The Solace of Water

by Elizabeth Byler Younts

She shook her head.

  “I got his dirt.”

  She looked confused.

  “I put a bunch of handfuls of dirt in my purse.” When I said it I shook my head and let out a little embarrassed laugh. But you couldn’t admit that you put dirt in a purse without thinking how that might sound. “I just wanted his dirt to come with me. Something from him.”

  “Does it help?”

  I don’t know how to answer her, so I don’t.

  “I got a letter from my sister today,” I said without thinking and wished I’d just answered her dang question instead. I pulled out the picture that was inside. “This was with it.”

  I handed it to her. She looked at it long and hard and I appreciated that.

  “The flowers are beautiful.” She handed it back to me.

  I slid it into my pocket without a glance. I’d already cried over every detail of the picture earlier.

  “Is that picture what’s on your mind today?” Emma asked innocently.

  I looked at her with my lips all buttoned up.

  “You said we’re friends.” Her voice, again, was so opposite of mine. Her words come out like vapor in the air and mine were like a whole waterfall coming out all at once with some force I didn’t often control.

  She was right and if I wanted to be friends I’d have to make an effort. But it was about stuff that folks like me got to think on, and I don’t know any white folks who wanted to talk about how we was fighting against their laws and ways. But Emma did have a different way about her.

  “Deborah wrote about the bus boycott. Many from my church are getting involved and following the good Reverend King.”

  She looked more confused now than before.

  I told her about Rosa Parks and about how we were fighting against the segregation of the public bus system. How we were driving around on our own and how hard it was to figure out how to get from here to there. I told her that Reverend King was a good man and he was strong and fighting for colored rights and he got a peaceful way about it too. When I told her how this wasn’t just about buses and how every place we went was designated for whites or coloreds, she shook her head.

  “It’s like another world to me.” I believed her. “We are so far away from all of that here.”

  I raised an eyebrow at her. She thought we was so far away but we got our own problems in this backward town. “You think so?”

  “I’ve never seen signs on the doors like that.”

  “They do it without signs here, Emma.” I tried to keep my voice even. “I can’t buy or even touch the produce from your section. They told me to use the grocery buggies that the whites don’t use. The dentist don’t see none of us. Did you know that? And there are a whole heap of lies going around about the Carter boy.”

  There was more, but I wasn’t sure how much more she could handle. She was a naive one, this woman.

  Emma looked down at her hands and after a time I thought I should get up and leave her to think on things. Then she spoke.

  “I don’t know how to change any of that or about boycotts. All of these things are . . .” She paused like she was searching for a word. Then she looked up at me. “I know it’s not right. But I don’t know what to do.”

  We both released a sigh.

  “But I will promise to stand by you.”

  EMMA

  It was a muggy late Monday afternoon when a knock came to my door. Maybe it was Sparrow coming after all. It had rained all day, and when Sparrow hadn’t come this morning, I didn’t want to do anything. I decided not to even do laundry. I didn’t care anymore. I missed her and she hadn’t been coming as often, though Deedee and I had begun to build the sort of friendship I had never had before.

  I set down my sewing and rubbed out some of the day’s aches from my hands as I walked to the door. When I reached for the knob, the knock came again. It wasn’t Sparrow. She always knocked twice. Short and light. These three bold knocks came steady against our solid wood door.

  “Hello, Mrs. Mullet,” said the deep and smooth voice of Malachi Evans when I opened the door. He was wearing dress slacks and a collared shirt with the sleeves rolled up. The forward-tilted hat looked more formal than his clothing, but I liked it. He smiled and his face was so pleasant I smiled back. His skin was darker than Deedee’s and Sparrow’s and his eyes shone even brighter. I liked him.

  I looked over his shoulder and saw an old truck in the drive. “I didn’t hear you drive up.” I opened the door farther. “Come on in.”

  “I’m wet, ma’am.” He chuckled as he pointed to his shoes. “Out here is just fine.”

