All That Lives

by Melissa Sanders-Self

  “Of course I do recall it.” Mother shook her head.

  “The Reverend wished to warn the parents …”

  “But Jack did not want to frighten the girls …” Mother and Calvin Justice stood silent a moment and their expressions told how they felt most painfully responsible. “God must have wanted her sweet voice in his choir of angels.” Mother sighed, choosing to attribute the tragedy to God’s will.

  “The funeral service is tomorrow at three. I must go and inform the Thorns.” Calvin Justice looked away down our path and I could tell his penance for himself was to carry the news through the district.

  “Thank you so much for coming. We shall attend the service.” Mother gently closed the door and I stood up, dropping my sewing to the floor.

  “I should have told her, Mother. I thought of it when I saw her at the schoolhouse.” I recalled with regret how my eyes had purposely avoided Amanda’s. I had been too embarrassed and uncertain to tell her my thoughts, yet now she was dead and the prediction had never been foremost in my mind. “How awful, I should have done something!”

  “Betsy, this did not occur because of anything you did or did not do. God must people his Heaven with some young souls.” She patted my back and tried to comfort me but I felt she too was upset. We stood and cried awhile together but soon crying caused Mother to cough and I insisted she lie down. I returned to busying my needle for the rest of the day and most of the next. I sewed until my thimble had rubbed a blister and it was time to attend Amanda’s funeral. It was Mother’s first outing since her pleurisy, and though I felt she was still too weak, she insisted on going.

  “Losing a child is the worst evil God suffers on the faithful,” she whispered into my ear while we stood in the graveyard behind the church. I knew some in the congregation had heard about the Being’s forewarning but out of kindness to the Ellisons’ grief and to our family, no one spoke cruelly about us, though I wondered what they were thinking. Did they know we had decided not to tell the Spirit’s prediction because we did not wish to scare the girls? Did they know we had not believed this tragedy would actually come to pass? Once again, because of our troubles, misery was unleashed in the world. Perhaps they thought Mr. Ellison ought to strike us with a red-hot poker from his forge, as the Spirit had everything to do with the witch creature heron and, thus, his daughter’s drowning. I bowed my head in prayer, exceedingly contrite, curious to know if I had experienced my knowledge differently, could poor Amanda still be living? At the time there had been so many odd occurrences, the thought of a witch creature drowning her and what I could do to prevent it had been impossible to ponder.

  When the Reverend pronounced Amanda laid to eternal rest, Mr. Ellison broke down in tears beside the grave.

  “Thou art a selfish God!” he cried, beating the ground with his fists.

  “Take Richard and Joel back to the buggy, Betsy,” Mother hissed into my ear, so I did not witness how the faithful managed to comfort him. I wanted to know what words they spoke to help him with his loss, for I wished to say them to myself.

  the unknown thrill

  By March the ground had thawed and it was time to turn the earth over and ready the fields for spring planting. The subject on everyone’s mind was how to grow a successful tobacco crop without Father. Dean and Mother knew all about the soil, the seedlings, and how best to grow the plants, and when John Jr. came home, as we hoped he would soon, he had knowledge of the harvest and the markets. Certain aspects of my life I had discovered to be easier since Father’s passing. It made me uncomfortable and I would not have confessed the truth to anyone, not even Josh, but I did not miss him lying down with me. I had seen Little Bright one day and called out hello to her, pleased Father could no longer object. Yet I was worried the farm could not be profitable without him and I missed his reassuring presence at our table.

  It felt odd, approaching our first season without Father’s dominant skills. The dawn arrived ever earlier and so increased my anxiety, but Drewry simply rose with it. He left the house each morning with his gun and his woolen coat, hoping he might shoot a wild boar or turkey on his way to meet Dean in the fields. He saw the ox team hitched to the iron plow and driven nearly all day for a week of the spring weather, so soon every field had been plowed up and over, leaving mountains of red earth behind for the slaves to shape into rows and plant with seedlings.

