The Last Ballad

by Wiley Cash

  “Okay,” Katherine said.

  “Because I think it’s important that we all do our part to help young people like Grace Ingle, young people who are doing everything in their power—” But his words trailed away and silence reclaimed the space where his voice had been. Katherine thought about the speech he had delivered as the doctored cakes were being served. When he’d been called to speak his face had turned slightly pink, flushed with either liquor or embarrassment, and when he stood he’d held the tips of her fingers in one hand and a flute of sparkling cider in the other. His speech had sounded like so much of what he was saying to her now—“When I think of today’s youth”—but Katherine had simply watched her husband speak as if he were on the other side of the glass dome that she now imagined had closed her off from the world. She could see him, but she wasn’t quite able to hear him.

  It wasn’t until much later in his speech that Richard had let go of her fingers and walked around to the other side of the table, where Claire and Paul were sitting.

  “And Claire,” he said, “you are the finest young person I’ve ever known. Your mother and I had only one child, and I cannot express to you how happy, proud, and thankful we are that that child is you.”

  As the audience broke into applause, Katherine had lifted her napkin to her eyes to hide her tears. Richard came back around the table and placed his hand on her shoulder, and then she felt his breath against her ear when he kissed the side of her face.

  The rain had begun to bead on her window, and Katherine listened as Richard resumed his talk about young people.

  “Not all of them will be able to afford college like we’ve afforded it,” he said. “No, they won’t all have dinners and parties and weddings like the one Claire and Paul are going to have.”

  It must have been his mention of her name that alerted Richard to the fact that their daughter was not with them. He turned and looked over his shoulder and saw that the backseat was empty.

  “Where’s Claire?”

  “Out,” Katherine said.

  “Out where?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Out. She wanted to be with Paul and her friends.”

  Richard sighed as if he were disappointed that it had only been Katherine and not Claire too who’d witnessed his second impassioned speech of the evening. He clearly had much to say about “today’s youth.”

  “You’d think she’d want a few more nights at home with us before the big day.”

  “Why would we think that?” Katherine asked. “Why? Her life is changing. It’s already changed. Everything is changing. Why doesn’t anyone understand that?”

  They passed the lake in the center of the village, the fountain at its middle pulsing with life. Across the water, the mill shone in the night like an enormous ship. Katherine thought of Edison’s Dynamo #31, its heart pumping mindlessly, giving life to it all.

  After these many years in McAdamville, she’d tired of the legend of Edison’s trip to the village, during which he’d personally installed the dynamo in the mill, and she reminded herself of all the other things Edison worked to invent: the telegraph, the lightbulb, the phonograph. She remembered reading that Edison had envisioned that his phonograph would be used to record messages, last wills and testaments, the voices of loved ones so they could speak to us for eternity.

  Katherine had been seven years old the first time she heard music on a phonograph. She and her father had been standing on the porch of Tipton’s Grocery back in Hickory when someone set up the player. Once the music began, a song called “Daisy Bell,” a crowd of people had gathered to listen. Katherine held her father’s hand, and with her other hand she held a cold bottle of limeade. A hen with several chicks scratched in the dirt just beyond the bottom of the steps. It was summer, dusty and dry. She watched the chicks and wanted to touch one of them, but she didn’t want to let go of her father’s hand, and she didn’t want to set the limeade on the porch floor for fear of it being overturned.

  Katherine closed her eyes and leaned her head against the car’s window and thought of the little girl she had been and considered how much of her life she would change if she could. What message would she record and leave behind for the little girl who would grow up to be her? Perhaps none of this will happen, Katie, she would tell her. Perhaps all of it will happen.

  Katherine opened her eyes, looked out at the dark, empty streets of McAdamville, saw the well-kept yards that fronted the small brick homes. Richard had always relished passing through the village at night when the streets were quiet. It allowed him to slow down and enjoy it without anyone witnessing his admiration of his own family’s legacy.

  “Perhaps we should’ve hosted tonight’s party here in McAdamville so the Lytles could see how the best mills are run,” he said. “And what the best mill villages look like.”

  They crested the hill above the village and followed the gravel driveway toward the old house, the few lights they’d left on winking at them through the wet trees. Richard pulled the Essex into the garage.

  Katherine let herself into the house through the back door and followed the long hallway past the kitchen and turned left into the sitting room. She turned on the light and kneeled before the cabinet atop which the phonograph sat. She opened the cabinet’s doors and thumbed through the many records they’d collected over the years. She found the one she was looking for, and she stood and took the stairs up to their bedroom. She heard the back door open and close. Richard’s footsteps echoed from the hallway below her.

  She leaned over the banister and called down to him.

  “Will you bring the phonograph upstairs and leave it in the bedroom?” she asked.

  Richard appeared at the bottom of the stairs and looked up at her. He’d removed his jacket and had folded it over his forearm.

  “Why?” he asked. “We’re about to go to bed.”

  “I want to hear music,” she said. He sighed and draped his jacket over the stair rail and walked into the sitting room. Katherine crossed the hallway and went into the bathroom. She set the record on the vanity and closed the door behind her.

