by Geoff Ryman
“Now you just let us all do everything, Mary,” said Aunty Em. “Don’t take it on yourself again. This day is for you, above anyone else.” Aunty Em did not look at or talk to Bob Jewell. Aunty Em and Will’s older brother, Harry, helped Mary Jewell up into the wagon. Max glared at Dorothy.
It was the cold of the Devil, hard as a sword. Their fingers, their toes, their eyes, were gnawed by the cold. Dorothy’s eyes ran with water, stinging with cold. Aunty Em got back into the wagon and thought Dorothy was weeping for her friend. She patted her hand.
“We must learn to love what God takes away,” murmured Aunty Em. She was recognized by everyone to be a good woman. No one would ever believe that she wasn’t. Dorothy let her think what she liked, and scowled.
Dorothy was trying to feel what she was supposed to feel. She knew she was supposed to cry and carry on and need comforting. The thought of Will made her go hard and cold like stone, and that worried her. She knew she was supposed to feel more than that. The thought of mourning made her feel weary and stale. The ride there and back would be boring, and she would have to be good. She began to rock back and forth to occupy herself.
Aunty Em held her still. “Try to bear up, Dodo,” she said. “We’re nearly there.” They were not nearly there at all.
Dorothy hated the whole business. Ahead of them for miles she could see other wagons, lined up along the road, going to the funeral, as black as beetles.
There was a picture frame behind Dorothy’s knees. Each time the wagon slipped on the icy road, it knocked against her legs. It was a flower under glass, a flower made out of Dorothy’s own hair. It made her feel sick.
“That will be your present to Mrs. Jewell,” Aunty Em had told her. She had written a note on it. “From a young friend,” it said.
Dorothy had made another present of her own. She kept it folded up inside her mitten. She would give the present to Mrs. Jewell herself, try to tell her, if she could, why Will had died. Nobody had given Dorothy a chance to tell her, even though Mrs. Jewell had said she didn’t understand why. Dorothy thought she wanted to understand.
Dorothy had seen Zeandale ahead of them as soon as they had left the Jewells’ farm and got onto the road. Zeandale seemed to creep toward them forever and never get any closer. The gray road, the gray sky, the gray earth, did not seem to change. It took on close to an hour.
All there was to Zeandale, the village, were a few houses and a post office store. EVERYTHING FOR SALE, said a fancy sign outside the shop. Tin tubs and pans and horse clothes were hung around the porch. The schoolhouse looked like any other building and had no steeple. Wagons were gathered all around it.
Dorothy knew Aunty Em didn’t like having to come to Zeandale. She knew Aunty Em would be looked down on by the people here. She knew it from the stiff-backed way Aunty Em climbed down from the rickety wagon and from the way she folded up the hides, with a series of smart snaps, as if they were something rare and precious, to be protected. She stowed them under the seat quickly, so no one could see them.
“Now, Dorothy, the people here don’t know us, so we got to show them that we’re worthy of respect.” The truth was that people in Zeandale did know them and only too well. The people here knew how small the house was and how poor the farm. In Manhattan, Aunty Em was still a Branscomb, the educated daughter of a local dignitary. At least, that was what Aunty Em thought. No one from Manhattan was ever invited back to see the unimproved homestead or the unimproved Henry Gulch.
Aunty Em swiped at the shoulders of Dorothy’s black dress and pulled down hard on the bottom of the jacket. The dress was slightly lopsided. It had been one of Aunty Em’s own.
“It was a sacrifice, cutting down this dress, but it was for your friend, Dorothy, and I was pleased to do it.” Aunty Em’s eyes flickered toward the Jewells, who were helping their mama toward the church. Aunty Em knelt down and smoothed the collar and shoulders and looked into Dorothy’s face and breathed out wreaths of icy vapor.
“And you mustn’t talk, child, not a word. We look at the good, Dorothy, and we turn our eyes from the bad. What Wilbur did was the greatest sin anybody can do. We are burying that sin today. The good men do lives on after them.”
“Yes, Aunty,” said Dorothy. The rule was: When you don’t understand, agree.
Aunty Em pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes into an expression of cramped sweetness. She stroked Dorothy’s face. “You are my own sweet sister’s child,” she said, with misgiving.
