Gap Creek

by Robert Morgan

  “Pendergast kept to hisself,” George Poole said. “He hunted ginseng and trapped for muskrats. He done anything he could do on his own. He never liked to go off on public works. In the last year or two he was too feeble to go out in the woods much. But he would buy ginseng from other diggers.”

  “I never seen him go beyond the cowshed,” Hank said.

  “He hid his money somewhere,” Mr. Poole said. “Everybody thinks he hid a lavish of pension money somewhere.”

  I didn’t say nothing about Mr. Pendergast’s jar of money, and Hank didn’t bring it up either. It didn’t seem like any of George Poole’s business.

  “Where did he keep his money?” I said to George Poole.

  “People say he hid it in a fruit jar somewhere in the backyard,” Mr. Poole said.

  “Maybe that was just a rumor,” Hank said.

  “People is liable to say anything,” Ma Richards said.

  “I’m just saying what other people has said,” Mr. Poole said.

  THE FUNERAL FOR Mr. Pendergast was the pitifullest thing you ever seen. There must not have been more than a dozen people there. Mr. Pendergast didn’t have relations on the Creek, and it was a cold rainy day. Gap Creek Church was open to the rafters, and the preacher’s voice seemed to echo up into that empty space. I expected bats and rats to be scratching around up there over the congregation.

  Preacher Gibbs and his wife sung a song, and it was the mourn-fullest thing you could ever hear. They sung “On Jordan’s Stormy Banks” and it was slow and sad. A song like that can sometimes make you feel sweet with the sadness. Music can make time, and a lifetime, seem precious. But the way they sung “On Jordan’s Stormy Banks” was like all the life and all the joy was draining out of the world. There wasn’t a thing to hope for. It was the bad kind of sadness. It was the sadness of sin, not the sadness of love and piety.

  “When we come to the end of the way,” Preacher Gibbs said, “what will we have to say for ourselves?” And the way he said it you felt nobody would have anything good to say for theirselves, that it was hopeless from the beginning, and there wasn’t nothing anybody could say for theirselves. I always hated that kind of preaching, especially at a funeral. For if somebody is dead there ain’t nothing you can do for them. And it’s too late for them to change their ways. All that kind of sermon can do is make other people feel bad. They leave a funeral feeling worser than when they come. A funeral should make people feel glad they’re still alive.

  “The wages of sin is death,” Preacher Gibbs said, and his words rumbled and rattled in the loft. Every word he said was swallowed up by the stillness and darkness up there in the rafters. “This generation of vipers,” Preacher Gibbs said.

  I had the awfullest feeling, watching Mr. Pendergast laying there in his box with no kinfolks around to mourn and bury him, and the preacher talking sad and harsh to the empty church. It was like we had come to the end of things, almost before my life and marriage had got started. Ma Richards was setting on my right, and Hank on my left. There was no place I could go except forward in time toward death. The bottom was falling out of the world. The bench I set on was still there and the floorboards was solid under my feet. But everything important was falling away, and when I closed my eyes I felt like I was falling into a pit and being hit over the head with the preacher’s words.

  When the funeral was finally over, it took all the men there to carry the box out to the graveyard on the hill behind the church. After the preacher’s words, even the cold rain felt soothing. I had a headache, and my belly hurt like I had eat a green apple. Yellow leaves still hung on the hickories and a crow called its heckle from the pines further up the mountain. The mountains was so steep on both sides of Gap Creek it felt like we was at the bottom of a big grave.

  Hank had dug the grave hisself that morning and the heaped dirt by the hole was so red it seemed to blister and sparkle in the gray light. Something about the raw dirt around a grave always shocks you, like it was a hungry mouth that human flesh is fed to.

  “First comes death,” Preacher Gibbs said, “and after that the Judgment.”

  The crows cawed in the pines.

  “As for man his days are as grass. As a flower of the field so he flourisheth. But the wind passes over and it is gone, and the place thereof shall know it no more.”