  The rain had dampened her hair. It now lay flat against her forehead. She pushed it away from her eyes and removed the pins and allowed it to fall down around her shoulders. She ran a brush through it, and then she moved it behind her ears. She leaned toward the mirror and unscrewed the backs from her diamond earrings, all the while listening to Richard downstairs in the sitting room. He’d have to move the desk beside the cabinet to unplug the phonograph, and then he’d have to lift it. He was muttering something, but she didn’t want to hear him, so she turned the faucet and ran water in the sink.

  When she walked into their bedroom, she found Richard bent over and reaching behind the bureau to plug in the phonograph. He’d left it sitting atop a low dresser beneath the window. She slid the record from its sleeve and put it on. The sound of static was nearly indistinguishable from the light patter of rain against the window. The song’s opening notes filled the room.

  Here is a flower within my heart

  Daisy, Daisy

  Planted one day by a glancing dart

  Planted by Daisy Bell.

  Richard stood with his hands on his hips and stared at the phonograph.

  “What’s this?” he asked.

  “It’s an old song,” she said.

  “I know,” he said. “Why are you playing it?”

  “I was thinking of it tonight.”

  He smiled. “It was a great night, wasn’t it?” he said. “Quite a party.”

  “Yes,” she said. She lifted her right hand and unclasped the bracelet from her wrist and placed it in the jewelry box. She reached behind her head and fumbled with the clasp on her necklace. She felt Richard’s eyes on her.

  “Do you need help?”

  “No.”

  “Are you feeling all right?” he asked. “You’ve been quiet tonight.”

  “I’m fine,” she said. “Just tired.”


  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “You seem upset,” he said. “Is it Claire?”

  “I don’t know,” Katherine said, her fingers still struggling with the necklace.

  “Is it the wedding? Are you sad that our little girl is getting married in a few months?”

  “Of course I am,” she said. She finally unhooked the clasp. “But I’m not. I’m happy for her. For them. They’re a good match. He has a fine family.”

  “I suppose so,” Richard said.

  Katherine turned away from him and reached behind her back for the dress’s zipper. She felt Richard’s fingers close around hers, and she dropped her hands to her sides and let him unzip her.

  “Then what is it?” he asked.

  “Tonight,” she said, “I heard you talking with those men.”

  “Which men?”

  “Hugo Guyon and that other man,” she said. “I don’t know who he was.”

  “He’s an attorney,” Richard said. “For Loray.”

  “I heard you.”

  “What do you mean? What did you hear?”

  “They’d burned the cakes,” Katherine said. Across the room, their closet door was open, and she stared into it. Dresses and suits hovered there in the dark. “And Ingle called me into the kitchen. He was frantic.” The phonograph’s needle skipped and then caught.

  Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer, do

  I’m half crazy all for the love of you

  It won’t be a stylish marriage

  I can’t afford the carriage

  “Ingle didn’t want to serve the cakes,” she said, “but there wasn’t any time to bake more. I couldn’t find you to ask you, and I didn’t want to ask Claire because I didn’t want to upset her. I was trying to laugh at Ingle’s fussiness, but I didn’t want to do the wrong thing and ruin the night. I looked at the cakes and told him just to cut away the tops and frost them. And then I heard voices outside, and I heard your voice. You were talking about the strike.”

  “I’m sorry, Kate,” he said. “I didn’t mean for you to hear us. I was telling Guyon about what happened to the Lytles. I let him know that what’s happening down at Loray has upset a lot of people, Claire included.”

  “I heard what you said.”

  Her dress slid off her shoulders and fell down around her ankles. She stepped free of it and stood in her slip with her back to him.

  “What did I say?” he asked.

  “They were talking about the poor woman who’d lost her baby, the woman in Bessemer City. I don’t remember her name. You said that her son was better off dead, that she couldn’t take care of him anyway.”

  “Katherine, I said no such thing. You heard wrong.” His hand came down lightly on her bare shoulder. She flinched at his touch, as if his skin had become a dangerous thing. He cleared his throat, lifted his hand away from her.

  “It was your voice.”

  “I said no such thing.”

  “Who said it?”

  “I don’t even know what you’re talking about.” She heard him pulling at his tie.

  “And then what you said to Claire tonight, during your speech, about us having only one child.”

  Richard stopped moving. She could hear his breathing.

  “Katherine,” he said, his voice a whisper, “I didn’t mean it that way. She’s never known. We’ve never told her. What was I supposed to say?”

  “It made me think,” she said, but she stopped. Words tossed themselves through her mind; she picked up as many as she could and looked at them closely, then she set them back down and looked for others. “It’s just when you said that about the woman at Loray—”

  “I told you,” Richard said, his voice rising, “I didn’t say that.” He squeezed past her and disappeared into the closet. The light came on inside. She listened as he yanked at his tie again as if he struggled to remove it.

  “When I heard what you said about that poor woman, and then I heard what you said to Claire, it made me wonder if you thought that of me. If you thought that we lost the baby because I couldn’t care for him. If he was better off.”