  “Let’s play plow blade towns again.” Joel turned to Richard at the breakfast table, certain he had a willing partner for his game. Each day since the plowing had begun, the boys had come home with dreadful cakes of mud on their woolen stockings. Mother had Chloe wash them out at night and hang them by the fire all evening so they could dry for the next day, and our house strongly smelled of rich red earth.

  “When will John Jr. return?” I asked Mother, for I felt he knew the most about how Father conducted business.

  “Yes, John Jr….” Mother allowed herself to dreamily not answer my question or finish her sentence as she sipped her tea. I wondered if this was the effect of the milkweed and butterfly root. She seemed truly calmer and more relaxed than ever before in a way that concerned me greatly. How could she be so secure? I thought we might soon be on the brink of financial distress without Father. I could easily imagine the evils of poverty, all I had to do was picture Old Kate’s farm, but Mother appeared confident on all aspects of Father’s business.

  “Don’t you worry, Betsy.” She shook her head and reached to pat my hand, and despite the fact I knew she was growing stronger every day, I noticed the blue veins rose high on the backs of her fingers, and I worried further. “There will be no trouble with the crops,” she reassured me. “Dean has the knowledge and the know-how.”

  “And the shoes!” Drewry smiled across the table, for he was well aware of the good feeling she had created amongst the hands, having provided them with boots.

  “Perhaps today I will put on a smock and venture out for a look-see at the state of my garden.”

  “Do not go out too soon, Mother, for a chill remains in the air,” I cautioned her. Since Amanda Ellison’s funeral we had successfully kept Mother at home, but as the winter days gave over to spring, she grew most anxious to work outdoors.

  “Elizabeth, I am now blessed and warmed by the fruits of summer, but if I wish to grow my own, I must soon direct the pruning, for the time to do it has nearly passed me by.”

  “Have Chloe stay with you and carry the clippers,” I advised, for I knew she was still weak.

  “Miss Betsy,” Mother laughed, “thank you for your kind concern, but I believe I am wise to my own condition.” Her laughter caused her to cough a little and she grew serious with me. “You have suffered enough, dear girl; the loss of your father topped with the anxiety of nursing your mother, and the absence of your oldest brothers. I know you are frightened by the knowledge of all that has come before now.” She paused and I could tell she meant the Spirit and its unpredictable horrors. “But you must strive to keep your thoughts on tomorrow, for therein lies your opportunity to better the days, each as they pass.”

  “I do try, Mother.” I felt as worried as before.

  “Of course you do, Betsy.” We sat in silence for a moment and then Mother smiled again, observing me. “The Easter holiday fast approaches, and ’tis your birthday before that, in just three weeks’ time. Would you like to have a luncheon party?”

  “I could invite Thenny and Becky Porter …”

  “Chloe and I could bake a molasses and caramel cake for you.” Mother was most girlish and I recalled her face during the summer at the dance when she’d coaxed Father to his feet. “What a good suggestion, I must say, even though it was my own. It is hard to believe you are near fourteen already.”

  “Near fourteen, but this past year seems to have contained more than a lifetime of experiences.”

  “Dear child, I know how you must think it is, but older and wiser as I am, I tell you true, God willing, you have much still to experience in your years ah
ead.” Mother rose from the table and took her cup to the kitchen, and I retired to the parlor, for all I wished to do was sew the tiny stitches into the pleats of my dress. I spent the remainder of the day and a good many more sewing away, and I did make fair progress.

  The night before my birthday, a storm blowing from the south sent great clouds rolling over our house and a downpour fell, lasting all the dark hours, so we slept to the rush of wind through the tree branches and the pattering of rain on the roof and windows. When I woke early, a bright sun teased my ceiling and, looking out my window, I saw steam rising in wisps off the ground, bringing to my mind the picture of angels ascending to Heaven in droves. I opened my window and smelled the rich red dirt and the bark of the trees loosening their sap for growing, and I recognized the delicious odor of the world returned to life.

