Orphan Girl

by Beckham, Lila

  I will always have me a picture of Mama and Anna in my mind, Papa not so much. Even though he outlived them by several years, its hard for me to picture him close up, just out in the fields a plowing. Anna’s in the churchyard and so is Mama. They have no life a tall now, just a few words written on a stone.

  Anna was the first to die. She died one day while Mama and Papa were out in the fields. Mama usually took both of us young’uns with her. I was old enough to drag a sack, and I would pick as much cotton as I could, but Anna, she were not old enough to pick cotton, she’d sit and play in the red delta dirt while the rest of us worked.

  That day, the day Anna died, she was too sick to go into the fields and even though Papa was grumbling about it, Mama left me at the house to care for her.

  About mid-morning, Anna got awful quiet. She just kept lying in bed, sleeping, so I left her be. I knew she felt bad, she had been moping around for days. Before she fell ill, she was always chattering away, and as busy as a cat in a sandbox.

  I had looked over at her when I heard the clock strike ten times; she was still sleeping. Then, when I looked at her a little while later, her lips were blue. Back then, I did not know what that meant. I reckon I was about six years old at the time, old enough to help around the house as well as out the fields, but not to recognize death.

  I was peeling potatoes like Mama told me to do. I knew her and Papa would come in from the fields about noontime to eat; they would be hungry. I did not want the wrath of my papa’s razor strap. He was a coldhearted, hard man. If looks could kill, I reckon I would have been dead many times over right alongside Anna and Mama.

  After Anna passed away, Mama seemed to fade away. I think all the life she held inside her, left her the day they buried Anna. I watched her dry up like a pot of beans left too long on the stove.

  Her belly was big with child when she passed away. At the time, I could not understand why her belly was so big and the rest of her was shrinking. Her arms weren’t much bigger around than mine was.

  Papa did not treat her any better after Anna died. I heard him cussing and fussing at her, telling her the next baby had better be a boy. I reckon he wanted a son because he thought a boy could work the fields better than a girl could.

  I knew I was a disappointment to my father, so was Anna. I never could get enough cotton in my sack to please him and Anna’s whining aggravated him. He kept telling me that I was going to have to work harder and quit daydreaming so much. He would holler at little Anna to hush up when she cried. That was a long time ago, a long time gone…

  Life on the farm was hard; daydreaming was the only relief I had from chores, the only escape from a cruel world… Of course, I’d never had anything to dream about until the year before Mama and Anna died, because I had never been anywhere except the farm. However, once Papa took me into town, I knew there was more to this world than dirt fields, cotton, and corn. Thereafter, I daydreamed all the time, but it festered in my papa’s soul and made him even grumpier if that was possible.

  Citronelle was not a big town, but to me, it was larger than life. It was a beautiful place, a place of wonderment. The town was full of houses and buildings of all sizes. It had a wide variety of trees, flowers of all assortments, too. Purple and white flowered wisteria vines climbed telephone poles, fence rails, trees, and porch columns, anything they could grow on, they did. The scent of those purple-clustered flowers was the prettiest smell I had ever smelt in my young life.

  I remember sitting beside my papa on the seat of the wagon as we rounded a bend and came upon a road that was lined on either side with large oak trees. It was dark and cool beneath the canopy of them. The avenue of oaks was long enough that the coolness of it dried the sweat that was trickling down my back.

  When we passed from beneath the canopy of oaks, we come upon the town. There were dozens of houses and streets; I‘d never seen so many streets and houses in my life. The houses ranged from small shotgun houses on the outskirts of town, to great big houses the closer we got to the center of town. After a while, we came to the main part of town.

  I remember looking atop a hill and seeing for the first time in my life, railroad tracks. Papa stopped the mule in front of a big platform near the tracks. After he was finished unloading the wagon, he stood talking to a fat-bellied, bald headed man. Once we pulled away from the platform, he stopped in front of the mercantile store.

  I knew better than to say anything or get off the wagon. Before we left home, he told me I had better be seen and not heard. He said he would take his strap to me if I got off the wagon without him telling me to. You know, we made that entire trip without saying a single word to one another… but that was Papa; he never spoke much at all, at least not to me.

