by Leisha Kelly
I must’ve stood there several minutes, just crying and feeling foolish for not going down and greeting Samuel. Then Sarah and Rorey snuck in behind me, one on each side.
“Mommy?” Sarah asked timidly.
I dried my eyes and tried to stifle the tears. “Yes, honey?”
“Are you gonna die too?”
“Oh no, honey.” I took her hand, seeing how scared she looked, the precious child. And seeing me in tears surely hadn’t helped any.
“She might,” Rorey said darkly. “You never know.”
“Nonsense,” I told her.
“It’s true! I heard the preacher say it once! We don’t never know when we’s gonna die. We could fall down them stairs or catch the house afire or eat somethin’ spoilt and be gone as the breeze! That’s what he said!”
Her eyes looked sharp and angry, and I wondered if the same question I’d just been tossing about was burning inside of her too. Why, God? Why the unfairness? Why the uncertainty?
“We needn’t borrow worry over such things as that,” I told them. “If something were to happen to any of us, we’d be in fine hands. But there won’t be anything to happen. We just go on living, that’s all.”
“You never know,” Rorey repeated. “And I wish somethin’ would happen. I wish we could go to Mama. If it don’t hurt.”
I started for the stairs, and Sarah stayed right at my side. “Your mother would want us to make the best of things, Rorey,” I insisted. “Now, tell me, do your brothers all like ham and beans?”
“Berty don’t. But he’s a baby. He don’t like nothin’ but plain bread and butter.”
“Rorey threw Bessie-doll down the stairs,” Sarah said so quietly I barely heard her. “She said she was dead.”
I stopped and sighed. “Rorey, honey, Sarah doesn’t like you mistreating her things. Please tell her you’re sorry.”
“Sorry. But she just falled.” The little girl skipped past us on the steps so she could turn and look at my face.
“Have you ever helped wash diapers before?” I asked her.
“No’m.”
“Well, you’re going to help me.”
Sarah squeezed my hand. She didn’t question whether I’d let her help too. She seemed to know she could stay right where she was, right at my side, as long as she wanted to. But she sure didn’t want to play with Rorey for a while. And I didn’t blame her. Rorey was a good enough girl most of the time. But right then when we didn’t want to think about death, didn’t want to talk about it, she was a little hard to take.
Samuel met me at the base of the stairs, and I stopped, wanting to hug him from now until forever. But the girls had a hold of me again, one at each hand.
He looked so cold, so tired, and there was something else, something unreadable in his eyes.
“Young Sam’s back.”
Thank the Lord for that mercy! I almost said it out loud, but Samuel had stepped toward me, looking so deep.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“Yes.” What else could I tell him, with Sarah and the others looking on? “So glad you’re back.” I wanted to ask him how George was doing, if he was coming over, or if he would send the boys to fetch the rest of the family back. But I couldn’t ask, because whatever the answers might be, I wasn’t sure the children needed to hear. And they shouldn’t go home now anyway. Not until the bodies were gone from the house over there.
“Barrett’s coming back in a while. I wouldn’t be surprised if Louise comes too, or at least sends food.”
“Surely she wouldn’t want to get out in this snow.”
“It’s not a matter of want to, Juli. It’s a duty to them. And they loved Emma.”
“I keep expecting the boys to be hungry, but they’re eating like birds, Samuel, all except Harry.”
“Don’t worry about it. They’ll be hungry eventually.”
We went into the kitchen, and I fed Samuel, even though he wasn’t hungry either. For one brief moment, all the children were gone from the room at the same time, and Samuel looked up at me.
“I’m going to make the coffins, Juli. Tonight and tomorrow.”
I remembered the muggy summer night when Emma had asked him to do that for her. I couldn’t imagine such a chore back then, and now with it upon us I didn’t see how he could do it. My brain would be so befuddled just thinking about it that I wouldn’t be able to see straight to saw or hammer or anything.
“Oh, Sammy.”
“It’s all right. Somebody has to do it.”
