Vern lowered his head. “We all with you, boy. Say what you got to say.”
Pete didn’t say a word. So Paul tried to speak for him, but he couldn’t find any words either. The tears were building up behind his eyelids, waiting to be freed. He decided to keep his mouth closed so that he didn’t fall apart completely. He closed his eyes as tight as he could. Ruth was sobbing. So was Reese. The girls had placed spring bouquets on the mound of soil. Pink, yellow, and white wildflowers, lying in the dirt. The girls had faces that seemed every bit as pure and lovely as the flowers were, too innocent to be burdened with death.
Paul shook his head. “I’m just so mad . . .” But his words got broken in two. His voice was lost. His tears came by the gallon. And soon everyone was coming apart.
Except Pete.
Pete stepped forward. He removed his hat and unfolded a piece of paper from his pocket. He stared at the wooden cross poking up from the ground. Paul had watched the boy spend two hours carving his mother’s name into the crossbeam of the grave marker.
Pete cleared his throat. His demonstration of courage was enough to make Paul’s chest sore.
“Can I see another’s woe,
And not be in sorrow too?
Can I see another’s grief,
And not seek for kind relief?
Can I see a falling tear,
And not feel my sorrow’s share?
Can a father see his child
Weep, nor be with sorrow fill’d?
Can a mother sit and hear
An infant groan, an infant fear?
No, no! never can it be!
Never, never can it be!
And can He who smiles on all
Hear the wren with sorrows small,
Hear the small bird’s grief and care,
Hear the woes that infants bear,
And not sit beside the next,
Pouring pity in their breast,
And not sit the cradle near,
Weeping tear on infant’s tear,
And not sit both night and day,
Wiping all our tears away?
Oh no! never can it be!
Never, never can it be!
He doth give His joy to all;
He becomes an infant small;
He becomes a man of woe;
He doth feel the sorrow too.
Think not thou canst sigh a sigh,
And thy Maker is not by;
Think not thou canst weep a tear,
And thy Maker is not near.
Oh! He gives to us His joy
That our grief He may destroy;
Till our grief is fled and gone
He doth sit by us and moan.”
Nobody spoke for several minutes, sniffles and throats clearing the only sounds in the desolate woods.
“She liked that poem,” said Pete. Then he folded the paper and placed it at the foot of the grave.
Vern’s black cheeks were shiny and wet. His big shoulders bobbed up and down. His crying sounded large and low-pitched. His lower lip trembled.
“She held on long as she could, Pete,” said Vern. “Always remember that. She held on long as she could.”
Pete wore a numb face. “Yeah.”
Vern touched Pete’s shoulder. “We all with you, boy.”
Reese buried her face in Paul’s stomach. Ruth knelt beside the dirt. Pete stood still.
“Hey, Pete,” said Vern. “You okay?”
Pete turned to face Vern. The boy’s eyes were beginning to fill with water. Pete fell into the big man’s arms, and his body became limp. Vern lifted Pete into himself like he was a small child instead of a teenager. Pete’s feet dangled high above the ground. His shirttail had risen up to his shoulder blades so that his bare back showed. And Pete screamed into the chest of the great man like a child who was all alone in this world.
“We all with you, boy,” said Vern in a soft voice. “We all with you.”
Forty-Four
Spring Wildflowers
The spring sun was enough to make a person dizzy. The air was crisp, and the sun was hot. The whole world was beginning to bloom, and it made Marigold feel pure excitement.
Marigold gathered flowers near the river. The kingcups were her favorite kind of flower. It was the yellow she liked. Yellow was her color. She didn’t know if everyone with the name Marigold chose yellow as their favorite color, but from a young age, she’d felt as though she really had no choice in the matter. If your name was a yellow name, you had to like yellow. She couldn’t imagine someone with the name Rose picking green as her favorite color. Or someone with the name Violet preferring beige.
Yellow was easy to like. It reminded her of happy things. And springtime was nothing but yellow. Yellow sun, yellow flowers, and yellow cotton dresses. She liked to pick Cahaba lilies, daisies, and black-eyed Susans.
She’d found a place near the river where a big patch of kingcups grew by the dozen. And she became so excited when she found so many that she stayed for a few hours, just sitting in the tall grass, breathing them in.
People stopped by the railcar at all hours of the day and night to get her to touch them. Men, women, children, and even one man with a hunting dog with a broken back leg. She would touch them all, without discrimination. She would give each of them her complete sincerity. Some people walked away claiming they’d been healed. Others cussed her when it didn’t work and called her names. It all left her feeling drained.
Of course, she’d heard the names people called her. People called her the “magic lady” or the “seer.” Some people called her a “prophetess,” but this was ridiculous. The most often used name was the “harlot healer.” It was a cruel name. Especially since Marigold was only a handmaid to the girls behind Cowikee’s and had never entertained a single man in her life.
She walked through the woods, looking at the sky, trying to keep the smell of the flowers in her mind by holding them to her nose now and then. It was going to be a spring like no other. She could feel it. She could feel things stronger than she ever felt them before. It was almost as if something had heightened her senses. She couldn’t explain it. She could feel people’s moods before they hit. Sometimes she had this strange feeling she knew what people were thinking.