  He did buy me a licorice whip that day though. He handed to me when he got back onto the wagon after he loaded the supplies from the mercantile. It was the second time I ever remembered eating one.

  Two

  Dark is the Night, Cold was the Ground

  Winter 1942

  I don’t know the exact date my mama died, just that it was the winter of ‘42. I know it was a couple of months after Anna had passed away and that it was late in the year. I remember waking up just as the sun was rising. It was cold in the house because Mama had not yet started a fire. There was a frost on the ground. I remember feeling it crunch underfoot as I walked to the outhouse and back.

  When I first woke up, I thought I woke before my folks, but when I went back inside, I saw that Mama was still lying in her bed; Papa was gone. I walked over to the bed and touched her arm; it was cold. She was the same color blue around her mouth that Anna was the day she died.

  I did not know what to do. I wanted to get back in bed because I was cold, but I knew if Papa came back and caught me in bed, he would beat the hide off me. I had never started a fire before, but I had watched Mama do it many times. I dressed, went to the wood box, got a log out of it and a few splinters of fat lighter’d. I had to pull a stool over to the mantle to reach the matches. I placed some pine straw on the bottom, then struck a match and set it afire. I held a splinter of the fat lighter’d over it until it caught fire, then another. Once it had caught up a good flame, I placed the log on the firedogs.

  Once I got the fire burning good, I walked back over to Mama’s bed; she was still not awake. By then, I knew she was not going to wake up. I sat on the bed beside her and started crying. After a minute, I laid my head on her stomach and wrapped my arms around her; my little heart was breaking… As I lay on her stomach crying, I felt something move beneath me. Joy sprung through me; I thought she was waking up. When I looked up at her face, she was still asleep. Her stomach moved again and I felt something thump against my arm. It thumped hard several times. I stood up and backed away.

  That was when I figured out there was a baby inside of her. I did not know why or how babies come to be back then, but I knew that was what it was. I wondered how it was going to get out… but the fear of Papa’s strap worried me more than the thumping in Mama’s belly did. If Mama could not get up and fix for him, I knew that I had better!

  I went to the pantry, got some potatoes and started peeling them. By that time, I had been doing that for about a year. Mama showed me how to peel them and keep the peelings real thin. She said it was wasteful to take too much meat off the potato with the peeling.

  After I peeled them, I washed them off, then tried to slice them the way I had seen her do it. The knife sliced right into my hand! I had never seen Mama cut her hand slicing potatoes. I wrapped a rag around my hand and continued until all of the potatoes were sliced. They were not as thin as Mama’s were, but it was the best I could do.

  I throwed some bacon into the pot, then swung it over the fire. As it sizzled, I stirred it several times, the way I’d seen my mama do. After the bacon was done and on the platter, I added a scoop of lard and waited until the grease got hot. Then I placed the potatoes into the hot grease. I had watched Mama do it every day of my life.
I was a quick study; it paid to be around my papa.

  When the right amount of time had passed, I dipped the potatoes out onto the platter alongside the bacon the way I had seen her do it. Papa was not back yet. As I waited, I went back to check on Mama. I would have thought she was asleep, if I didn’t know better. I watched her stomach to see if it was still moving, but it was still.

  I sat there awhile, my stomach growling with hunger, but I was scared to eat. Mama always said we had to wait until Papa had his fill first. I knew that Mama usually put on the beans after we eat in the mornings, so I got another log, put it on the fire, and then dipped out the amount of beans she usually did. I washed them as I had seen her do and then put them into the pot and added some water, salt, and fatback. I checked the larder to see how many biscuits and corndodgers there were. I had watched her make those too, but there was plenty. I would not have to worry about those yet. I snuck a biscuit and ate it quickly, praying Papa did not come in and catch me.

  The biscuit stopped my stomach from growling, but not my heart from pounding. It took a few minutes for it to calm down.