  Relief settled over me. I didn’t know how to be alone with a man who wasn’t my husband. And John would not approve.

  “I just put water on for coffee. I’ll bring some out.”

  “That’s mighty kind of you. Thank you.” He gave me a smile so genuine and so like young Harriet.

  As I made the coffee, I left the door open as he stood on the porch.

  He yelled through the door things that I never heard from my Amish friends. What a nice house we had and how nice the woodwork was. Of course, to me Amish homes often looked much the same. Some were bigger than others, but communities often had similar cabinetry, tables, flooring, furniture, and curtains. Even the dishes we used were similar.

  I wasn’t used to hearing words like that about my home so I wasn’t sure what to say. As a little girl I once said how much I liked my cousin’s new bed my uncle had made for her. My mother scolded me, telling me that compliments like that caused pride. That we needed to see where God was in the beautiful things of the world, not man-made beauty.

  Maybe not at age ten, but over the following years I thought about how God had made my uncle and he was a fine carpenter. Wasn’t that praising God by admiring my uncle’s work? But that was not the way we lived as a church. Being uniform and consistent was our way, with solemnity and not showiness.

  “Did your husband build this house?” Malachi asked through the open door, breaking my thoughts. “I’m so used to smaller city houses, living in Montgomery. These big, beautiful farmhouses are like a whole different world. Just beautiful.”

  I cleared my throat when I heard that word. Beautiful. I’d never described any part of my life that way.

  “Thank you,” I said, trying not to sound proud. I poured two mugs of coffee. “John, my husband, didn’t build the house; he bought it. He did put up the barn though.”

  I walked onto the porch and he took one of the mugs from me. The whir of the rain was our backdrop and made the several long moments of silence okay. My hands clutched my mug as I sat across from him on the porch swing. My toe started moving my weight on the swing forward and back. I sipped the hot dark liquid and so did Malachi. Why had he come to my home?

  “My oldest son, Malachi Jr.—Mallie—you’ve met him?” He raised his eyebrows.

  “Yes.”

  “He wants to be baptized.”

  All of this was so unusual. First, a Negro preacher was at my doorstep, and second, while I knew his family, I did not know him. He seemed to be here with something to say. I was sure he would say that he had learned of all the time Sparrow was spending at the house and that he didn’t approve, but instead he brought up his son. And baptism?

  I must have shown confusion.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Mullet.” He moved up to the edge of his chair, sitting erect and looking right into my eyes.

  “Emma, please.”

  “Emma. I’m confusing you, I realize. Here’s why I came. I wanted to see if we could use your pond for the baptism. There are several others in my church, besides my son, who want to be baptized. None of my members have a pond or a deep enough river on their properties, and because of everything that’s going on right now, we would rather not use public property.”

  “You need that much water?” I asked before I thought. We used less than a cup for each person, not a whole pond full. And Mallie was so young. Our members had to be at least sixt
een to join, but it was more common to be older than that.

  “We baptize the way Jesus was baptized.” His eyes were so bright, I’d never seen the likeness.

  The baptism of Jesus was never referenced when our youth were baptized, but I had heard the story. There had been a voice from heaven. There had been a dove. The man had buried Jesus under the water and brought Him back up. It didn’t resemble the baptism I’d had or that our church practiced.

  “When?” I took a sip of my coffee and considered this.

  “In a few weeks, maybe a month?”

  Of course I would say yes. There was no reason not to. However, the church and John were nervous about any ties to their community because of the current issues. Our preachers did not understand everything that had occurred between the white and Negro Englishers, but they wanted us to stay far away from all of it.

  If they came while we were attending church, it could work without John even knowing—or the church. It was best left to the bishop or my husband to answer, but I chose to give him my own instead.

  “Sure. In four weeks would work.”

  We would not be home that morning.

  “Sister Emma, I really appreciate this.” He leaned forward and the eagerness on his face couldn’t be hidden.

  Sister Emma brought an unusual feeling to me. Like he accepted me.