He’d made one once before, for a neighbor family in Pennsylvania whose daughter had died. They had no money for a boughten one. That was bad enough. I wondered if George had asked him about Wilametta’s.
“Is George doing better?”
Sarah came back in, right up to my side like she’d been away from me for too long. “You all right, honey?”
She nodded, biting down on her lower lip. But then she spilled out what was on her mind. “Rorey said you and Daddy might get sick, ’cause you was out in the snow so long.”
Rorey. Not more of this. Lord help me with that girl! “Honey, don’t pay any attention to her when she talks like that. She’s just sad, so she’s saying sad things. But that doesn’t mean any of them are going to come true.”
“Are you sure?”
“Very sure. Yes.”
Sarah looked at her father, who gave her a reassuring pat. “We’re fine, and we’re going to stay fine.”
That should’ve made little Sarah smile. But it didn’t. Not on a day like today.
“I wish Rorey’s mommy was fine too. I wish Emma was still here.”
I had to swallow the bitter lump in my throat, but Samuel answered her without wavering. “We all do, pumpkin, but they’re happy. They’re well now too, with Jesus.”
“Emma got both feet on?”
That made me smile. Emma used to say such things. Heaven was so real to her. “Won’t it be grand,” she’d say, “to wake up in the mornin’ with both feet on! Oh, there’ll surely be mornin’ in heaven, even if there ain’t night, ’cause mornin’s fine as God’s gift anyhow!”
“I’m sure she’s got both feet on,” Samuel confirmed. “She’s probably dancing on them.”
“I’d like to see her dance,” Sarah mused.
“So would I,” Samuel said. “And we will one day.”
Lizbeth came in to get Berty a cup of water. “Did you bring any diapers?” she asked.
“Joe couldn’t find but two to send over. And the goat milk.”
I was glad we’d cut that old cover for more diapers. Even with some hanging to dry, we’d need more before long.
Robert came back in with the water bucket for me. “We’re gonna be in the loft,” he said.
“Just don’t get too cold.”
“Okay. We’ll be in pretty soon.” He turned around and walked right back out. And Lizbeth had gone to take Berty his drink.
“Nobody really knows what to do with themselves,” I told Samuel. “We’re just trying to act like we do.”
“Maybe that’s George’s problem,” he said solemnly. “He doesn’t act.”
“Is he any better at all?”
“No. Not really.”
He didn’t have a chance to tell me anything more before children needed our attention. And I wondered how long it would be this way. How long would it be before George dried their eyes, held them in his arms, or just did what it took to get them through a day?
TEN
Samuel
Barrett came back before dark with lumber loaded on an old-fashioned bobsled. He was a surprise to me because he kept things that might’ve been his grandfather’s but wanted all the new equipment he could manage too. He was always prepared. And far better off financially than most of our depression-ridden neighbors.
It was good pine he brought, just like he’d said. Straight, clean lumber, and its arrival drew Robert and Willy out immediately, their curiosity piqued.
�
�What’s the wood for?” Willy asked.
I groaned inside, wishing I’d thought to head off that question somehow before it came.
“Well,” Barrett began, not sharing my hesitation, “at times like this, somebody’s got to make the departed loved ones a casket. It’s a necessary service, and Samuel’s gonna be givin’ himself to the job.”
Willy looked at me for a minute. His expression soured, as if he were suddenly seeing me as a conspirator with the enemy.
“Let’s go back inside,” he told Robert sullenly.
“My dad can’t help it,” Robert said. “Somebody has to, an’ he’s just trying to help.”
Willy turned back to the house. Robert looked at me. “I remember the Willises, Dad,” he said. “I know you gotta help.”
“Thank you, Robert,” I told him, wishing Barrett had come up with something else to say. To my mind, it would’ve been better if none of the kids knew what I was doing until all of it was done.
“It’s good for ’em, havin’ other kids ’round to talk with ’bout all this,” Barrett told me when they were gone. “Ain’t easy alone.”
“It didn’t help him to know about this.”