  As Hank and three other men lowered the casket into the hole with ropes, the preacher and his wife sung “Shall We Gather at the River.” And I must say, it was the perfect song to be sung over a grave. It was a song I had always loved. And even in the rain and wet dirt, I begun to feel better about the funeral, and about the preacher. Preacher Gibbs was just doing what all preachers do at funerals. It was the cold, empty church that had made his words so sad and made me feel so sad. Preacher Gibbs and his wife kept singing by the grave in the rain, and they sung every verse of the song. They had fine, clear voices.

  • • •

  AS WE WALKED back to the house after the funeral Ma seemed more cheerful than I had ever seen her. I guess the fact that she was older than Mr. Pendergast, and she was still alive, had cheered her up. You would have thought his funeral had reflected glory on her. She was smiling to herself, and she walked tall and fast. She grinned like she had a special secret. I’d never seen her so sweet. I was tired out and wrung out, and she walked up the Gap Creek Road like she was fifteen years old.

  Six

  When we got back to the house I was so dragged out I dropped on the sofa. Two chairs was still facing each other in the middle of the living room where the casket had laid. The house needed a cleaning and the kitchen needed to be fixed up, scrubbed down from ceiling to floor. Mr. Pendergast’s room had to be cleaned up and his stuff sorted and washed. But the house didn’t even belong to us, and I didn’t know who should do all that work.

  “You rest,” Ma Richards said. “I’ll fix some supper.”

  “I’ll get up in a minute,” I said. “Just need to rest my feet.”

  “Hank, you got to look after Julie,” Ma Richards said. Hank was warming his hands by the fire. We was all cold and wet.

  “I’m fine,” I said.

  “You’re expecting,” Ma Richards said, “unless I miss my guess.”

  “Is that a fact?” Hank said to me. But he acted embarrassed, or maybe took by surprise.

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “How long has it been?” Ma Richards said.

  “Nearly two months,” I said.

  “That settles it,” Ma Richards said, like she had took charge of the house. Her face was bright and her eyes sparkled. Suddenly I seen why she had been so cheerful. Just the thought of becoming a grandma had cheered her up.

  “Settles what?” Hank said.

  “Settles the fact that I’m going to stay here and help Julie out,” Ma Richards said.

  “Don’t need help,” I said. A chill passed through me. I had thought Ma would be leaving in a few days. It was the one thing that cheered me up, the thought that she would be gone and Hank and me could get back to living our lives.

  “You’re going to need a lot of help,” Ma said.

  I looked at Hank. He stood by the fire and didn’t say nothing. Though I had never said so, I was sure he knowed how much I resented Ma Richards being there. I couldn’t say nothing against his mama, but she irritated me. And she irritated him too, but he was a man and she treated him different. And besides, she was the only mama he had ever knowed.

  “I don’t even know for sure I’m expecting,” I said. It seemed to me that if Ma Richards stayed with us any longer I would have to leave myself. I would walk back up the mountain and stay with Mama and my sisters.

  “You are,” Ma Richards said, like it was somehow a credit to her. I got short of breath. I felt if I didn’t get Ma out of the house, I was going to have to run away.

  “We probably won’t even be staying here,” I said. “We don’t know whose house this is now.”

  “You don’t want to move, in her condit
ion,” Ma said to Hank, like I was a little girl and they had to decide for me. It was what she wanted to do, take charge of the house and of Hank. She wanted to treat me like a little child, her child. And she wanted to be in charge of the baby even before it was born.

  “I don’t know what we’ll do,” Hank said.

  “We may have to leave here any day,” I said.

  “You can stay till one of Mr. Pendergast’s heirs shows up,” Ma said. “I don’t see what’s to stop you.”

  “The county will sell this place for taxes if somebody don’t show up,” Hank said.

  “Then you pay the taxes, and you can buy it,” Ma said.

  “Don’t have enough money,” Hank said and spit his tobacco juice in the fire. His jaw always tightened when he talked about money. He didn’t like to talk about money.

  “We don’t know where we’ll be living,” I said, “and we don’t know if I am expecting for sure.”

