by Vicki Lane
The Burying Ground
Tuesday, May 1
Today me and Luther put an end to that girl. All that was left of her is under the talking oak at the yon side of the burying ground. Luther said that it must be so and he ast that I give my solum promiss never to speak that name no more nor to think on them other things. And he give me this new book to write in and said that I must burn the old ones. We got all our life ahead says he—a fine new begining and when you got a mess a young uns about the place youll fergit all this hateful bizniss.
As her finger traced the straggling words, Birdie Gentry’s lips moved silently. The pages of the composition book were yellowed and crisp with age but the words, penciled in childish printing by a determined hand, were clear. The old woman read on.
I’ll not be sorry to fergit that poor crazy girl and what she done—but…Dark scribbling blacked out several lines before the printing continued. There, I like to brok my solum promis alredy. So insted Ill write of the fine new house Luther is naming to build for us down near the road where the sun shines all day and ther aint all these old dark trees that moans in the night wind. Luther has already cut and hauled the timber—
The abrupt brrr of the telephone sounded from the living room. Birdie closed the journal and laid it gently atop a stack of similar books then, moving slowly, she pulled herself up and began to hobble toward the other room in response to the insistent ring, muttering as she went.
“I’m a-coming, you worrisome thing! Holler all you want to, this ol’ arthuritis won’t let me move no faster,”
“No, Dor’thy, I cain’t do it. I made a solemn promise and I’ve held to it, all these years. But I’ll help you any way I can, ’ceptin’ fer that. Tell me, have you heared atall from the young ‘un since she took him away?”
The voice on the telephone grew louder and more agitated and Birdie listened without further comment, only shaking her head in sympathy with her cousin’s lamentations. Finally she broke in.
“Dor’thy, you and me both know Prin ain’t a fit mother. But if the Social Services lady ain’t goin’ to…Now, don’t take on so…we’ll find us a way to git Calven back to you. I’ll think on hit and pray on hit too…. Yes, I name to go up to the cemetery this evenin’, soon’s I have my bite of lunch. I’m a-goin’ to pick up all them ol’ wore-out flower arrangements and such and make the place look nice afore Bernice’s boy comes to weed eat round the stones…. Naw, they ain’t no need fer you to come…”
At last the call drew to a close. Birdie replaced the receiver and sat motionless on the edge of her chair, her mouth pursed as she struggled to order her thoughts. Finally she roused herself and reached for the Bible lying on the crocheted doily by the telephone. Placing the book in her lap, she laid her outspread hands on the worn black leather and whispered, “I cain’t do it without You help me, Lord…. In Thy Holy Name, I ask it.”
Closing her eyes, she waited, head cocked as if listening to a distant voice. Then, eyes still shut, Miss Birdie cracked the Bible. One hand, index finger extended, hovered briefly in the air above the open book then fell like a stooping hawk to rest on the words below.
Birdie opened her eyes and peered at the verse her finger had singled out. Frowning, she adjusted her glasses.
“Zechariah 4:10, is it? ‘For who hath despised the day of small things?’” The old woman leaned closer to the Book. “Lord, You ain’t speakin’ very clear today. But my finger was touchin’ on some of the ninth verse too…let me see…‘and thou shalt know that the Lord of hosts hath sent me unto you’…”
Birdie lifted her head to fix the ceiling of her living room with a bright blue gaze. “Well, who you goin’ to send me, Lord?”
The hickory staff dug neat pockmarks in the hard red earth as Birdie made her way along the path that wound up the wooded slope. Dangling from the crook of her elbow, a pair of black plastic garbage bags provided a rustling accompaniment to the brief huffs of her breath and the steady thump of her footfalls. The narrow, little-used trail ran beside a rusted barbed wire fence that marked the upper limits of an overgrown field thick with locust and poplar saplings amid brambles. A bright clump of coral-red fire pinks at the foot of a gray leaning post caught her attention and elicited a nod but Birdie kept on, following the trail into the woods.
In the dappled shade beneath the new-leafed trees, whole colonies of trillium, both white and pink, carpeted the rich mountain soil, while along the banks of the rocky stream, lavender phacelia and wild geraniums danced against the stern gray boulders. Beyond the tumbling froth of water the deeper purple of dwarf iris and wild larkspur dotted the steep wooded slope.
Birdie stopped, leaning on her staff and breathing in the rich woodland smell. They’s some things don’t change, thank the Lord. That fine loamy smell of the dirt and the clean mint smell of the branch and the songs the water sings as it goes a-hurryin’ to the river and the birds calling out and the wind a-stirrin’ the trees. Hit’s all the good things of life itself. I pity the city folks ain’t never been in a mountain cove in May time.
