months, I’d be in the kitchen and turn around to see her standing in the door with a suitcase in her hand.”

  Clay laughed. “Marguerite said the same thing.”

  “It’s a good thing, being able to find your place in the world,” Easter said.

  Clay drained his coffee and lay back on the grass. He laced his fingers together and put them behind his head. “I never will leave here,” Clay said.

  “I sure hope you don’t,” Easter said. She looked into the bottom of her cup and dashed the cluster of grounds out onto the yard. “I dreamt last night of you leaving, though. In my dream, I thought you had two horses standing by your porch. I was at my bedroom window, watching you pack everthing out of the house and pile it up on the yard. Alma would come out and tie stuff up on one of the horses’ backs.”

  Clay didn’t say a word. Easter was not one to share her dreams.

  “After she had everthing on there that horse could carry, you and her climbed up on the other horse and took off. Never used the road, though. You splashed right through the creek and took off up that mountain. That horse never faltered, went up them steep cliffs like it wasn’t nothing. Up, up. The trees parted for you.”

  “Was that all of it?”

  “That’s all I can remember,” she said. “I woke up sick from it, though. I’m going to tell you just like my granny did—this is where you meant to be. Remember that.”

  THAT WHOLE SUMMER was marked by thunderstorms and heavy rains that lasted no more than twenty minutes but left the world a changed place; the earth steamed and hissed, leaving the air to smell like cooked greens. When the storms were not pounding down on the mountains, the sun was, so that the water dried up as soon as the showers ceased.

  Sometimes Clay would go out onto the porch and watch the pelting rain, which fell so fast and straight that it seemed to be coming up out of the ground. When lightning turned the holler silver, he always jumped with a start, and he savored that good spook-house sensation of his nerves curling up all at once for a brief half-second. He watched the tops of the trees bending in the short gusts of wind, lime-colored leaves being beat off limbs. The thunder echoed down the little valleys like cannon fire. He had always assumed that thunder was the mighty voice of God, and he could not help the chill bumps that ran up the backs of his arms with every shaking of the earth.

  When the lightning flashed, he imagined he could see all of the dead people he had ever known of, standing in line down the road. They stood about six feet apart in different poses: his mother bent over with her hands on her knees, like the picture of her on the railroad tracks; his father, faceless and standing very erect, as if at attention before a ruthless general; his great-grandmother, whom he had only heard tales of, standing with her arms hanging limply at her sides; his mother’s murderer, Glenn, stooped and broken with the weight of a dozen redbirds perched on his shoulders and atop his head. The white light ran down the holler and he could see them plain as day, always looking at him. When he was young, the past had haunted him here on this creek. Now, he was comforted by it. Maybe he was conjuring these ghosts up himself, but more than once he had felt they really were there, and had felt like calling for Alma to come out and look at them.

  He took off his shirt and stood on the top porch step so the rain could beat against his chest. He felt as if the stinging rain beat messages into his skin.

  Alma came to stand in the open door and chided him over the booming thunder. “You better get in this house fore you get struck by lightning.”

  When he didn’t reply, she stepped out onto the porch and stood behind him, one side of her cool face to his hot back, her arms encircling his waist, with a few of her fingers curled around his belt loops. She didn’t say another word, and considered the storm with him. The warm mists of rain blew under the porch eaves and wet Clay’s belly.

  Clay knew how erotic the storms were to Alma. The whole summer, she had grown so aroused by the thunderstorms that they ended up landing on the floor or the couch or the bed. She had always been scared of storms but could not help the jolts that raced up and down her thighs when the rains came.

  He turned around and wrapped her up inside his arms, kissing her. He walked her backward into the house and fell on top of her on the couch.

  “Wait.” She laughed, crawling out from under him. “I got beans on the stove.”

  She went into the kitchen, and he followed her. She stirred the pinto beans and opened the oven to check on the corn bread.

  As soon as the oven door shut, he turned her around and they sank to the kitchen floor. Her summer clothes slid off easily. He loved how quickly he could peel off the thin cotton dress, simply unfastening the top and letting it fall away, like the skin of an onion. He put his mouth on her neck, which was salty with sweat.

  “Clay, I’m afraid lightning will come in this kitchen,” she said, her chin arched back. “It’ll strike the stove and kill us both.”

  He imagined them charred and black on the linoleum. Someone would come in and find them, sculpted out of ash. He could feel pleasure and fear pulsating down her body and knew that they had become one feeling intertwined. He kept kissing her, kept moving, and finally she relaxed against the floor.