“He’s family. And family’s got a right to know. They have to know, Samuel; that’s just the way it is.”
He helped me stack all the wood in the workshop I’d made in the sturdy west end of the barn. We could’ve used some boys to help unload, but I wasn’t about to ask them.
“Louise wanted to come,” Barrett said. “But there weren’t no place to ride a woman on this contraption. It’s made for hauling winter wood. She sent you some good eatin’, though. And she’ll be here tomorrow for sure.”
“She doesn’t have to—”
“Pshaw! Her conscience would bother her for months if she didn’t! She’ll be here, just as early as I’ll bring her.”
Barrett took two dishes of something into the house while I started sorting the lumber and thinking on a day already almost gone. It was warming up, and I was glad of that, but it would take an awful lot of warming to melt all the snow scattered over the timber and fields. Barrett would light fires, he’d said, to warm the ground for digging. Surely they’d want to shovel snow out of the way just to get to bare ground first. I knew I should help with all of it, and I would if I could get this job done soon enough.
Before long I heard Barrett leaving. I’d picked out the longest pieces and was sorting the rest by size when I heard Kirk and Franky talking over by Lula Bell. I hadn’t even realized they were outside.
“She’s a purty cow,” I could hear Franky say. “How come our Rosey ain’t as purty as her?”
“A cow’s a cow,” Kirk answered impatiently. “What matters is how much milk they give. And Rosey beats ’bout any for that.”
“She’s old, though. Pa says so.”
“Not that old. Or she’d be dry as a desert well.”
I was glad to hear them talking of everyday things, glad they were talking at all. I hadn’t been comfortable with all my thoughts crowding the quietness, and the job at hand wasn’t helping me any.
“Whatcha doin’?” Franky asked as soon as they were near enough.
I didn’t want to say. Willy’s reaction had been bad enough. What on earth would Franky do? So I hedged. “Always got work around here to do.”
Kirk looked at the boards around my feet, and his cheeks slowly drained of color. “Franky, I’m gonna do the milkin’ for Mrs. Wortham, an’ I told you to fetch in a armload a’ firewood.”
“I wanna stay here. Can I stay here a while, Mr. Wortham?”
“No!” Kirk declared. “You’d just be in the way.”
“I would not. I’d help. Just for a little while.”
“You’re s’posed to stay with me,” Kirk protested.
Franky looked at me with his strange, sad eyes. “Somebody’ll have to make Mama a coffin now. Is that what you’re doin’?”
Kirk’s face got even more pale. “Franky—”
But I held up my hand, and Kirk stopped whatever he was about to say. Franky was different somehow. Maybe he needed a little different treatment. “You’re right,” I told him. “Somebody has to. And I’m sorry over it, but it’ll have to be me. Wouldn’t be right to put it off to anybody else.”
“Will they be purty?”
Kirk was looking at both of us in surprise.
“Not like some are,” I said. “But I’ll do the best I can.”
“Mama likes flowers,” Franky volunteered. “Can you make flowers on it?”
I bowed my head, thinking about that. What could make this eight-year-old who was barely bigger than six-year-old Sarah suddenly seem hardly a child at all?
“I’ll try,” I told him. “I expect Emma would like that too.”
“I’m gonna stay here,” Franky told his big brother. “You can tell Mrs. Wortham if you want, so she’ll know I didn’t run off or nothin’.”
Kirk looked over at me. “Are you sure?”
“I think it’ll be all right.”
He went to milk Lula Bell, though it was generally my job. Franky was eyeing my tools, and I wondered if I was doing the right thing, talking to this boy so straight about this and letting him stay. But I didn’t know what else to do. Something about the way he looked at me had made me think that refusing him would’ve just made things worse.
“You’ll have to go in before long,” I told him. “Still pretty cold.”
“Don’t seem cold to me,” Franky said.
“Well, your ears look it. Don’t you have a hat?”