  I put on my oldest plain cloth dress, one I had nearly outgrown, choosing it because it did not matter how dirty it became. I grabbed my boots and ran downstairs and through the kitchen without stopping to check on Mother, to have breakfast, or say good morning to Chloe. I felt possessed with urgency of movement, compelled to be part of the beauty. I ran through the shrub of Mother’s perennial herbs, successfully wintered over, through her fallow garden plot and out into the orchard, where the purple bark of the plum trees shone like the skin of the Spirit’s cherries. Tiny pink blossoms and new green leaves steamed everywhere over my head, undaunted by pruning. I raced down the hill, behind the stable and past the dairy house and on, and by the time I reached the first planting field, I was completely out of breath.

  My chest heaved and I was warm inside my coat. Hastily I shed my jacket and hung the winter garment on the post marking the boundary of the field. They had plowed it yesterday and puddles gleamed in the paths. I climbed up to sit on the fence and soak up the sun so I might steam to Heaven also, for there is nothing so tantalizing as a spring chill burned away by the Tennessee sun.

  I wanted to remove my boots and go barefoot in the red mud, splashing in the new puddles as Richard and Joel would have done, had I bothered to fetch them along, so I balanced on the fence and untied my shoes without further thought. I felt the wood of the split log fence fairly icy under my bare toes, and I shivered. Hoisting my skirt up to my knees, I jumped.

  The red mud was delightfully squishy, warm and cold at once, and so smooth it made me squirm. I stood in a clear puddle and saw the sparkling sun reflected as a million jewels of light behind my head. I wiggled my toes breaking the water apart into many fractured pieces, then I waited, still in the center, until the image formed again. At the bottom of the pool the mud oozed and I felt the small pulsations of worms crawling under my heels. I thought of Father in the field; these worms make our soil the richest in the district. A wind blew through the newly leafed trees and the steam off the ground rushed over me like a passing cloud.

  Oh that I had some secret place where I might hide from sorrow;

  Where I might see my Savior’s face, and thus be saved from terror.

  Oh had I wings like Noah’s dove, I’d leave this world and Satan;

  And fly away to realms above, where angels stand inviting.

  The Being sang like a choir, from all sides of the field,with many harmonies, and when it had finished, all the birds in the trees nearby were inspired to try their own songs. I had a strong sense that something good and wonderful and important might happen, but I wasn’t sure what it would be. At the very least I was a year older! I dug my toes deeper in the muck. A meadowlark in a tree nearby began to sing alone, heavily influenced by the Being. I jumped from my puddle to the next one in the row, then on, from puddle to puddle, until I had splashed to the end where I turned back, to splash down the next row. Even though it was my birthday, I thought Chloe might be annoyed about the mud accumulating on the edge of my petticoat but I couldn’t stop until my skirt was wet and dripping and my feet tingled, almost numb. I decided I had best put my boots and coat back on and return for breakfast.

  “What does possess you, Miss Betsy?” Mother was at the table in her nightdress when I arrived back home.

  “It was so lovely, Mother! The mist appeared like angels on their way to Heaven.”

  “In good time and God willing we will all get there.” Mother spread blackberry jam on Chloe’s morning biscuits. “After I have dressed and you have had your breakfast we will wash your hair and body, for you are not wearing your beautiful dress with mud covering your feet.”

  We had just put the final stitches in the lace of my dress the day before. I hurried through my meal and helped bring water from the stream for Chloe to boil on the stove. Mother decided I should have my bath in the kitchen so Chloe stoked the woodstove high until the room was heated to summertime temperatures. Mother filled the tub and I dipped my hair in the water and remained bent over while Mother wove soap and lather through it with her capable hands. I loved the gentle touch of her hair washings when done for cleansing and not for killing lice. With my head upside down, I saw two yellow balls plop into the tub and the warm water splashed into my eyes.

  Cut the lemons and pour the juice in her hair.

  “Oh, thank you!” Mother appreciated the Spirit’s gift, for though she used lemons in the summer to part the tangles and add the shine, in my birthday season they were a rarity.

  “I will squeeze ’em down, Miz Lucy.” Chloe finished straining the juice just as Mother finished pouring the rinse water over my head.