  “No, Katherine,” Richard said from inside the closet. “Of course not. Of course I don’t think that. This whole thing has been taken out of context. This whole evening—” But he didn’t finish.

  The song ended, and without looking at the phonograph, Katherine lifted the needle and the song began again.

  Here is a flower within my heart

  Daisy, Daisy

  Planted one day by a glancing dart

  Planted by Daisy Bell.

  Richard reappeared from the closet wearing only his undershirt and shorts. He caught Katherine looking at him, at his body.

  “You’ve changed, Richard.”

  He looked down at himself, stared at his belly beneath the shirt. “I’ve gotten old, Kate. Everyone changes.”

  “That’s not what I mean,” she said. “I never notice your aging, but I’ve watched you change. You weren’t always who you are now.”

  “Who was I then?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Now you just seem so concerned, so goddamned concerned of what other people think of you.”

  “Katherine!” he said. His voice arched around her name because he’d never heard her speak this way, but she didn’t care. She couldn’t help it. “Really, Katherine?” he said. “Really?”

  “Yes, Richard,” she said. “It’s true. You’re just so goddamned concerned. I feel like I don’t know you, which is awful because the first time I ever saw you I felt that you were someone I’d always known.”

  “I felt the same way about you.”

  She didn’t want to recount the story because she knew it would hurt to do so, but she hoped it would hurt Richard too, this memory of who he’d been, of who she’d been, of who they both were before they were a couple.

  “David had told us about you in his letters, talked about you over Christmas, the last time he was home,” Katherine said. “And when we arrived at the university you’d already packed up all of his belongings.”

  “They asked me to do it because they wanted to move another boy into our room,” Richard said. “There was a wait list, but I kept the door locked when I wasn’t there. I didn’t want anyone else to touch his things.”

  Tears came into her eyes, and she wiped them away. She looked down at her hands, spun her wedding ring on her finger.

  “And you’d had all the boys sign his yearbook for us. And then you helped Father carry everything out to the carriage, and then you went inside for your coat and rode with us to the station.”

  “It was April,” Richard said. “And it had turned cold. I remember that the dogwoods had blossomed, and you were worried about them dying during the night.”

  “And at the station, you went out onto the train platform to see us off. I remember my father crying and you put your hand on his shoulder and said—”

  “‘The valiant never taste of death but once.’”

  “I thought it was so beautiful,” she said. “And so fitting, for David. All these years, I’ve never forgotten it.”

  “It was Shakespeare,” Richard said, “from Julius Caesar. I’d just heard it that morning in Professor Hume’s class. I’d memorized it because it made me think of David. I wanted to tell it to your father if I met him. I didn’t expect you. But I’d seen you in a photograph David had. I was so nervous in front of you. I’d rehearsed how to act in front of your father, but I didn’t know how to act when I saw you.”

  “You didn’t seem nervous,” she said.

  “I was.”

  “You seemed kind and generous and honest.”

  “Do I no longer seem that way to you?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t know what you seem like now.”

  She had turned to face the window. She stood there looking into her own reflection. They were both silent, although Katherine knew that one of them needed to say someth
ing to the other; but she could not think of what it would be. Richard stood by the closet. He walked across the room. She heard him step into the hall and go into the bathroom. He closed the door.

  “Daisy Bell” had ended and a new song, one she didn’t recognize, had begun. She lifted the arm on the player. The record continued to spin in near silence beneath her. She listened for Richard’s movements, but the only thing she could hear was the humming silence of the house, the soft patter of the rain. She imagined him inside the bathroom, standing with both hands on the vanity, his eyes looking at everything around him except his own face in the mirror. Was he listening for her as she listened for him?

  Katherine unmade the bed and picked up Richard’s pillow; then she opened the trunk that rested at the footboard and found a blanket. She set the pillow and the blanket on the floor in the hallway and closed the bedroom door.

  She crossed the room and stood before the window again, reached out, and turned off the lamp on the dresser. Her face in the window disappeared, although the hallway light from beneath the closed door threw a faint, ghostly outline of her body on the glass. She peered into the darkness, the record still spinning. There had been a time, when they were first married, that she could stand here and see all the way down into the village to the lake and to the mill beyond it. But now the trees were too tall and dense. It was late May, and had it been day she would have seen the bright green leaves and tiny red buds that clung to the limbs.

  But she was trying to see through the trees, past the limbs and leaves and buds, and into the mill village, where she knew a few last lights still burned in bedrooms and kitchens. She imagined a woman inside one of the millhouses peering through the rain toward the big house on the hill on the other side of the trees. A woman who was a mother just like Katherine—younger, perhaps, but a mother just the same. The woman stood, her fingers intertwined over her stomach just as Katherine had intertwined hers, her arms empty of the child or the children she birthed and raised and let go into the world, her womb empty of those children as well, but empty of something else too, something now lost and far away, something that felt forgotten by everyone but her and the other women who stood at windows on nights like these.