by Dean Hughes
Abby finally broke down; she cried harder than she had through this whole ordeal. She could deal with anything, but not with the feeling that God didn’t care—that she was only a statistic. She had believed in prayer since she had first tried it. It was the thing that had brought her to the Church: the realization that she wasn’t alone. So she prayed again and this time didn’t say anything except, “Please, Lord, I need to know you’re still with me.”
She waited, but it was Jeff’s voice she heard, not the Lord’s. “Are you okay?” he asked.
She got up and went to him, still sobbing.
“I heard you crying,” he said.
“I don’t know if I can do this, Jeff. I don’t know if I’m strong enough.”
Jeff held her. He had never been so scared in his life. He had been feeling the same way about himself. It seemed as though the whole structure he had built his life on was falling away. And yet, he knew he had to be strong for Abby. “We’ll be okay,” he said. “We just can’t turn on each other.”
But that was only half an answer, and he didn’t know what the other half was.
Chapter 6
Liz didn’t cry when little Mary Ann died. She told herself not to let go, not to stumble into the darkness that hovered around her. She sat and held her baby for a time, and then she reminded herself of the things she had to do. “We need a coffin,” she said to Will. “And we need to let Jesse and Ellen know.”
“Do you want a funeral?”
Liz had already thought about that. “There are too many funerals in Nauvoo,” she said. “We can just take her to the cemetery. Someone can say a few words at her grave.”
“We could ask Brother Woodruff,” Will said, as though he had also thought about it.
“He would be good, if he’s well enough. But he’s been so sick. Maybe Brother Benbow could do it. Or you could.”
“No. I don’t want to.”
Liz understood. It would be too hard for Will. But she didn’t want a lot of words anyway. What she had feared had come now, and she knew there was nothing to do but move forward.
Things happened. They just came, whether you wished them away or not. Now she would do whatever came next. Life would be that way for now—maybe not forever, but for as far ahead as she could see.
• • •
Will felt the loss of the baby, but even more, he felt the loss of his wife. He had watched her shut herself off from him, from everyone. He sat up with Mary Ann most of the night. It had felt wrong to him to leave her little body alone. He was tired, but his mind was busy, and he knew he couldn’t sleep anyway. Liz had gone to bed, and she slept as though she had never slept before.
Will kept trying to think about the future. He and Liz would have more children, and all their hopes could still come about. That was the thing to remember. He kept pushing away the memory of the young Liz he had known in Ledbury: her happy walks to the market, her playing the pianoforte or chatting happily with her sister. She had been so spirited, and she had laughed so much. He wondered what life was doing to her, and whether her choice to marry him was going to take away her joyful nature.
Will remembered all the advice he’d given Ellen when her baby had died on the ship. It was strange to think how wise his words had seemed at the time, disheartening to realize that he felt no more consolation than Ellen had felt then. Ellen was going forward now. She seemed all right. But he wondered how much she had been changed inside. There was a face that people presented to the world, and there was resoluteness in that public appearance, but he suspected that in the course of life people collected more and more grief, and much of it hung from their shoulders like the weight of a harness, pulling them down. In the end, no wonder that people were finally ready to return to their Maker.
Toward morning Will thought he would sleep a little, so he lay down next to Liz, but it was useless, so he got up to see to the burial. He walked off the hill to William Huntington’s stonecutting shop on Main Street. He found no one in the shop, so he knocked on the door of the house, which was behind the shop. Brother Huntington showed up at the door looking as though he had still been in bed when Will had knocked. “I’m sorry to bother you so early,” Will said. “Our baby died last night. We hope to bury her today.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Brother Will,” Brother Huntington said. He let his hand settle on Will’s shoulder, didn’t seem to mind that he had been pulled out of bed. “Have you purchased a burial plot?”
“No. Where do I do that? I thought it might be here.”