  “Well, if I’m not wanted here, I sure don’t mean to impose myself,” Ma said.

  I didn’t answer her, for I didn’t want to ask her to stay.

  “We want you to stay as long as you can,” Hank said. He looked at me. “But we may be moving back to Painter Mountain with you.”

  “With me?”

  “Where else would we go?” Hank said.

  “I’d have to fix up the loft for you,” Ma said. “There’d be no other place for you to sleep.”

  “Exactly,” Hank said. “I’ll take you back to Painter Mountain and you can fix up the attic for us.”

  “You’ll need a lot of help here,” Ma said. “Julie can’t clean up this place by herself.”

  “They may throw us out any day,” Hank said. “And besides, I’ll help her do what has to be done.” Hank knowed how to talk to Ma Richards. He had growed up with her ways and knowed what to say.

  “When do you want to go?” Ma Richards said. All the cheer had gone out of her.

  “I was thinking Sunday, because I don’t have to work,” Hank said.

  “I hate to travel on the Lord’s day,” Ma said.

  “The Lord will understand,” Hank said.

  But Ma Richards had to get in the last word. “Somebody will have to take care of this house,” she said.

  “I think I can manage,” I said.

  I felt like I was falling in love with Hank all over again, because he had understood how much I wanted Ma Richards to leave, and because he had helped me. I wanted to run to him and kiss him on the neck and on the cheek. He was dearer than he ever had been. He had saved me from his mama. While everything else was going wrong or up in the air, at least I was going to have the house to myself again. That seemed to mean everything. If I could just be alone in the house to do my work and to clear my mind, I might be happy again.

  THE NEXT SUNDAY morning Hank hitched up the horse and buggy and helped Ma Richards into the seat. I stood in the yard and waved to her as they drove away.

  “Don’t strain yourself now,” Ma called.

  “I think I can manage,” I said.

  “Whenever you feel tired just go and set down,” Ma said.

  “I am seventeen years old,” I said.

  “That’s why I worry about you,” Ma said.

  “Don’t worry about me,” I said.

  “And remember, almost all women get sick in the morning,” Ma said.

  I stood on the steps and watched the buggy get smaller and smaller up the creek road. The farther away it got the better I felt. When the horse’s head, and then Ma’s and Hank’s heads, disappeared around the bend, I felt a peacefulness settle through me, like all kinds of dust and soot had settled to the ground, leaving the air fresh and bright.

  • • •

  THE WEEK AFTER Mr. Pendergast’s death it turned cold again. Hank went back to work at the cotton mill at Lyman, and I was sick nearly every day. Each morning I throwed up in the chamber or off the back porch, and then set in the kitchen sipping some hot tea. After having Ma Richards there all those days, and after worrying about Mr. Pendergast ever since we moved in, I enjoyed the peacefulness each day, soon as my belly settled down.

  You wouldn’t believe how good I felt those days after my stomach calmed. I washed the dishes and dried them and put them on the shelf. Then I took a bucket and rag and washed the floor. It made me feel strong to get down on my knees on those rough boards. It was like a morning prayer, kneeling on the cold boards and crawling backwards to rub away any dirt with the rag. That’s when I felt how much it meant to have a home, a place to live in day after day and night after night.

  As I scrubbed the floor I was scrubbing part of the world. And I was scrubbing my mind to make it clear. It was work that made me think clear, and it was work that made me humble. I could never talk fast, and I could never say what I meant to people, or tell them what they meant to me. My tongue was never loosened by my feelings. It was with my hands and with my back and shoulders that I could say how I felt. I had to talk with my arms and my strong hands.

  When I finished scouring the floor I took the bucket of dirty water out to the back porch and emptied it. I was rinsing out the bucket with fresh water when I seen a buggy pull off the road. I didn’t think nothing about it at first, for peddlers and buyers of ginseng and herbs come around from time to time. This buggy looked new and its black top and sides sparkled. The horse that pulled it was black and its sides sparkled like they had been shined with shoe polish. My breath tightened in my throat the way it always did when I seen a stranger.