  Lightning crashed and thunder shook the house. Rain beat against the windows in sheets, as though someone were dashing buckets of water onto the glass. They rolled all over the floor, the legs of kitchen chairs all around them. Clay finally smelled the burning corn bread as he fell into an exhausted heap. Alma caught its scent and jumped up.

  He laughed at her as she ran around the kitchen, naked. She found a dry rag and pulled the skillet out of the stove. She let it fall into the sink and crawled back down on
the floor.

  “Now I have to make some more bread,” she said, laying her head on his chest. His sweaty back was stuck to the linoleum.

  “I believe that was worth having to stir up more bread,” he said. “I’ll do it.”

  After supper, they sat out on the porch and watched the cool of the day settle down over the mountains. The sun had set, but night hadn’t moved in yet, and it wouldn’t for a while. It was one of those summer evenings when time stretched out long and peaceful, as if all the clocks had been slowed. The evening light was purple and still. The only things that moved were hidden along the creek—crickets and katydids preparing to make their night sounds.

  Alma finished the supper dishes and swept the kitchen. She carried her broom on out to the porch, where Clay was still sitting. He watched her as she swept, and the sound of broom straw against the porch floor reminded him of childhood. Easter was always scooting dirt out of the house with wide strides of her broom.

  Alma put the broom on its hook by the door. A little breeze lifted her hair and caused the leaves to sound.

  “A big salad would be good after while, wouldn’t it?” she asked.

  “Surely to God you ain’t hungry after that big meal,” Clay said.

  “Naw, but I will be after while. I love a cold salad on a summer night.” She stepped down into the yard, letting her hand trail on the railing. “You stay here and rest.”

  Clay got up and followed her around the house. Their garden stretched long and narrow, snug against the rough mountain, extending from their backyard into Easter’s. The plants were full and dark green. The corn had not come in well yet, but the tomatoes hung ripe on the vine, and the green onions were already growing so tall they needed to be pulled.

  Alma went to the little wooden square at the edge of the garden and began to snap off the last of the leaf lettuce. She worked carefully and her face reminded Clay of the way his uncle Paul looked when he was quilting. She was concentrating as if each lettuce leaf had to be broken just right. He pulled off two tomatoes and mashed the imprint of his thumb into the side of one. It was soft and still hot from the day’s sun. He jerked up a half-dozen onions and clicked off three long, warm cucumbers.

  “I wish the carrots was ready,” she said.

  “Them won’t be in till the last of summer.”

  “I know that,” she said, and sat down on the dirt to gently work the radishes out. “I was brought up tending garden, buddy.”

  Clay squatted down beside her and watched as she broke off the stems and shook dirt from the radishes. He could smell her and the soil and the juice in the tomatoes.

  “I forgot to tell you—Evangeline called me today while you was at work. From Nashville. They still ain’t got in to see nobody important, but she said they was making contacts. She’s giving herself one more year, and if the band ain’t got a contract, she said she was coming home.”

  “I didn’t figure she’d give up that quick,” Clay said. “You don’t get a record contract overnight.”

  “Well, she ain’t one to give up, but she’s impatient. She claims she’s off coke, too. Said it was hard to get when you didn’t know who to get it from.”

  “I’d say it ain’t too hard to get down there,” Clay said. “But I’d say they are running low on money to get it with.”

  Alma lay the radishes atop the mess of lettuce she had on her lap and put her hands behind her to lean on, letting him know she wanted to stay right here. He put the onions with his tomatoes and cucumbers and sat down on the dirt.

  “Clay, they’s something I’ve got to tell you,” she said. He could tell by her tone that she had been swirling her words around in her mouth to get them just right. “I seen Denzel today, when I went to the grocery store.”

  “He didn’t say nothing, did he?” Clay could feel blood collecting in his face. “He better not be fooling with you.”

  “He never said a word.” She looked at the mountain and then back to him. “But he looked at me like he was dying to spit. I ain’t never seen such a look of hate on somebody’s face.”

  “You’ve just hurt his pride, marrying so quick. To hell with him,” Clay said.

  “I’m just so afraid that he’ll try to cause us trouble. I can’t believe he’d let me have this.”

  “He don’t have no control over you no more, Alma. There’s nothing he can do.”

  “I lived miserable for so long that it’s hard for me to accept the life we have.”

  Clay knew exactly what she meant. He had spent his whole life mistrusting anything good that came along. Until he had met Alma.

  “He can’t touch you now,” Clay said, and picked up the vegetables. He stood and reached out his hand to help her up. “Come on, let’s go in.”