“You’ll have to see Brother Hyrum at his office across from his house—the one where he gives blessings. We’re digging graves every day these days. We have some men starting early each morning. Pick out a plot, and Hyrum will get word to the diggers. I’d give them until afternoon before you try to bury her, though.”
“That sounds about right. I still haven’t built a coffin.”
Will and William looked at stones after that and settled on the simple inscription of name and dates, and then Will walked to Hyrum Smith’s house. He didn’t knock at the door; he waited outside the office, not wanting to rouse Hyrum too early as he had done with Brother Huntington. Will was wearing an old waistcoat that he used for work. The cool air penetrated it as he waited; he found himself shivering. Nauvoo was still asleep, but the rising sun was glowing from behind the bluffs, the mist along the river turning amber in the angled light. The river was more than a mile wide here where it bent around the city. Its surface was muted in the soft light, seeming docile, but Will always felt a sense of the river’s inexorable power. It was like the force of life he had been thinking about all night, the inevitability of certain things he simply couldn’t change. At least this morning he was reminded how beautiful the river could also be.
Will was still looking out toward the river when he heard a door shut. Hyrum Smith had stepped out of his house, and now he walked across the street. “I just now saw you waiting out here, Brother Lewis. Why didn’t you knock on my door?”
“I thought you might still be in bed—where you rightly should be,” Will said.
“No. I’m an early riser. But I almost hate to ask why you’re here this early.”
“It’s our new little baby. She’s gone already.”
“I’m sorry,” Hyrum said. He nodded, waited. When Will finally looked into his eyes, he saw that Hyrum’s words were not empty. He was sorry.
Hyrum was not as forceful and jovial as Joseph, but he was reliable and good—and Will always felt that when he was around the man.
The two walked inside, and Will used a chart of the cemetery to choose a burial plot. He thanked Hyrum, promised to pay for the plot as soon as the county paid him for his roadwork, and then continued on to Wilson’s sawmill, on Lumber Street at the river’s edge. He had to wait a while for someone to show up there, too. He bought a few boards and carried them away on his shoulder.
The town was finally waking up. Thin plumes of gray smoke were rising from the chimneys and drifting eastward, hanging against the bluffs. People were beginning to emerge from their houses to winch water from their wells, to feed their animals, to work in their gardens. Will saw a boy cutting corn and a man digging his root crop from a garden. A woman was milking a cow that was tied to a “worm fence,” the rails in a zigzag. She was leaning her head against the cow’s side as though she wanted just a few more minutes of sleep—or maybe a bit of warmth. He could see the steam of her gentle breath.
This was a good place and these were good people. Will felt that. But there was also something sad about all of it—so much work, so much willingness, and yet, so many trials.
The Woodruff cabin was on the way home, just under the bluff. Will stopped there and found Brother Wilford up, eating breakfast. He lived in a simple log house, nicely furnished and kept very clean. Will had often talked to him about his dream—the same as Will’
s—to build a fine brick home on this lot.
But Brother Woodruff looked emaciated now, after his weeks of illness, far from ready to take on such a project. He was genuinely sorrowful when he heard the news about Mary Ann. “Yes, yes. I’ll come,” he told Will. “I’m getting my strength back. I can mount my horse now, and I’ll ride out.”
“Don’t feel that you have to say much. Liz said she wants things kept simple.”
“Yes. And simple is what I have to offer right now.” He chuckled to himself.
“Would two o’clock this afternoon be all right?”
Brother Woodruff thought about that for a moment. “Yes, I can do that. I want to put in a little time at the print shop this morning. Brother Taylor hasn’t been well either, so we’re each doing what we can to get the Times and Seasons out. But that will give me the morning to work a little. I’ll meet you at the cemetery at two.”