  “Close your eyes,” she warned me, and I felt the cold tickle and smelled the tart juice of the lemons running over my scalp. She rinsed it once more, then Mother had me dry my head, and sit in the chair. Her wooden comb slipped easily through my wet locks, the strands separating like threads in the loom.

  “Open up the door, Chloe, for it looks to be a lovely day outside.” With the door open I could see into Mother’s garden where the sky was blue and bright with spring sunshine and all the trees of the orchard had opened their blossoms delighting in the onslaught of buzzing bees and pale new butterflies.

  “It is near time for your friends to arrive. Go and dress, Miss Betsy, for Chloe and I must ready the table.” I jumped with excitement from the chair, happy my special day was to be so beautiful.

  Thenny and Becky arrived together, accompanied by their mothers, and I greeted them in the hall.

  “Betsy, how it does become you!” When I heard Thenny compliment the job I had done on my dress, I knew she was sincerely impressed.

  “Will you turn a circle, slowly?” Becky did not remove her coat before expressing her admiration. “In France there can be none finer!”

  “ ’Tis so, because our Betsy is here.” Mother joined in the compliments.

  “May I?” Becky ran her hand along the bodice seam admiring the tailored fit I had achieved. All my other dresses were the old style, the bodice done up in smocking or darted pleats, but this one had a smooth fit across my bosom, and the lace Mother had made was featured prominently at the edges.

  “How ever did you make the pattern for it, Lucy?” Mrs. Thorn was an excellent seamstress and was interested in the new style. “So many tiny pleats.”

  “I shall show you the paper after our meal, Helen,” said Mother, promising to give her the secret.

  We moved into the dining room and my hem swayed like a bell over my petticoats, exactly as Mother had promised it would. I felt very proud to have made it myself. We sat at the dining table laid with a brocade cloth and Mother’s special china. Chloe served cold sliced ham, wild turkey, hot corn biscuits, grits and beans, and the conversation divided into two, one amongst the mothers, of dress styles and fashions from the French Almanac, and one amongst us girls.

  “Betsy, last week when lessons started up again Josh Gardner came to the schoolhouse each day his responsibilities allowed, his only hope that you would be present. He told me so. He is for certain sweet on you.” Thenny went straight to the heart of every matter and Becky giggled, keeping her eyes riveted to my response. I felt my
face grow hot.

  “Thenny!” I admonished her presumptive nature but I could not keep from smiling.

  “It’s true, you love him.” Becky squeezed my arm. “You are the perfect coupling of souls and temperament.”

  “ ’Tis certain!” Thenny grinned as if she’d made the match herself. “Ask your mother if you might go walking with him on the Saturday before Easter.”

  “ ’Tis the traditional day for the Lovers Promenade.” Becky held her hand up to her mouth as she pronounced the word Lovers and giggled after.

  “Pray, tell us what causes your amusement, girls?” Mother turned to us.

  “ ’Tis your daughter, Mrs. Bell. She wishes to ask if she might promenade with her beau, Josh Gardner, on the Saturday before Easter.”

  “Thenny Thorn!” Mrs. Thorn and I together called her name with indignation.

  “I said no such thing!” I objected.

  “That’s all right, Betsy, I do give my permission.” Mother smiled sweetly at me, and Thenny clapped her hands, excited, her purpose accomplished.

  “I have a present for you.” Thenny jumped up and left the table returning with a parcel wrapped in thin fine paper I recognized as off the oranges in her father’s store. I was slightly annoyed with her for arranging my affairs, but I tried to be gracious, unwrapping the present carefully, discovering a length of blue satin ribbon.

  “ ’Tis the color of the flowers on my dress!” I was pleased with it.

  “Mother and I thought you might use it for a bonnet.” Thenny was unusually demure.

  “How pretty, thank you.” I kissed Thenny on the cheek for her kindness.

  “We brought a little something too.” Becky withdrew a beautiful paper fan from the pocket of her skirt.

  “How lovely.” I inhaled the finely carved sandalwood, opening it wide. “I adore it!” I stood and held it mysteriously below my eyes, strutting across the dining room to the hall and back, pretending I was a great lady with my swaying skirts and elegant fan.