“Left it someplace, I guess. Maybe in the side garden back home.” He stuck his hand in his pocket and pulled out two fat, round bulbs. “Mama said day afore yesterday that she forgot to dig the glads outta the ground. So I went an’ dug ’em afore the snow, but I couldn’t find but two. Reckon they’s not been froze?”
I couldn’t picture him in the cold dirt, trying to fulfill what he must’ve thought was his mother’s wish. But Wilametta would’ve known that the cold nights we’d had were enough to do in her precious flower bulbs. Forgotten is lost, I was sure, though I didn’t have the heart to tell Franky that the bulbs he’d carefully salvaged were likely worth no more now than the dirt he’d dug through to get them.
“Maybe Mama would like it if we plant them right where—”
He stopped and looked at me, his lower lip quivering. And I nodded. “If that’s what you want to do, I think she’d appreciate your efforts.”
It was all I could say. He sat quietly and watched me, his nose tipped red with cold.
“Why don’t you go back in?” I asked him. “Sit by the fire.”
“No. I owes it to Mama to see this through.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. But he was determined, and far more settled about it than any other time I’d seen him that day. So I let him stay, longer than I’d anticipated. He turned out to be good help, measuring and marking for me and then planing some of the boards smooth. I’d never seen a child his size handle a wood plane so well.
But then Robert came in and just stood for a minute, watching me working with Franky at my side. “Mom said to tell you there’s food when you want some.”
Something was strange in his voice, and I looked up to see his eyes on Franky.
“Are they all gonna stay over again?” he asked me, the look on his face plainly showing his displeasure.
“As long as they need to,” I told him. “And you watch your manners.” Then I felt bad for scolding him. It was bound to be tough on him at such a time as this to be sharing his parents the way he was doing. I tried to say something else to him, but he ran on ahead and I didn’t get the chance.
“Time to quit for a while,” I told Franky. “Sounds like Julia wants to feed you.”
“I ain’t hungry.”
“Better to eat anyway right now. We’re not in much condition to judge if we’re hungry or not.”
“And we got a lot a’ work to do?”
“Yeah. There’s a lot to do.”
His silvery eyes were shining like the moon, reflecting the light of the coal-oil lamp I used to see by in the old barn workshop.
“Why do you want to help me, Franky?”
“I told you, I owes it to Mama.”
“I don’t expect she’d think you owed her anything.”
“To do a good job. She always did say do a good job.”
I could only give him my nod at that.
Covey Mueller brought the pastor by that evening in the same big green wagon he always used, only he’d taken the wheels off and set the whole thing on runners. I’d never seen that done before. But I was mightily glad to see them, hoping for word from Wila’s or Emma’s relatives and wanting Pastor Jones just to be there a while, especially for the older kids.
They’d already been to the Hammonds’. They brought the evening’s milk, some clothes that Joe had stuffed in a bag for the kids, and the news that George’s horse Birdie had come limping home. They also had word from Wila’s sisters. Neither woman could come, and they’d both made a point to say that they couldn’t afford to take in any of the kids.
I wondered why it so quickly occurred to them to consider that. But these were poor times. Hard for anybody to see how George, when he’d already been struggling to make a living, could possibly manage ten kids alone.
“We need to pray for Albert Graham,” Pastor was telling Juli and me. “He can’t come down right now either, much as he’d like to, because his wife is sufferin’ pneumonia. He’s takin’ it hard about Emma and fearin’ to lose another one.”
He prayed for Albert and his wife on the spot and then added George and the children. The pastor told us George had said he didn’t want a funeral, didn’t want anything at all, but his boys felt differently. They knew that if they didn’t do the best they could, they’d regret it years down the road. But George didn’t want anybody coming, not a soul.
“I already talked to Albert about this, and he said Emma would want to be home,” Pastor Jones told us carefully. “We need to perform a funeral, for everyone’s peace of mind. But it would be more difficult to move the bodies into town and back, not to mention the children. Albert said we ought to have the funeral right here—that is, if it’s all right with you folks. And if Lizbeth and Kirk feel the same as their brothers, to include Wilametta here too might go a little easier on George.”