Will thanked him and shook his hand, and then he walked back up the hill, through the woods. He hammered together a little pine box before he entered the house and found Liz awake and making breakfast. He ate a little cornmeal mush, and then he set out to let Jesse and Ellen and the English Saints know what had happened. He made the ride out in less than an hour, stopping by John and Jane Benbow’s place and Jesse and Ellen’s, and then he returned at the same speed. He kept wondering what he would find when he got back. He half expected Liz to have broken down, but when he got back to the house, she was just as quiet as she had been earlier.
The Female Relief Society sisters had found out about the death by then. Nelly had stopped by that morning, and she had probably spread the word after that. Two sisters had walked up from the flats and helped Liz wash little Mary Ann, and now they were clothing her in a simple muslin dress. Liz had sewn it that summer, intending that it would be the baby’s blessing dress. Somehow the thought of that brought tears to Will’s eyes—but not to Liz’s.
When the sisters were gone, Will said, “I thought we could put Mary Ann in the little coffin and carry her out to the cemetery in the oxcart. I think Socks can pull it all right, and you can ride. But if you think she needs something better, we could—”
“The oxcart is good.”
Will had thought so, too. It seemed rather “processional” to carry her that way, but humble at the same time.
“Are you doing all right, Liz?”
“Yes.” But she turned away.
“Should we invite people to come back here after the burial?”
“No, Will. The sisters wanted to bring food, but I told them not to do it. People can’t stop their work every day just because of one more death.”
“It’s all right to feel sorrow, Liz. It’s only natural. We miss her, and—”
“After we bury her,” Liz said, “I think you should go back to work. It’s a clear day, and we may not have many good days left. I can walk back from the cemetery by myself, and you can still get some work done. I’m going to advertise my school now. It’s time I start taking pupils.”
“That might be good, Liz. I think it will. But I’m coming back here today. I don’t want you walking, and I don’t want you to be alone.”
She turned around, and her look seemed to say, “Yes, and what about tomorrow?” But she said nothing. He hardly recognized her face. There was no life in it. She was as pretty as ever, but pretty like a porcelain figurine.
Liz kept herself busy tidying up around the house and then heating water so she and Will could bathe. She took her bath in the bedroom in the tin tub they used. She stayed longer than usual, and when she came out she was dressed in her pretty green Sunday dress. Will cleaned up too, and he shaved, and then he put on his suit of clothes.
Liz seemed to forget about eating dinner, and Will didn’t want to say anything, so they didn’t eat. Shortly after one o’clock, Will set the little coffin in the back of the oxcart. He walked and Liz rode in the cart as they made the slow trip east on Parley Street. Near the cemetery they passed through a little valley that in summer had been as green as Wellington Heath. The woods were brilliant yellow now, with a smattering of red maples. Nature was always the same, it seemed, bright cardinals flitting about, finches enjoying the good day as it warmed, the blue jays making their usual irreverent noises.
Liz must have been thinking the same thing. “Life just goes on,” she said—the only words she spoke during the entire trek.
• • •
Men were still digging graves when Will and Liz arrived at the cemetery, and one of the men showed them the little grave where they would bury their Mary Ann. It was on high ground among a scattering of white oaks and hickories. It was a nice spot, but Will found himself looking into the black earth and hating the thought of shoveling that heavy soil over the top of his little daughter.
The Benbows soon arrived with Jesse and Ellen, all having ridden in the Benbows’ carriage. By then, Will spotted Brother Woodruff as he tied his horse to a sapling near the road and began his slow trudge to the crest of the hill. Will hurried down to take his arm and help him along. Will appreciated that these good friends would take time to come, and he was surprised that several other of the English families had showed up. Four women from the Female Relief Society also arrived, including Sarah Kimball, all having walked the two miles from the flats. They embraced Liz and told her how sorry they were, and Will saw a little emotion return to Liz’s eyes.