She stood a few minutes longer in rapt appreciation then, mindful of her purpose, resumed the climb. Soon the path curved to the right and a few more minutes brought her into a small clearing. A log barn topped by a rust-red tin roof stood below a line of dark hemlocks that swayed in the freshening breeze. Nearby, a lone fieldstone chimney stood amid a thicket of well-grown locust trees stood. Two lichen-crusted apple trees lifted twisted branched beyond a row of ancient looming boxwoods and Birdie’s nose wrinkled as the shrub’s characteristic aroma reached her. Whyever You come to make them bushes smell like an ol tom-cat’s been a-sprayin’ em, I do not understand, Lord. Was it me, I believe I’d a found a nicer smell. Reckon hit’s just another one of them mysterious ways of Yourn Preacher’s allus talkin’ about.
Birdie gave a quick glance at the chimney. For a few seconds her sharp eyes followed the faint trace of a path leading from near the old chimney into the hemlocks. She stood bemused, lost in her thoughts and memories. Then, recollecting herself, she turned away to follow the upward trail into the first of a series of old fields. Let it go. Atter all these years, cain’t you let it go? The words were a drum beat and her steps kept time. Let-it-go. Let-it-go.
As she climbed the old woman could see dark clouds gathering above the scrub-filled abandoned fields. She could scent the coming rain but still she continued her slow, purposeful progress to the family burying ground atop the hogback ridge. Let-it-go. Let-it-go.
At the summit Birdie paused briefly to catch her breath. Around her, gravestones and markers of all sorts and ages dotted the gentle crest of the ridge. Ignoring the more recent granite markers, deep-carved with names, dates, and bible verses, and their faded arrangements of artificial flowers, Birdie stumped doggedly on to the older section of the graveyard where modest sand concrete memorials and white painted slabs commemorated the dead of an earlier time. Here and there single plastic flowers were jabbed into the soil of these older graves but Birdie passed on without a glance, making her way to the far edge of the mown ground.
Only a narrow strip of tall grass and weeds divided the cleared hilltop from the forest of poplar, oak and beech, their leave lacquer-bright with the vibrant new greens of the season. The old woman’s eyes narrowed in concentration as she moved beneath the canopy of a great oak. Scanning the thick growth at her feet, she thrust her staff into the long grass, sweeping it aside to uncover a homemade lozenge of white-washed concrete, set flat and all but lost in the rising tide of late spring. On the rough surface the date 1939 showed, etched by an unskilled hand just beneath the single word—“LEAST.”
Miss Birdie Gentry leaned on her stick and studied the stone, lips moving soundlessly, tears dimming her bright blue eyes. Many a year, law, yes, many a year. But hit weren’t right—
The babble of a familiar high-pitched voice broke into her reverie. Hurriedly, Birdie wiped her face on the sleeve of the man’s shirt she wore over her loose house dress.
With one sneaker-shod foot, she quickly pushed the hank of grass back to cover the little marker. When it was hidden once again, she made her way back among the graves where she began to pick up the tattered floral arrangements and jam them into a garbage bag.
Well, so Dor’thy come along atter all. But reckon who it is she’s talkin’ to? Her cousin’s chatter floated up the hill, every word clear now. A light rain began to fall and Birdie stretched out her hand to catch the drops.
“She said as she’d be up here, cleanin’ off the graves and gettin’ ready for Decoration Day. All them old wreaths and such to gather up and get shed of. I told her to let me do it—you know Miss Birdie’s gettin’ up in years—eighty-five this October—and not so spry as she once was—but will she listen? And now it’s come on to sprinkle. Well, I reckon it’ll pass off right quick. How long did you say it was since you seen your aunt?”
There was a soft murmur—an unknown woman’s voice. Birdie frowned and craned her head to catch the words but heard only Dorothy’s cheerful reply.
“I declare, won’t she be tickled you come at last!”
At that moment, Dorothy and her companion came into view. Dorothy, her familiar stout person clad in knit slacks and loose top, was a few steps in front of a slightly younger woman. Birdie studied the newcomer’s face carefully, looking for some clue to her identity.