  20

  ALMA WAS IN the backyard, pacing back and forth like a lunatic, trying to scratch a new song out of her head. She held the fiddle lightly in her hands even though her anxiety had grown so fierce that she felt like throwing the fine instrument to the ground and stomping on it. She had woken up with the song swirling around in her mind and couldn’t make it sizzle down her arm and out onto the stiff strings of her fiddle. She sawed away, closed her eyes, and walked all over the yard, aware of nothing but the fiddle. She hummed the song to herself, but she couldn’t get it right. The bow screeched across the strings.

  The October evening was beginning to get cool, but a line of sweat stood on her brow. She straightened her back and tried again. She stroked the taut strings like a woman touching her child’s hair. She would stay out here until tomorrow morning if she had to, until blood ran down her arms and dripped from her elbows. She reckoned if she didn’t get it out of her system, she would blow up.

  When she caught the tune in her mouth and let it buzz on her lips, its melancholy melody reminded her of a life story being told. A history. She got the chorus down and played it over and over, making it perfect, like a man running a lathe over a thick piece of rosewood.

  The chorus sounded like a throaty lullaby, and within its notes she caught the name of the song. She played the chorus through again and sang to herself: “And that is the history of us.”

  “She finally got it,” Cake said.

  Cake, Clay, Dreama, and Easter were in the front yard, breaking up late beans. Their chairs sat in a circle, and they had all been bent over their laps, popping the beans out of rhythm, listening to Alma.

  “She’s far from having the whole thing, though,” Clay said. “She’s liable to be up all night.”

  “Well, if that’s the case, I hope to God she goes in the house,” Dreama said. The baby, Tristan, sat at her feet on a small, square quilt, playing with jar lids and rings. “I never would go to sleep with her sawing on that thing all night.”

  “I could,” Clay said. They all looked up at him. “That would sing me right to sleep.”

  “You’ve got it bad, son,” Cake said, laughing. “I never seen a man so crazy over a woman.”

  “That’s how a man ought to be over his woman,” Easter said.

  “Clay, let’s see who can break em the fastest,” Cake said, nodding down to the pile of beans spread across a newspaper on his lap.

  “No sir,” Easter said firmly. “I want them strung right. You all get in a race and they’ll be so haggled up, nobody won’t be able to eat em. You might as well not be in no hurry—we’ve got to put em up yet.”

  “You canning these?” Cake asked. “I figured we was going to eat them tonight.”

  “I’ll cook us a mess tomorrow,” Easter answered. “But tonight, me and Dreama needs to can most of these. They have to be put up tonight. They’ll keep longer if they’re put up in the old of the moon.”

  “I never knowed of beans to still be on the vine in October,” Cake said.

  “It don’t happen often,” Easter said. “But it’s been such a warm fall. I’m thankful for it.”

  The voice of the fiddle and the loud pops of the green beans began to form a kind of music. The s
ong rose and fell, the strings seeming to emit the troubled moans of a woman. Clay listened and pictured a woman walking the mountains, dying of grief.

  “Lord God, that’s the saddest old song I ever heard,” Dreama said.

  “It’s a lament,” Easter said. “A song of grief.”

  Dreama leaned down and buttoned up Tristan’s sweater. “What do you think will become of all of us, Easter?” she asked.

  “Lord, I can’t see the future of people I love,” Easter said, never looking up from the beans strewed across her lap. “I can’t see the future, period.”

  “Everbody knows you see things, Easter,” Dreama said. “I don’t know why you deny it.”

  “I wish I was like that,” Cake said. He had stopped breaking beans and sat there with his hands in his lap, looking at Easter with a broad smile etched across his face. “I’d give anything to be able to do that.”

  “No, you wouldn’t.” Easter’s voice was hard, but she still didn’t look up from her work. The beans tumbled across her fingers, a blur in her able hands. She broke them perfectly, each one snapping out four singular pops. The pieces fell into the dishpan like green knuckles.

  “Let’s hurry and get this last mess broke so me and Dreama can start the canning,” Easter said. “It’s starting to get too cool for the baby to be out here, anyway.”

  “I’ll set up with you all,” Cake said. Cake had been staying at Easter’s a lot. Dreama had started going to church with Easter and had recently been baptized. When she moved in with Easter to get away from Gabe’s parties and crowds, Cake started showing up on Easter’s porch in the evening.

  “Good, you can occupy Tristan while we put up the beans,” Dreama said.

  “I ain’t got nothing else to do,” Cake said.

  Clay tapped his foot along to the beat of Alma’s fiddle, whose soprano had intensified into a fast breakdown. He finished the beans that lay in his lap, put the strings and ends aside, and got up to clog around the yard, squalling out.