Miriam rushed toward them. The little boy dropped Pip and scurried into the rows. The older stood defiant, brandishing the arrow like a sword. Miriam pounced, yanked the arrow from his fist, and began to thrash his legs. The boy shrieked, holding out his hands as Miriam lashed his wrists, his shoulders. She heard Evelyn shouting but didn’t stop, and then the boy whirled free, welts striping his back as he dashed into the corn.
Then Evelyn was behind her, easing the arrow from her grip. The field and sky slowly spun. Miriam stood gasping, adrift in her own shuddering body, her own reeling mind.
“Just leave,” she sobbed. “Why don’t you just leave me?”
Evelyn shook Miriam once. “Stop it, Mama. You’re not the only one in this, you know.”
They didn’t speak the entire way back to the house. The hill seemed an endless climb. Miriam entered the shade of the house, wandered upstairs into her bathroom, and closed the door. As she passed the mirror she flinched at her reflection. The makeup was faded, smeared, but still remained from the night before. Miriam had forgotten about her face. What a sight she must’ve been.
She sat on the edge of the bathtub, holding her head. She eyed the little pink bath mat, wanting to go to sleep. But she could not lie on the floor, couldn’t rise, either, and then the door inched open, and Evelyn poked in her head.
She sat beside Miriam, took her mother gently by the shoulders. “Let’s have some lunch, Mama,” she said. “You’ll feel better with some food in you.”
Miriam nodded.
“Want a sandwich?”
Miriam trembled. “My face,” she softly cried.
They sat still, Evelyn holding Miriam tight. Then Evelyn crouched before her, her hands on her mother’s knees. “I’ll make up my face, too,” she said, smirking. “Just to be silly. We’ll find those boys and scare them off for good.”
The twinkle in Evelyn’s eyes was contagious, made Miriam chuckle. She leaned down and kissed her daughter’s hands.
They ate sandwiches on the porch, Miriam’s energy restored, her spirits lifted. Evelyn made them over, painting her mother’s face, then her own, both donning red masks with black-ringed eyes, gold hoop earrings hung from black noses.
They strolled the maze, arm in arm, laughing, singing improvised songs about monsters gobbling children. At the field’s farthest edge, an outbuilding’s aluminum roof peaked above the corn. Miriam pushed through the rows. Evelyn squeezed Miriam’s elbow, asked what she was doing. Miriam shushed Evelyn and pointed.
Over by the outbuilding stood a hickory tree, and from the tree hung a hammock in which Samuel Franklin slept. Samuel was Miriam’s oldest neighbor, had been her mother’s dear friend. They trod softly to his side, his legs dangled over the hammock’s ropes, his eyes twitching beneath their thin wrinkled lids.
A charcoal grill sat a few feet away. Miriam tiptoed over, quietly took out a briquette. She rubbed her hands black with the coal, then hurried back to Samuel. Gently, she dragged a finger across his forehead. Samuel didn’t budge, and Miriam held her breath to keep from laughing.
Soon Samuel’s nose, neck, even his ears, were black. They leaned their faces above his. Miriam brusquely shook his arm. Samuel’s eyes opened halfway, then he saw them and let out a little hoot, his arms flailing, and the hammock swung and Samuel flopped to the dirt.
They fled cackling like schoolgirls, tears in Miriam’s eyes and corn leaves slapping her face as she rushed into the rows. But then her eyes were stinging. Her lungs strained. She coughed, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see for the tears and corn. Miriam stumbled, reaching, grasping at the stalks.
Then Evelyn stood above her, sweat dripping rouge down the girl’s throat. Evelyn held her hand, hollered for Samuel. Soon Samuel’s black-coated face hovered above her, too. He gawked a moment, saying nothing, then cradled Miriam up into his arms.
Miriam lay held in the hammock. Evelyn pressed two fingers to her mother’s wrist and wouldn’t let her rise. Samuel stood beside her, his cracked old face dusted with charcoal.
“Think I understand some things now,” he said.
“Things?” Miriam asked.
He scratched under his collar. “This morning I saw Seamus McGahee in town. Hardly spoke to the man in my life, and here he comes over saying his boys saw devils in your field. Devils drinking and dancing.”