  When the clock struck ten times, I added a pitcher of water to the beans and stirred them. I had swept the floor and made up my bed. I had washed what dishes I could and placed the platter of bacon and potatoes on the warmer, but they did not look as good as they had when I first cooked them and that scared me. I did not know what to expect from Papa. I knew if he was displeased in any way, he would take his strap to me.

  When the clock struck twelve times, the beans were done. I took out some biscuits and a couple of corndodgers, put everything on the table, and waited. After the clock struck the half hour, I fixed me a plate of food; I was starving slap to death. I ate watching the door and listening for his boot steps.

  I was surprised and relieved that everything tasted the same as mamas did; maybe Papa would not have to take his strap to me after all. After the clock struck the next hour, I washed my plate and put everything back on the warmer. I waited.

  The clock had struck the two o’clock hour before I heard the mule and wagon come into the yard. I had dosed off sitting in a chair by mama’s bed. I jerked awake when I heard the commotion. He was noisier than usual.

  When the door swung open, Papa stumbled and almost fell coming through it, I thought he was hurt. He looked strange and he smelt strange too. Papa never smelt good except right after he bathed, but he had never smelt like this before.

  He staggered to the table and sat down in his chair. I hurried to put the food on the table and a plate in front of him. He gave me a hard look and then smirked, but he never said a word. He loaded his plate and ate sloppily.

  When he finished, he went and lay down on the bed beside Mama. I swore I heard him sob, but it could have been a hiccup. He had never appreciated her while she was alive; I doubt he did after she died. I cleaned up the dish he messed up, and the empty platter. I took the pot of beans and put them outside in the makeshift icehouse. That was where Mama kept cooked food. She said it was cold enough out there that the food would not spoil. There was not any bacon or potatoes left. I was glad that I had eaten some before he got home. When I finished cleaning and putting away, I heard him snoring. I was young, but I knew we needed to put Mama in the ground, the way we had Anna.

  It was four o’clock by then and fixing to get dark. Dark comes early in the wintertime; the days are short and the nights are long. I could not bury her myself or I would‘ve done tried. There was no way I could pick her up, load her onto the wagon, and then get her to the churchyard. After the clock struck five times, I knew I had to try to wake him.

  I swallowed hard and then went to Papa’s side of the bed. I reached for his arm, but snatched my hand back when he moved suddenly. I began backing away from the bed; I had lost my nerve. I started to turn around and walk away, but something from within urged me to wake him. I grabbed his arm and shook him. Papa’s eyes popped open and he shoved me back. I almost fell backwards.

  “Papa,” I said loudly. “You need to get up and bury Mama.” He opened his eyes again and looked at me. “Please, Papa!” I begged. “She has to be laid in the ground like Anna.”

  He sat up on the side of the bed, and then sat there for a couple of minutes holding his head. Finally, he stood up and walked around the bed to Mama’s side.

  “Get your coat, girl, you goin’ with me,” he said, and then wrapped Mama in a blanket. He picked her up and toted her out to the wagon, which was still sitting in front of the cabin. On the back of the wagon was a pine box. He laid Mama on the bed of the wagon, then grabbed me and lifted me up beside her. He climbed onto the driver’s seat and geed to the mule to get going. We rode to the church in silence. It was so dark that I wondered how Papa or the mule could even see the road. When he stopped the wagon, he lit the lantern, handed it to me and told me to hold it up as high as I could. He pulled the pine box off the wagon, turned and began walking toward Anna’s grave; I followed him.

  When the lamplight shined onto Anna’s grave, I could see a fresh hole dug beside hers. There was a stone already at the head of it. It would be years before I could read what it said. When I did, it softened my heart a little towards my father.

  Written on the stone he placed for Mama’s marker was the words, ‘Sarah Jane Jacobs, wife of Samuel, mother of Gillian and Annabel, 1918 - 1942, Beloved Woman.’ She was only 23 years old when she died. At least I know he appreciated and cared for her, if only a little. Maybe he wrote it because of Anna and me. I will never know for sure. By the time I could read, he was dead.