“Yes, Aunty.” Dorothy’s toes and fingers ached with the cold and she wanted to get inside.
Aunty Em was still scanning her face for imperfections. “Can’t see a shadow of that man at all,” she said. That man meant Dorothy’s father.
“Yes, Aunty,” said Dorothy.
The funeral was being held in the schoolhouse. Zeandale had gone to the effort of building a church, but the roof had blown off in a cyclone almost as soon as it was finished. Aunty Em kept an eye on the front door. When the Jewells finished maneuvering themselves through it, she stood up, and finally, finally, she and Dorothy could go inside. They walked together hand in hand; Uncle Henry followed with the framed hair flower. The Kansas earth underfoot was frozen as hard as rock. Dorothy tripped and stumbled; Aunty Em hauled her up by the hand. No one was to fall.
Dorothy knew that there had been some kind of trouble. There was a graveyard in the hills outside of the town. Some people had not wanted Wilbur buried there because he had killed himself. Dorothy wondered if they had done something to the ground to close it against him. Would God freeze the ground to stop someone from being buried?
They went into the schoolhouse, and it was colder inside than outside. The little stove had been stoked that morning, but all the heat rose up into the ceiling. As thick as a muddy river, currents of cold air flowed about their feet. The walls were white; the windows were white. The mourners had to sit on the school benches. The place was full of adults all in black like some giant species of insect. There were children, too, some of them from Sunflower School, where Wilbur had gone. They were all real quiet and hung their heads and scowled. Dorothy knew that scowl. It was the Indian scowl. You made it when something didn’t make sense.
There was a wall of memorials. In midwinter, there were no flowers. There were woven pine branches and pillows stuffed with potpourri and scrolls with writing on them. Aunty and Uncle filed past them. They looked a long time at each one. Dorothy wondered why. Uncle Henry pushed the frame at her.
“Put yours here, Dorothy,” whispered Aunty Em. Dorothy leaned it against the wall without ceremony. She was glad to be rid of it. Aunty Em pushed her shoulders. Down. Like at prayers, Dorothy had to kneel. So she did. Then Aunty Em tapped her on the shoulders and she stood up. You just did what you were told. Then they went and sat on the cold, cold bench, next to people they didn’t know, and Dorothy knew she would hate it. It would be long and full of words and nobody would be allowed to move. Dorothy started to rock. Aunty Em stopped her. The Jewells went to the front bench and sat down together.
Dorothy watched Mrs. Jewell. She rocked too. She rocked from side to side, and she was shaking, like some old cart on a bumpy road.
“Is she rocking ’cause of the cold?” Dorothy asked.
“Sssh,” said Aunty Em. Of course you weren’t supposed to talk, but Dorothy had thought one question would be allowed, about a nice woman who was cold.
The Preacher came in. He was a young man, slightly plump. He had come in from Deep Creek to preach. People coughed. He looked up at them.
“Thank you all for coming in this terrible weather. I think it is a measure of Kansas sympathy that everyone here managed to show.”
They were told to sing. Dorothy tried to look behind her at the people singing and was turned around. Then they said a prayer. Dorothy had to make sure that Aunty Em heard her say the words. It was one of the worst things Aunty Em had found out when she came, that Dorothy did not know her prayers.
The power and th
e glory
Forever an never
Hay men.
Dorothy didn’t know what they meant.
Then the Preacher spoke.
“This is the saddest of occasions,” he said. “The death of a young man in a way that in a less generous community would have precluded Christian interment. It is something that is hard for all of us to face, most especially his parents, who must be wondering how and why they failed him. All of us share that sense of having failed. I knew Wilbur Frederick Jewell as a boy and as a young fellow approaching manhood and knew him to be a well-mannered youth, who gave no outward sign of the worm within. We must all of us, in the privacy of our thoughts, come to our own conclusions about Wilbur. But in this memorial service, we must remember his virtues and pray that they weigh heaviest in the scales of justice when his soul is judged in Heaven. Perhaps the prayers of those who love him and the true love of the Lord Jesus can atone and win forgiveness.”