Miriam pushed away her daughter’s hand, struggled to raise herself upright. “Devils?”
“What he said.”
“And what you say?”
“Thought the man lost his mind.” His eyes turned inward. “Didn’t know you all were out there that way.”
Miriam grabbed Evelyn’s elbow and swung her legs out of the hammock to stand.
“Miriam?”
“What?” she said, crossly.
“You’re kicking the beehive.” Samuel tapped a boot heel against the ground. “All this crazy stuff’s got folks talking. What with your mama’s passing and you so out of sorts.”
“I’m no devil,” she barked.
His eyes bulged white upon his sooted face. “Folks are talking just the same.”
“Your face is filthy, Samuel,” she said, like a slap, then tugged Evelyn’s hand and stomped off through the yard.
Miriam sulked as they worked their chores, doing laundry, dishes, cleaning the bathrooms. When she found Evelyn in her bedroom, changing her sheets, Miriam made her stop. Evelyn begged that they sleep in the house, but Miriam was adamant. It was her land. She’d not be told what to do.
That evening after dinner, their faces washed clean, they returned to the rotunda with a cooler of snacks, a jug of water, and citronella candles. The events of the day had left Miriam weary, yet sleep came in vexed shreds, mosquitoes buzzing her ears, the moon ducking in and out of the clouds. Deep in the night, Evelyn sleeping soundly beside her, Miriam could no longer lie stewing.
Since her mother’s death she often walked at night. Mostly, she’d paced the dark house. Sometimes stepped onto the porch. Once, she’d gone out into the drive and stared long at their old Ford. The truck that had been impounded as evidence. The truck from which they’d washed her mother’s blood.
Tonight her hands shook as she laced her boots, lost in the throes of a more desperate ache, an unsettled yearning to be apart from all things human. Miriam chose a corridor and pushed into the maze. She marched through the dark, Samuel’s words roiling in her mind. It was always the same. The same prattling voices, same narrow judgments. The world was the same, though Miriam had changed. She knew what they wanted. They wanted the old Miriam. Miriam in the choir loft, Miriam bringing chili to the potluck, Miriam judging rabbits at the fair.
But how could she abide? No, she seethed. That Miriam is gone. I can’t go back. Now she’d demand gratitude. Demand notice that she, too, would soon leave them. Any day, any moment. She wanted them to mourn her now, wanted to be missed before her blood stained some parking lot’s asphalt.
A fever wrenched through her, tightening her spine, the cords of her throat. She felt like screaming and would’ve had she not wanted to chance waking Evelyn. Clouds covered the moon. Blindly she bumped along, her hand trailing along the wall of crop. Then the ground sloped downward. She paused to find her footing.
Miriam heard something. A breaking in the swale.
She crouched, one hand clutching a stalk, her entire mind lit as she peered down into the darkness. Something was there. Her breathing quickened. A vein in her neck throbbed. Maybe it’s one of the dogs, Miriam told herself, trying to steady her nerves.
She softly whistled, patted her thigh.
The land lay still.
Miriam inched down the slope, squinting to see. It was there. She could see it. An obscure hump. Again she whistled, reached out.
The thing exploded in a flurry. She was struck. Miriam fell onto her back, was hit again, and she threw out her hands, the thing thrashing over her. She caught a thin arm. Ripped something cold and hard from its grip, and lashed out, the impact, li
ke an ax breaking pond ice, reverberating through her arm.
Miriam scrambled back up the rise. She heard nothing but her own burning breaths. Nothing came after her, nothing moving down in the darkness. She recognized she held a section of pipe, and let it fall from her fist.
She flexed the elbow that’d been struck, staggered along the corridor. When she found the center, wispy clouds veiled the night, the rotunda hazed in sepia moonlight. Evelyn slept on her back, her mouth slightly open, both dogs curled beside her. Miriam found herself suddenly exhausted. Gingerly, she lay down beside her daughter and closed her eyes.
3
Dawn fanned its pale light over the field. Miriam stirred slowly, the mutt snuggled heavily against her. She turned her eyes to Evelyn, asleep beside her, and wondered what Evelyn would do once she was dead, what residue of her life she’d leave behind.