  After placing the wooden box beside the grave, he went and got mama’s body off the wagon. He placed her body in the box, hammered a couple of nails into the lid to keep it closed, then eased the box into the grave as best he could. I heard it land on the bottom with a hard thump. Papa stood up straight, removed his hat, and held it across his chest. After a couple of minutes, he bent down, grabbed a handful of dirt, and threw it on top of the box. I reached down, got a handful of the cold, damp earth and did the same… dark was the night and cold was the ground when we buried my mama.”

  “I’m so sorry, Miss Gilly. It sounds as if you had a hard childhood.”

  “Yes, I did, but I survived it, and the Good Lord blessed me in my later years. I do have some fond memories of my mama. When I was real young, I remember her singing to Anna and me, but it would be a long time before I could think of her other than to see her laying there stiff and cold on that bed… I and papa lived several more years that way-him plowing and working the fields, me doing the cooking and cleaning. I still had to help in the fields from time to time, but Papa would take me into town with him and he usually bought me a licorice whip and I would get to set on the wagon and look around. It got to where I would just as soon stay home because sometimes, he’d stop at one of those roadhouses and when he come out he smelled the way he did the day mama died. I didn’t want to be around him on those days; those days, he cried an awful lot. I reckon I ought to a saw it coming. I had watched my mama dry up and die and Papa was doing the same thing, but I had so much responsibility on me with all the cooking and cleaning and I was just a child. I know children are more capable than we give them credit for and can do a lot if given the opportunity, I was proof of that. But it’s a lot to heap on the shoulders of children when they are taking on the responsibilities of the parents…

  Three

  Roll Papa into the Icehouse

  Spring 1944

  “You said that your father died before you learned to read. I am guessing that you were still a child when he died. Did you go to live with relatives after he died?”

  “Papa died in the spring of 1944, and I reckon if he hadn’t had me to take care of, he would’ve had to go fight in the war… No, after my papa died, I went to live in the poorhouse or orphanage as they liked to call it. I never knew if Mama and Papa had any kinfolk around here-neither one of ‘em ever talked about kinfolks, and no one came a calling before or after t
hey passed. I am sure they had some kinfolks somewhere. I just know that no one ever came to visit except the man from the bank; he came once a month to collect what little money Papa could scrape together for him. He was the one that took me to the nuns that run the poorhouse. There were a lot of folks there; sometimes, there were whole families in that place, mamas, papas and children.

  There was one bunch of children when I got there that had lost their mama and papa too, within a month of each other. They had relatives, but none of them could afford to take in five orphans. They also had three older brothers, but the brothers had to work and support their selves, they couldn’t look after the younger ones.”

  “What happened to your father?”

  “After Mama died, Papa took to drinking. I smelt that bad smell on him, more times than I care to remember. After Mama died, he wouldn’t mean to me-maybe afraid that I would die too and then he‘d be all alone.

  After she died, I cooked and took care of the house; Papa worked the fields. It seemed like the more time that passed, the more he drank, even while working; I think that was what killed him-the liquor drinking.

  I had cooked dinner and was waiting on him to come in to eat-when he didn’t come to the house to eat dinner, I went looking for him; I found him dead. I could see the mule standing still out in the field. When I got to where the mule was, Papa was lying on the ground behind him. His hand was gripping the reins so hard that I had to go get a butcher knife out of the kitchen and use it to cut the reins loose. Of course, I couldn’t cut him loose until after I used the mule to drag him to the front of the icehouse. Unharnessing the mule proved to be harder than getting papa’s hand loose from the reins.

  He was too heavy for me to try to bury him myself, so I rolled Papa into the icehouse and waited. There was enough food for me to live on, and I knew that the man from the bank would eventually show up for collection.

  When the man from the bank came out to the house, asking for Papa, I took him out to the icehouse and opened the door. When he saw Papa lying there stiff as a board, he turned and looked at me with pity in his eyes. He asked me how long Papa had been dead, I told him a week or so-he told me to get whatever I wanted to take with me out of the cabin. Once I had what I could carry, which wasn’t much at all, he loaded me into his carriage and took me into town.