It went on like that. Mrs. Jewell shook so much the pew rattled. Aunty Em clicked with her tongue. Dorothy could feel her aunt go harder and fiercer. There were more songs and another prayer. They all bowed their heads and prayed for the young man’s soul. Dorothy didn’t know that one, so mumbled, looking sideways to see if Aunty Em was angry. She looked angry, but Dorothy thought perhaps not at her.
Finally it was over. Why did everything have to last so long? Mrs. Jewell was making her way toward the church door, with the speed of clouds on a rainy day. They all had to sit for her. Dorothy’s legs wanted to move, and started to twitch, and once again, of course, Aunty Em stilled her.
They waited while other people went out one by one. People shook hands with the Preacher and then spoke to the Jewells, offering a few words as if from a high platform looking down. Or they looked embarrassed, nodding, shaking hands, and then left, ducking for some reason, though the doorway was not low.
Dorothy felt her own secret gift, folded and crisp, inside her mitten.
Aunty Em patted her and then pushed her: now it was time to move. Dorothy swung her legs around and jumped down to the floor. The school students were ahead of them. They were the very last. Dorothy couldn’t wait to be gone. The students had little to say. They ducked the most and gathered outside. From somewhere far enough away came the sound of laughter. The Preacher stood next to Bob Jewell, hands clasped.
“A cold day, young man,” said Aunty Em to the Preacher. “And an even colder sermon. Perhaps when you are a bit older, you will also learn to be wiser.”
The Preacher was not used to being criticized. He looked dumbfounded.
“I simply mean,” said Aunty Em, “that it is not your job to increase the grief of the bereaved.”
“I’m sorry if I left that impression,” he said.
“It is not to me, but to the young man’s mother that you should perhaps address a few more kindly words,” said Aunty Em. “I may say that it would not have happened in our congregation or with another preacher.”
The Preacher chuckled. It was a very nasty chuckle. Dorothy thought: Why is he laughing? He chuckled and shrugged.
Aunty Em took Mary Jewell’s hand. She took it and then suddenly seized it hard, a different gesture altogether. Then she moved on.
It was Dorothy’s turn.
“I’ve got a present for you, Mrs. Jewell,” said Dorothy.
Aunty Em turned. What present?
Mrs. Jewell leaned over, with her great breathy wrinkled weight. Dorothy unfolded the piece of paper from inside her mitten. The present was a drawing. Dorothy passed it up to Mrs. Jewell.
“Thank you, Dorothy,” said Mrs. Jewell. “What is it?”
“It’s an Indian,” said Dorothy. “I only had a pencil so it had to be a Kansas Indian. That’s gray. A real Indian would be red.”
“That’s very nice, Dorothy, now come along,” said Aunty Em, advancing.
“That’s why he hanged himself,” said Dorothy. “He wanted to be an Indian, a real Indian. But he wasn’t brave enough.”
“Oh-ho!” cried Mrs. Jewell, unsteadily.
“He didn’t like it here. He didn’t like school or anything. He wanted to get away.”
But he was too frightened to leave, and so he felt ashamed. It was shame that made him kill himself. Dorothy could taste the shame and feel the shape it had, but she didn’t have the words for it.
“Dorothy!” raged Aunty Em, stepping forward. Dorothy was seized, pulled and hauled away. Mrs. Jewell seemed to sag, waving Dorothy away. The drawing fell to the floor.
“But Uncle Henry said you didn’t understand!” said Dorothy. Aunty Em gave her arm a savage tug. Dorothy knew she had done wrong, but she didn’t care. It was the truth.
Aunty Em got her to the wagon and bundled her up onto the front seat. “Hurry up, Henry, let’s get away.” Uncle Henry speeded up somewhat. The mule was untied.
“Dorothy. What am I going to do with you?” Aunty Em’s hand covered her face. Her face moved from side to side. “That poor woman.”
Dorothy didn’t want to hear what she had done wrong. Everything she did was wrong. “It was a present,” she murmured.
“It was a present that opened a wound. I told you, Dorothy, not to mention what he did!”
“But I’m the only one who knows.”
Knows that there is a nothingness in the wilderness, a great emptiness in the plains and the sky, a nothingness that needs to be filled, not only with houses and horses and plows, but with imagination, an inhuman nothingness that could suck you in and kill you.