  I rinsed out the bucket and throwed the water in a flashing streak across the yard. A hen got hit and run away cackling. Another hen rushed to peck where the water had splashed. The buggy stopped in the yard and I put the bucket down and hurried out to meet it.

  “How do,” the driver in a black suit said and tipped his hat.

  “Howdy do,” I said.

  He stuck the whip in its socket and tied the reins to a ring on the side of the buggy. “My name is Jerrold James,” he said. “I’m an attorney from Greenville.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” I said. “My name is Julie Richards.” But a chill rung through me. I knowed a lawyer couldn’t be bringing good news.

  “Is this the property owned by Vincent Pendergast?” he said.

  “It is,” I said. “But Mr. Pendergast died last week and was buried on Wednesday.”

  “Precisely,” the lawyer said. “Precisely.”

  “I took care of Mr. Pendergast, and of the house,” I said. There was a cold wind coming down the valley, and I was starting to get chilled without my shawl.

  “I saw the notice of Mr. Pendergast’s death in the Greenville paper,” the lawyer said. He took a sheet of paper out of his case.

  “Do you represent Mr. Pendergast’s heirs?” I said.

  “Not exactly,” Mr. James said. “Since Mr. Pendergast has no will, or at least not one anybody has found, it’s not clear who his heirs are. His stepchildren, wherever they are, may or may not have a legal claim to the property.”

  “I see,” I said.

  “For all I know your claim may be as good as theirs,” Mr. James said.

  “My claim?” I said.

  “By right of occupancy,” he said. “That would be for a court to decide.”

  “We would have to go to court?” I said.

  “Precisely,” Mr. James said. It was his favorite word, and he made it sound like a sharp knife cutting through fat.

  “My husband and me don’t want trouble,” I said. I wished Hank was there to talk with him.

  “But I’m here on another matter,” Mr. James said. “I represent the Bank of Greenville, which holds a lien against the property.” He took two more sheets from his case and held them out for me to see. I didn’t really look at them. I figured he would tell me what they said.

  “Do we have to move out?” I said.

  “Not necessarily,” the lawyer said. “That’s what I’m here to talk about.”

  I invited Mr. Jerrold Ja
mes inside. I was shivering in the wind. When we got into the living room I asked him to set down on the sofa and I throwed another log on the fire.

  “Would you like some coffee?” I said.

  “That would be splendid,” he said. “I did get a little chilled driving up the valley.”

  There was still some warm coffee in the pot and I poured him a cup and brought it to the living room. Mr. James pulled his chair closer to the fireplace and took a sip of coffee. “I understand there was a fire,” he said.

  “I was rendering lard and some grease caught fire,” I said.

  “Was there much damage?” he said.

  “The curtains burned, and some boards on the floor got charred,” I said. “I put it out with wet sacks.”

  “And Mr. Pendergast got burned?”

  “He got burned on his head and face, and on his hands,” I said.

  “How did Mr. Pendergast get burned so badly?” Mr. James said.

  “He was trying to put out the fire, and save his property,” I said. “A can of kerosene flared up and caught his hair.” And that was the truth. I wasn’t telling Mr. James a lie.

  “Did Mr. Pendergast tell you where he kept his money?” the lawyer said. Wind made the house shudder and the windows rattle. A puff of smoke come out of the fireplace, as it always did when there was a gust from the north. The smoke reminded me all too much of the fire in the kitchen.

  “He never did,” I said. And that was true. Mr. Pendergast had never let on he had money until he crawled into the fire to save the jar behind the stove.

  Mr. James smiled at me. “What are you folks planning to do now?” he said.

  “We will stay here and look after the place, until the heirs come,” I said.

  “I can see that you’re honest folks,” he said.

  “We try to be,” I said.

  “That’s why I would hate for the bank to foreclose,” he said, and took another sip of coffee.

  “What do you mean?” I said.

  “We want to do the Christian thing,” he said. “But if the bank can’t collect the interest due on the loan, it will have to seize the property.”