Then a feeling hit her.
The feeling hit her in the chest. It was a throbbing. Then a pulsing. Then a pounding in her face and temples. Her ears started to ring. Her head was swimming with excitement. She dropped the flowers and closed her eyes, touching her forehead. Sweat gathered on her neck, her stomach felt tight, and her legs ached. She was out of breath for no reason.
She bent to gather her flowers, but the ringing in her ears got stronger so that she couldn’t bear it.
She knew what was happening.
“Helen,” she said.
Joy swept over her. She leapt to her feet and jogged through the brush and the straight pines. She left her flowers behind and made her way through undergrowth, fallen logs, and hanging vines. She ran so hard it felt like her heart was going to split.
When she neared the railcar, there were customers on the porch, standing in a clot. The group of gawkers had gathered near Helen’s door. Rachel cut through the men, making her way toward the water pump with a bucket in her hand.
When Rachel saw Marigold, she started crying. “It’s Helen,” Rachel said. “Something’s wrong.”
“Let me through,” said Marigold.
She muscled her way through the men. She saw Helen lying on her bed, a puddle of blood beneath her.
“Marigold,” said Helen, who was panting. “Help me.”
Forty-Five
O Little Child
“Call a doctor,” Marigold told Rachel.
“Doctor won’t do nothing for us,” Helen shouted.
“’Course he will. I’ll just send Rachel into town and call him. Rachel, don’t forget to tell him about all the blood.”
“Can’t,” said Helen. “He won’t come.”
“Wh
at?”
“He’s a Baptist deacon. We tried calling him for Chelsea’s broken ankle and he wouldn’t come.”
“What do you mean he wouldn’t come?”
“He just told us to leave him alone.”
“We need a doctor,” said Marigold.
“We don’t need no stupid doctor,” cried Helen.
“Yes, we do.”
“It’s too late for doctors,” said Rachel. “You’re gonna have to do it, Marigold.”
“Why me?”
“Because you are the only one who has ever had a baby,” said Laughing Girl.
“Fine, then get more towels!”
“Okay.”
“And another pillow!”
“Right.”
“And blankets.”
“Should she be drunk for this?” said Laughing Girl. “My mother was very drunk when she had me. She told me it was her first time being drunk, and my first time too.”
Helen let out a high-pitched scream. More blood was gathering beneath her.
“I can’t do this!” said Marigold. “I need a doctor or somebody.”
“Look, he’s coming!” Rachel hollered, pointing.
Marigold started to fall apart. She almost passed out when she saw the top of the little head.
Laughing Girl covered her mouth. “He’s never gonna fit.”
Marigold pushed Laughing Girl out of the way. “Get me some more towels.”
Then Helen touched Marigold’s hand. “What’s happening to me, Marigold?” she said.
“I don’t know. Just hang on, you’re gonna be okay,” Marigold said.
“I’m scared, Marigold.”
“Don’t be, but I need you to push or that baby’s not going anywhere.”
“I can’t,” said Helen. “I don’t have the strength.”
“I see the head,” said Laughing Girl. “Should I be doing something?”
“Is she supposed to bleed this much?” said Rachel.
Helen moaned. Her moaning was replaced with screaming. Her face became red, and the veins in her forehead were showing. Marigold saw more of the head make its appearance.
“More towels, I said!”
“That’s a whole lot of blood,” said Rachel.
Helen grunted. “Marigold, what’s happening to me?”
“You’re having a baby, now push.” Marigold pressed her hand on Helen’s shoulder and said, “Push, Helen!”
Helen locked her jaw and grunted. She sat forward and squeezed Marigold’s hand so hard it made her bones hurt.
“That’s too much blood,” said Rachel.
Marigold hollered, “Keep pushing!”
“Push, Helen,” said Rachel.
“Push,” said Laughing Girl.
“Push!” screamed Helen.
Marigold saw men customers peeking in through the windows. Five or six heads piled together. “Get away from there,” she hollered. “Rachel, go close the curtains.”
Helen touched Marigold on the forearm and said, “I can’t do it, Marigold. I can’t.” She began to cry. “I think he’s stuck.”
Marigold steadied her breathing. Her eyelids fell gently, and she let all sound fade into nothingness. She rested her hands on Helen’s belly. She concentrated on her palms. She concentrated on the baby. She concentrated on her own breath.
She felt herself float high above the room and drift above the rooftops, above the forest, and above the bay. And in a few moments, she saw herself in an open field. There were no trees to interrupt the flatness of it, just miles of gold grass. And she saw in the distance a small girl with red hair, staring at her. The girl wore a yellow dress. She raised her hand in greeting when she saw Marigold. She wanted to run closer to the girl and get a better look at her. But she was pulled from this place by the loud sound of Rachel’s voice.
“Marigold!” said Rachel. “Your hands! What’s happening to your hands?”
Marigold opened her eyes. The skin on the backs of her hands had become so white it was translucent. Blue veins showed through, and so did muscle and bone. Her hands were numb with heat. The skin of Helen’s tight stomach also became translucent. A collection of tiny pink blood vessels began to show through the surface, along with marbled muscles.