Ay, law, now which one can that be? Many nieces as I got that I hain’t seed in a great time…this un here, what age would she be? Hard to tell the way they dye their hair and all. And of course, some folks just naturally hold their age real good. Blue eyes, wiry built…I wonder—
“Birdie Gentry, what in the world are you doin’, standin’ out in the rain like that? Why don’t we go set in my vehicle till it lets up? And why in the world didn’t you bring your truck and come by the road ’stead of walkin’ all that way through the fields. I declare—”
Ignoring Dorothy’s scolding, Birdie smiled and nodded at the other woman. “My mamaw allus said that hit was a fine thing to git wet in the first rain of May—that hit would keep a body healthy all the year.”
The unknown woman stepped forward, her face blossoming into a lop-sided smile that was oddly familiar.
“Aunt Birdie, you probably don’t remember me. I’m Myrna Louise—Lexter and Britty Mae’s youngest daughter. The last time I was here was 1959—I was only sixteen then so I don’t expect you to recognize me now.”
Lord, she sounds like a Yankee, thought Birdie, looking for some hint of the teenager she dimly remembered. But pore thing, she cain’t help it—livin’ up there in Dee-troit all this time with Yankees all about. Come to that, I believe she married one. But she does favor Lexter right much, now I come to look at her.
The little woman extended her arms. “Myrna Lou, honey, come here and let me hug yore neck. What took you so long to come home?”
Least
Dark Holler ~ June 1930
The yard dog speaks and I look up from the peas I’m shellin. They’s a woman and a girl coming up the road and Mama takes the bowl of peas from me and jerks her chin at the door. Go on, she says. Through the house and out the back way. Git you a hoe and go to work on them beans. I’ll call you when the folks is gone.
I duck my head yes ma’am and go quick like into the house. But oncet I’m to where Mama can’t see me, I stay near the window so’s I can hear them talk. Mama don’t never talk much ’cept for when she’s a-tellin me what to do. And now that Fairlight’s run off and got herself married, they ain’t no one to talk to me, bein’ as Brother’s as close-jawed as Mama.
Come git you uns a chair, says Mama as the woman and the girl start up the rock steps. I hear the mule-ear chair’s hickory bark seat squeak like there’s mouses in hit as the lady sets herself down.
Ooo-eee! she says, now hit’s been a time since I come up here to Dark Holler. Like to forgot what a climb hit is. But I had in mind to git up to the burying ground and tend to my mamaw and papaw’s graves. Come Decoration Day, I’ll be goin with Henry over to the Buckscrape to where his people lie. Fronie, tell me, was that your least’un I saw just now, scootin into the house? Law, she’s growed like one thing. Don’t she go to school? Lilah Bel here’s in the third grade now and readin like one thing. Hit beats all, the way she took to learnin.
I skooch close to the window and careful-like peek around the edge to look at the girl who can read. Fairlight taught me my letters and C-A-T cat and H-A-T hat but then she went off. Mama don’t hold with me learnin to read, is what I heared her tell Brother. Hit’ll just aggervate them funny spells she takes iffen she gits all tired out with tryin to learn more ’n she’s able.
The girl who can read is taller ’n me and she has the darkest eyes and straight dark hair cut short like girls in the wish book have theirs. She has picked up the bowl of peas and has set in to shellin them without noone tellin her to. Mama looks at her and nods her head. You don’t know what it is, Voncel, to have a young un what ain’t right. No, she ain’t able to go to school—takes these funny spells now and again. And then Mama leans closer to the visitor lady and whispers, She’s just simple and that’s the truth. And it worries her to be around folks. But we git on. Now tell me, Voncel, was you able to bring me them rug patterns?
I see that the girl named Lilah Bel is looking right at the window where I’m peeking out. I stick my tongue out at her then I jerk back outta sight and go quick and quiet out the back way. My special hoe, the light one with its blade worn down like a piece of the moon, is leaning gainst the logs there on the back porch and I grab it and take the little path through the dark whisperin trees to the bean patch.
I make haste along the narrow trail so’s I kin get them beans hoed and Mama won’t get ill at me. And then I hear the drums and see the edges of their world.
Hit’s allus that way—first the drums and the lights and then they show themselves. I step off the path and hunch down low so’s I kin crawl up under the droopin branches. Hit’s under that biggest one of them old groanin trees where they have their nest. I hunker down there and listen to their sounds. Then I make a picture in my mind and the little things begin to creep out.
Also by Vicki Lane
Signs in the Blood
Art’s Blood
Old Wounds
And coming soon from Dell
The Day of Small Things
IN A DARK SEASON
A Dell Book / June 2008
Published by
Bantam Dell
A Division of Random House, Inc.
New York, New York
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved
Copyright © 2008 by Vicki Lane
* * *
Dell is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc., and the colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.
* * *
www.bantamdell.com
eISBN: 978-0-440-33778-2
v3.0