Miriam began to hum an old hymn. Today was Sunday. She’d not been to church since her mother’s funeral, but she missed it, she realized, the nice clothes, the bells and the singing, and the lull after the organ’s song when all bowed their heads and took silent accounting of themselves.
She stroked Evelyn’s cheek. The girl’s eyes batted open, squinting in the sunlight.
“Wake up, hon,” Miriam whispered, shading her daughter’s eyes. “I need to sing today. Need those lovely old songs.”
They followed the twine back through the maze. Miriam caught Evelyn glancing at her arm. Miriam said nothing, tried to let her arm swing naturally.
“Why you walking like that?” her daughter finally asked. Evelyn stopped her, raised her sleeve. “Oh, Mama,” she said, passing a finger over, but not touching, the deep bruise across the back of her arm. “That from when you fell?”
Miriam didn’t answer.
“You need a doctor?”
Miriam eased down her sleeve. “You’ll take good enough care of me, won’t you, hon?” she asked Evelyn.
Her daughter’s brow furrowed, her eyes intently studying Miriam’s face. “You’re my mama,” she said. “What else would I do?”
They took the little car Miriam bought Evelyn for school. The sun already blazed, the heat wavering over the road. Miriam tried to breathe easy as they passed the end of their corn. Half a mile from there sat the McGahee place, a squat little house, its siding pissed with rust, its yard just weedy dirt and an old truck with high slatted sides. Miriam averted her gaze, feigning nonchalance and humming a tune until they slowed coming into town.
Evelyn rolled down her window. Miriam left hers up. Carts of melons and peaches were on display in front of Freely’s, the rest of the strip closed, and they eased up the hill and pulled into the church’s lot.
Krafton Baptist was a barn-style chapel with a high white steeple. Much of the town belonged as members, and this morning the pews were full. Faces turned as Miriam and Evelyn walked the side aisle, some smiling, others standing, reaching to shake Miriam’s hand. A murmur flitted through the sanctuary, Miriam nodding at folks, her hurt arm braced against her.
They sat in the third pew from the front, in what had been their usual spot beside Doctor Peterson, a bent old man in large black-rimmed glasses. He was retired now, but had been her mother’s doctor, her grandmother’s, as well.
“Well, I’ll be,” he said, soft and hoarse.
Miriam forced a smile.
“Good to see you,” he said. “Been too long, sister.”
Evelyn sat on the other side of Miriam. Sunshine through the stained-glass cast blue jeweled light over her. Miriam wished she was as gracious as her daughter, who’d run interference all this time, keeping the world at bay, taking the phone calls, greeting the well-wishers, as Miriam lay in bed with the shades drawn.
The organ burst into song. The congregation rose, and Pastor Hamby, a huge man in a red satin robe, ambled from the back of the sanctuary and up onto the dais.
“Peace be with you,” he said, holding high his Bible.
“Peace,” Miriam repeated, with the congregation.
Samuel Franklin stood in the front pew with the other deacons. Evelyn nudged Miriam and whispered for her to look at his neck. Charcoal smudges showed behind each ear. Evelyn giggled and Miriam whispered for her to hush.
Pastor Hamby preached from Second Thessalonians, a warning against idleness and being a burden onto others. “If a man will not work,” he boomed, “he shall not eat. To be concerned with the birth of a universe,” he said, dabbing his brow with a handkerchief, “is to divert from the birth of God, a seed taking root in the soil, a crop growing from pebbles then cutting it to a weasel’s shadow to feed the masses.”
His sermon ended with one of his poetic diatribes, charging that we not hide from God, but seek his face in the stars.
“Scientists say our universe is expanding,” he said. “And I’m fine with that. After all, would God’s universe be shrinking? So let’s think of pancake batter poured into a skillet, spreading to its edges. If our universe is spreading like batter, then what’s the skillet? I’m not a brilliant man. But I am a curious man. And I’m not afraid of questions, for all answers lead back to Him.” He pointed a finger skyward. “My faith’s in knowing the edges of our universe are the upturned palms of a benevolent God.”
Miriam imagined a palm filled with pancake batter. As the pastor said amen and the choir broke into “The Old Rugged Cross,” she could not find her voice to sing.