“What’s happening?” shouted Rachel.
Laughing Girl yelled, “You are doing good, Helen!”
“Push!” said another.
“Here he comes, Helen.”
Helen howled. Her cheeks and forehead turned purple.
“Keep going, Helen!”
“You’re doing good, Helen!”
“That’s it, Helen!”
Helen let out low bellows.
“Almost there!”
“One more good push, Helen.”
“You can do it, Helen.”
Helen gave it all she had. And after one final scream, her body went limp. Next came the sound of tiny lungs crying. It was a boy, lanky and long.
The girls clapped. A man’s muffled voice came through the window. “What is it? What’d she have?”
“It’s a boy!” shouted Rachel. “She had a boy!”
“Hallelujah!” shouted another male voice. Whooping and hollering were heard on the porch.
Marigold whispered in Helen’s ear, “You did it, Helen.”
Helen’s eyes were lazy, and she was slick with sweat. “Let me see him. I wanna see him.”
Marigold handed the baby to her.
Helen’s face was covered with exhaustion and pride. “I want you to touch him, Marigold,” she said in a weak voice. “I want you to bless him with your . . . your hands.”
Marigold took the child from Helen. She held the child against her and remembered the way she’d once held Maggie. She placed her hand around his little head and felt the softness of his skin. And in a moment, Marigold’s entire body was ignited with the feeling of infant joy. It was as though she were drawing her first human breaths right along with the baby.
Then she handed Helen the child again, wrapped in a blanket.
“See?” said Helen. “Piece of cake. I told you we didn’t need no stupid doctor.”
Forty-Six
Judy Bronson
It was late. The train depot was empty. There were no families waiting on the large wooden platform, only one old woman with a shawl and a large suitcase. The frogs were out. So were the stars.
Judy held Coot’s arm tight. This confused Coot. He wasn’t sure why she was being so affectionate, but he didn’t question it. He didn’t want to. She was too easy to love.
Coot sat on a bench with Judy beside him. He wore his only pair of trousers and a linen shirt. Beside him was his leather bag. And it reminded him of the bus trip that had brought him to Alabama long ago. Just thinking about it made him feel both anger and warmth toward Blake.
Also beside him was Judy’s suitcase. It was a heavy case. She had stuffed so many clothes inside it that she had to sit on it just so Coot could latch it shut.
Coot had bought two tickets to Atlanta. He paid six dollars per ticket. Atlanta seemed like a good place to go. There was supposed to be good work in Atlanta, he had heard.
Coot leaned against the wall. He waited in silence, watching the cotton field in the distance.
Judy kept glancing at a large clock overhead. Coot noticed her eyes darting to it, then to him. The clock. Then him. The clock. Then him.
“Why are you so nervous?” he asked her.
She patted his hand. “I just don’t like trains.”
“You ever been to Atlanta?” said Coot. “I heard it’s huge.”
She didn’t answer. She only checked the clock again.
“Heard they got jobs everywhere,” he went on.
Coot let his eyes drift to the cotton field across the railroad tracks again. The field was almost pure white in the moonlight. He thought about what it would be like to grow old with a woman who didn’t love him. He wondered if he would ever be able to make her feel something for him.
“What about Will?” Coot asked. “Did you tell him you were leaving?” No sooner had the words exited his mouth than he was sorry he said them.
“Yeah, I told him. But far as I’m concerned, he’s dead to me.” Judy cut her eyes to the clock again. “I ain’t gonna grovel for no man.”
The sound of frogs broke the stillness in the air. There must’ve been a billion of them singing together. It was a wonderful sound, Coot thought. He looked at the old woman on the platform. He smiled. She did not smile at him.
Finally Judy stood abruptly. She said, “You know, I don’t feel so good, Coot.”
“Huh?”
“I’m sick.”
“Sick? You were fine two seconds ago, honey.”
She made a face. “Please don’t call me that. I don’t feel good. Come with me to the restroom, Coot.”
He hooked her arm around his. She guided him across the empty platform. The old woman in the shawl watched them pass.
They reached the side of the building. The entire side of the depot was dark where lantern light didn’t reach. Coot could see the silhouettes of the outhouses in the distance. But Judy wasn’t walking toward them. She was standing still, glancing in all directions. Uneasy.
“Why’re you stopping?” Coot asked. “The outhouses are over there.”
Judy didn’t answer.
A train whistle squealed in the distance. A small white light was miles away, getting bigger. Coot felt the vibration that went with the whistle. “C’mon, Judy, we gotta hurry. You can use the bathroom on the train—”
Something smashed against Coot’s head. He heard something in his face break. He fell backward on the dirt. Something hit him again.
Judy screamed, “You idiot, don’t kill him!”
Warm blood came out of Coot’s nose and ran all over his face. He squinted his eyes and saw the figure of a man in the moonlight. He saw dimples. Coot moaned, “Baby Joe?”
“Sorry, Coot,” said Baby Joe, tossing a baseball bat onto the ground. “But if you try anything, I’ll have to kill ya, buddy.”
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