Brother Woodruff preached only a few minutes. He talked about the Lord’s great plan for His children, and he spoke of the Atonement. Tears came to his eyes when he said, “It was when I was with you in England that I received word that my little Sarah Emma had passed away. I knew everything then that I’ve said here today, but still, I missed her as though my heart would break, and Elizabeth and Will, I know that’s how you feel today. I wish I could tell you that I no longer miss my little girl, but it isn’t true. I’m sure you understand that. Still, what I’ve said about the Atonement is true, and it’s the great comfort we have. You will see her again. She isn’t lost to you forever.”
These were good thoughts for Will, and again, he saw a small reaction in Liz. He knew she was trying not to think too much—not to feel—but surely she was glad for any measure of consolation.
• • •
Liz felt a little peace by the time she left the burial ground. She didn’t want to watch her baby being lowered into the ground, so she turned her back and walked away, but she was warmed by so much love. She didn’t say it to Will, but she was relieved that he didn’t go back to work that day. He led the horse again, and he didn’t say too much to her. And then, after he took care of the horse and cart at home, he came inside and held her in his arms. She was glad she had married such a man as Will, who looked out for her, loved her, and seemed to understand, or at least respect, a woman’s feelings more than many men she had known in her life.
But ahead of Liz was a rutted road like the one she had been staring at all the way home. She would have to get up in the morning, and every morning all winter, without her lovely daughter. That was the reality she couldn’t escape. She was not going to fall apart; she was not going to ask, “Why me?” She was not going to complain. But she would not see Mary Ann for an entire lifetime, and nothing could change that, even the faith that she would, in fact, see her in the next life.
Nelly came by that afternoon. She was carrying an evening meal for Liz and Will. Somehow, this kindness touched Liz more than almost anything. “Get back to normal, just as soon as you can,” she told Liz. “That’s the one thing that helps most, to do our chores and bake our bread—and all those things. I know you have no oven, but you make your cornbread and your ash bread, and it eats good when a man comes home. I’ll come by every day, just to see if I can carry water and the like, or if you need to say somethin’ that’s on your mind, I’m good at hearin’ those things.”
Liz smiled a little, and said, “Do c
ome by. I would like that.”
And then Nelly went out, and Liz was alone. Will had gone outside, probably to look after his animals. Liz looked around her cabin and tried to think what chores she could do, since she had tidied up that morning and Nelly had brought pork and potatoes and a loaf of bread. Then she saw Mary Ann’s little cotton blanket, resting on the cupboard near the fire, and all her resolve was suddenly gone. She picked it up and smelled it, and she started to cry. She told herself that she could only do that for a minute or two and then she had to put the blanket away. But she held it close, rubbed its softness on her cheek, and broke down. She sat at the table and sobbed as though she hadn’t talked to herself all day about not doing that.
When the door opened, she looked up, tears still on her face. She was ashamed to have Will see her that way.
But Will stepped to her and touched her hair. “It’s all right,” he said. “It’s what you need to do.” Then he said, “Liz, there’s someone here who wants to talk to you.”
“No, Will. I don’t want to see anyone else today.” She got up, refolded the blanket, and walked to the cupboard.
“I think you’ll want to see this man. It’s Oscar Clarkston. He lived in Bishop’s Hill, in Herefordshire. You remember him, don’t you?”
“Yes. He married Rosemary Richens, from Twigworth.”
“Well ... yes. But he has something he wants to talk to you about. And it must be now. It could be something good for you.”
Liz had no idea what to think of that, but Will was insisting, and Liz didn’t have the strength to resist. “That’s fine,” she said. “Give me just a minute.”
Will nodded and walked out. Liz tucked the blanket away in a cupboard drawer, and then she poured a little water in a basin and washed her face. She dried her hands and face, took a long breath, then turned and waited. Will granted her more time than she had expected, but when he finally opened the door, she could see that he was changed—almost eager, she thought. It was Brother Clarkston who looked thinner than she remembered him. He took his hat off and held it in one hand as he reached out to shake hands with Liz. “I’m sorrowed by what’s happened to ye,” he said. “Will says yor little girl was pritty as a picher.”