  The clip-clop of a horse’s hooves could be heard coming down the road. John and Johnny. The rain started to fall slower, but my heart did the opposite and began to race.

  “Everything all right, Ms. Emma?”

  “My husband. You need to go.”

  He didn’t say anything but handed me his mug and ran to his truck. He pulled out fast and I wondered how he understood without me saying much. John would’ve seen him pull out since his buggy was in the driveway a moment later.

  I washed Malachi’s mug, dried it quickly, and put it away. I put the potatoes I’d peeled on the stove to boil, then pulled out the ground beef to make gravy. It was ten minutes before they both came inside.

  “Who was here?” John asked before he even had his coat off.

  I heard Johnny move off to his room quickly.

  “What?” I kept my back to him and stirred the gravy more than needed.

  “There was a truck that pulled out. An old one.” He was closer now but still at arm’s length.

  “Oh, that. Just someone new to the area—just stopped to ask a few questions.” I closed my eyes for a brief moment and hoped my lie of protection would work and could be forgiven. It was partially true. I held my breath. I took the gravy off the hot part of the stove and then drained the potato water. My hands were busy enough that he wouldn’t notice I was shaking.

  “Was it one of those Negroes?”

  I nodded. I did my best to pretend there was nothing to be concerned over by grabbing the potato masher and turning to the counter. “The bishop just said not to get involved with the town’s issues. He didn’t say we couldn’t be kind and neighborly.”

  He turned me around to face him, grabbed my arms, and backed me up against the stove. I dropped the masher and tried to stay on my feet. My palms sizzled on the stove top and I screamed. Even though I lifted them the pain consumed me.

  “This isn’t about them—or the bishop. I can’t, you can’t—” He couldn’t finish any of his thoughts through my scream.

  “My hands,” I cried. “My hands.”

  Something in his eyes changed and he let go. Instinct brought my hands forward. The burns were bad. John’s eyes grew larger. He looked at his own palms at the same time and backed away from me.

  “Vas hap ich geduh?” He questioned himself about what he’d done as he stared at his hands. Then he peered up at me and he couldn’t catch his breath. “Emma?”

  I couldn’t do anything but hold my hands out in front of me. He turned to the sink, but the water from the spigot only trickled. It would take several long minutes for the generator to force more water through our pipes. He grabbed me by the wrists and pulled me to follow him. He took me to the pump, but the bucket that hung there was hungry for water. He groaned.

  “What are you doing?”

  He gathered me in his arms like I was a small child and ran with me to the pond. He was out of breath when we reached the small shore, and he sat me down and scooped the cool water and splashed it over my hands. Over and over. We were both soaked. His breathing was heavy and he didn’t say a word.

  The pond water soothed the burns, but my skin was already white and red and raising into blisters. Then he looked around and in a moment he was gone. With the lack of constant cool water over my burns, they heightened in temperature. Where had John gone?

  He returned with a broadleaf plantain. I had no idea he’d ever paid any mind to what I had used to help with bites and burns over the years. He broke off strips of the wide green leaf and folded and bit them, releasing the juices, and with careful hands laid the paste on my shaking, upturned hands. The act was so intimate my heart thudded.

  Then we sat together, my palms still turned up and burning, though there was some improvement. We were both soaked and dirty, sitting on the shore of our pond. The rain was a drizzle now and the sky hung low and gray. The insects and frogs started to chirp.

  “Forgive me,” he said and his breaking voice filled the space around us.

  My jaw clenched. I could not forgive him.

  He repeated his words with weeping and continued his pleading for forgiveness.

  I still could say nothing. How could I forgive him?

  “I don’t want to be this man,” he sobbed. “It was just one time I had too much because I was angry about something at work. It wasn’t even anything important.”

  I turned toward him. I’d never heard any of this.

  “That was the night you went into labor,” he cried. “I couldn’t help you because I was so drunk and see what happened? I couldn’t look at you anymore. I was so guilty—then I couldn’t stop.”