The deacons circulated the offering plates. When Samuel waited at the end of their row, Miriam watched his eyes. He glanced at her and scratched his neck. Before stepping to the next pew, he leaned forward, and whispered, “You two ought to grow up.”
The congregation released into the churchyard, folding tables set out for fellowship, kids playing kickball down in the willows. Everybody swarmed Miriam, saying how good it was to see her. Minny Tollefson said there was a hole in every song without her voice in the choir. Kelsy Upton invited them to a barbeque next Friday, to swim in their lake, play some bridge. Miriam drifted through them all, a bit bleary, like a curtain had been opened and she was suddenly onstage.
Walt Freely, mayor of Krafton and owner of the diner and grocery store, waved Miriam over. He sat, gray haired and frail, beside Doctor Peterson in the shade of an elm tree. His hand, shaking and spotted, took hold of Miriam’s fingers.
“Heard you cut a maze in your corn,” he said.
“Yes, sir.”
“How’s that?”
“Yes, sir,” Miriam said, louder.
He smiled. “I’ll bring the little ’uns out to see it.”
“No,” she said, more firmly than she intended.
He sat back a little.
She softened her tone. “It’s not for the public, Mr. Freely.”
He turned an ear to her. “How’s that?”
“It’s just for us,” she said, louder, trying to smile.
“I see.” He patted her hand. “Well, if there’s anything you need from the store, just call and we’ll bring it on out. The peaches are a wonder. Marilyn just made some pies. I want you to have one.”
She looked into his old eyes and wondered what he really thought, what he’d say once she was out of earshot. “Thank you,” she said. “I’ll stop and get one.”
A heavy arm dropped around her shoulders and there stood Pastor Hamby, in the brown western suit he often wore. “Lost chickadee’s come to roost,” he said. “How’s my Birdie?”
The smiling man, sweating and his cheeks red from the sun, looked as if he’d worked a day in the fields.
“Pastor,” Miriam said, “I need to speak with you.”
They stood within the shade of a willow tree, kids shrieking, playing ball just beyond the curtain of branches. Pastor Hamby stood before Miriam, bits of sunlight dappling his shoulders as he hunched beneath the limbs. “Been worried about you,” he said. “We all have.”
Miriam couldn’t look at him square.
“Stopped by a few times. I’m sure Evelyn told you.”
&nb
sp; The sun flashing through the ropy boughs, Miriam felt a tremor of nausea. “What you said about questions,” she blurted. She balled her fists, inhaled.
A red ball bounded beneath the branches and against Miriam’s leg. A boy, his white shirt untucked from his suit pants, burst in. The child jumped, startled, regarding them. Then he grabbed up the ball and dashed back out. Miriam eyed the spot where the boy had passed, watched the shadows of limbs sway in the dirt.
The pastor touched her elbow. “Why don’t you come tomorrow? We’ll go to the diner, have the whole morning to talk.”
Miriam’s mind whirled.
“What do you say, Birdie?”
She cradled her arm, struggling to gather her mind.
Pastor Hamby began to say something more. He tried a smirk. “We’d best get from under this tree before folks think we’re necking.” The pastor’s face fell grave. He glanced off through the branches toward the noise of the children.
Miriam nodded, releasing a long-held breath.
Miriam remained under the willow, fortifying herself. She pinched color back into her cheeks and rushed out, smiling at the kids playing ball, smiling as she passed through the tables, complimenting Janice Walters on her dress, telling Dona Jankovich her voice sounded lovely during the hymns. All along she scanned about for Evelyn, and found her talking to Samuel in the chapel’s vestibule.
Miriam smiled at Evelyn, at Samuel and Ed Macon, another deacon. She pulled a tissue from her handbag. “Your mama not teach you to wash behind your ears?” she said, and dabbed the smudges on Samuel’s neck.
Ed Macon laughed. “Take the farmer from the field, but can’t take the field from the farmer.”
Samuel pointed at Miriam. “I’m gonna get you.”
Miriam playfully swatted his finger.
“I invited Samuel for a picnic,” Evelyn said. “A peace offering.”
Miriam’s heart lurched. “Oh, no. Not today, hon.”
“Mama.” Evelyn gave her a look to say she was being rude.
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