There was no point in talking. How could Dorothy make anyone understand that? She could not explain it; she had no words. She could only endure the incomprehension and the harsh words and the silence.
It was dark by the time they got home. Scarecrows waved in moonlight. Instead of going inside, Dorothy hopped down from the wagon and ran.
She ran up the slopes of the bald hill to where the snowmen were. There were still three of them, in a row, as glossy and hard as marble. They were white-blue in moonlight. They were here and Wilbur was not. When the sun came, they would melt, and nothing Dorothy could do would stop it. They would melt away like memories trickling out of her head. There was very little Dorothy could do about anything at all.
And there were the angels in the snow, a tall one next to a little one. The trick was to leave no footprints, as if you had lain there for a time and flown away to heaven.
And suddenly, Dorothy was crying. She found she could cry. “Will-hill-bur!” Maybe there were Indians in Heaven. Maybe Wilbur had found them there. Maybe he had finally joined them.
Maybe not. The tears were soon over. Dorothy had faced death before. She was weary of it, bone-weary. People were here and then they were gone and you had to live as if they had never been here. What once had been, what might have been, could give her nothing. Powdery snow whispered in the wind as it blew. The scarecrows lined up over the wallows, though there was no need for them in winter. Even the wallows were as hard as stone.
The clouds in the sky were as white as ice, and they raced in thin crystals over the surface of the moon. The stars were cold. The valley lay under a sheet of white, and smoke from chimneys hung like freezing fog.
Only where there were houses was there light, was there warmth. It shone out of the windows, orange, fire red, faintly glowing. Those houses were the only place to go, the only life available.
Dorothy finally saw what adults wanted her to see. She saw pioneer beauty, from the top of a hill. It was a trade. In exchange, she had to become resigned. Dorothy knuckled under. She heard Aunty Em call, and she walked back down to punishment and food and a new clean bed.
A few days later, across the naked fields, Dorothy saw Bob Jewell armed with a shovel. For no reason, he was beating one of the scarecrows flat, in a rage.
Zeandale and
Manhattan, Kansas
Winter 1875—1876
“That would make me very unhappy,” answered the china princess. “You see, here
in our own country, we live contentedly, and can talk and move around as we please. But whenever any of us are taken away, our joints at once stiffen and we can only stand straight and look pretty…”
— L. FRANK BAUM,
The Wonderful Wizard of Oz
Dorothy knuckled down to learning to read. She would sit by the window, and Aunty Em would open up some huge volume smelling of mushrooms and dust. Toto would tug at her dress to go outside. Toto was kept inside now to keep him from freezing, but he was tied up most of the time.
“What was the first letter, Dorothy? Look at the book, child. Toto, set. Toto, get to your corner. Dorothy, what is the first letter?”
Dorothy was ashamed. “E?”
Another bad thing that Aunty Em had found out when Dorothy came was that she did not know her letters.
“No, Dorothy, that’s a W. Now what does W sound like? A W with an H after it. Whuh. Whuh sound, Dorothy. Now I’ll just read this first sentence for you. ‘Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show.’”
Beyond the walls, the woods on the ridge sighed in the wind. Both the sky and the ground were the same white color. Aunty Em asked her to recite the alphabet. Dorothy forgot F.
“Don’t start all over again,” said Aunty Em. “That’s just learning by rote, parrot fashion, and I want you to really know this. I don’t want people to think we’re ignorant, Dorothy Gael, and they will if you go to school without your alphabet and the rudiments of ciphering!”
And then she said, “What was your mama thinking of?”
Dorothy began to hate her mother, for all the things she had left out: prayers and table manners and numbers. Dorothy helped at candle making. She swept up the floor. She watched Aunty Em repairing shoes, repairing trousers, jabbing the needle so hard that she sometimes stabbed herself with it. She watched Aunty Em cook in a rage.
In the evenings, Henry would come in moving slowly with his long, stick-thin limbs. He would slump in his chair as Aunty Em threw pots about the stove, spilling, burning, humming hymns to herself. She made terrible mistakes. She baked cakes with salt instead of sugar. Meat came out of the oven burned black outside but red raw inside.