  He wiped his face with his shirt and sniffed. He looked at me for a good long while and then walked away. I stared straight ahead. I could hear him walk through the yard and then I heard the basement door open. Did he want forgiveness for all that he’d done? Or for what he would continue to do? Did he want forgiveness for his temper or for his drunkenness? Was he going to come back into our bedroom drunk and blame me for pushing him into hurting me?

  “Mem?” Johnny walked up behind me.

  I turned. He looked like a grown man to me now. Not a sixteen-year-old boy. He helped me up. He didn’t ask me what happened but just helped me walk to the house.

  As we got closer we heard John. We stopped. The sounds of crashing and yelling were deafening over the din of the evening noises that continued to grow louder.

  I didn’t say anything to Johnny but urged us to continue walking.

  “Are you going to do something?” my son asked.

  “No.”

  SPARROW

  I was way over a hundred taps under the water in the bathtub. I opened my eyes and saw the ripples on top of me. Almost like I was buried in water instead of under the dirt. It was peaceful under here. Granny was buried now but Mama and I didn’t go. I had heard Mama and Daddy arguing over it. Mama won. I didn’t even have to ask. I just told them I wasn’t going. Nobody cared about me anyway. I didn’t cut myself because I kept thinking about seeing Johnny on Sunday and how I told him I’d stop hurting myself.

  The next Sunday morning I sat on the side of Johnny’s pond in the warm and heavy air. The house was dim, unlit from the inside. I imagined him moving about to come meet me. Hoping. My stomach swirled. I had beat the sunrise. But even when the sunrise eventually came, Johnny didn’t. This was the second time he hadn’t come. Not since the Sunday he kissed me.

  I looked around for something to cut with, but I didn’t have nothing. I banged my head with the heel of my hand as hard as I could. It didn’t cover up the hurt for Johnny missing two Sundays. It didn’t give me no rel
ief. It didn’t leave a scar. I needed to see what I done. Like a notebook on my skin of all the sad I got inside. So I ran home. I would find something there.

  But Daddy woke up before I could do anything and hugged me good morning. I pinched the soft part of my underarm all through church though. That hurt got to count for something, don’t it?

  But it kept coming to mind about how I would mark myself for Carver. How that mark couldn’t just be some cut on my leg or slapping and pinching myself or the stinging nettles. Because of the hurt I done, that mark would be deeper.

  Later in the week I was supposed to be watching the little children in the backyard. Mama was with Emma. The kids were playing like they just got nothing to think about. I don’t want to hate them but I kinda do—a little anyway. They don’t know hurt. They will keep forgetting Carver too. But they won’t ever forget what I done.

  Ain’t nobody watching me so I started walking away from home going toward town. The same way I walked when I got drenched in mud-puddle water and when I got them groceries for Granny. I got through the white neighborhood. The door was open to Pretty’d Up Salon, and when I walked by I heard them laughing like they was having the best time.

  I passed Coleman’s Grocery. Mr. Coleman didn’t wave or smile— but I knew he saw me. At the butcher that big man was barking at his worker about the meat being cut too thick. I whispered the word cut. A lady walked by me and scowled and pulled her daughter closer. I didn’t even care.

  I kept walking until I found myself standing in front of the lumberyard where Johnny worked. A loud bell rang out and little by little men started milling around. Some of them were Amish like Johnny but most weren’t. Ain’t none of them like me though. None that I saw anyhow. They had their lunches and laughs and conversations. Didn’t even notice me.

  Then I saw Johnny. He was walking with a few others who weren’t Amish. His eyes glanced over to where I stood. I could see his confusion even at a distance.

  I waved at him, then realized what I’d done and knew right away that I shouldn’t have.

  His expression went from confusion to something else. His eyes darted back and forth from the group around him. Then I saw Arnold. He grabbed Johnny’s shoulder and pointed at me and let out a loud holler. I tucked myself out of sight. What had I done?