Hank never answered him, and the preacher turned and walked back across the clearing and disappeared down the road. I was so nervous my knees was shaking.
“Get me some more nails,” Hank said like he was short of breath. I went to the box beside the pile of two-by-fours and got a handful of twelve-penny nails.
“Why is the preacher so opposed?” I said.
“Don’t do no good to talk about it,” Hank said. “Let’s talk about the west wall.”
I wanted to hear what Hank thought about the preacher. I wanted to ask him again why he was helping me on the church. But I seen asking him wouldn’t do no good. “We can build the base of the steeple twelve feet by twelve feet,” I said.
“There will have to be more studs on this side,” Hank said, “because it’s going to support the steeple.”
That was something else I hadn’t thought of. The base of the steeple had to be stronger than the walls to support a tower fifty or even sixty feet high. The west wall would have to be reinforced.
“I guess a preacher has pride like anybody else,” I said as we nailed the extra studs.
“Let’s not talk about preachers,” Hank said.
But Hank did talk about preachers, a week later, when we had the frame up and was ready to nail the rafters. It was beginning to look like a real church house then, with a steep gable high as the trees. We had to make a longer ladder out of hickory poles. The hardest work was putting the ridgepole on. It was so high I was afraid. I wasn’t used to working that high off the ground. When I looked around I could see over the tops of the trees far up the valley.
The roof beam was made of two-by-sixes nailed together.
“What’s the news of Moody?” Hank said.
There was a special closeness, working that high off the ground in the wind with the woods and valley stretching below us.
“Ain’t heard nothing from him except that one letter,” I said. “He must be hiding somewhere in the woods.”
“Hope he has a shack or cave to stay in,” Hank said.
“Preacher Liner come to the house to see Mama,” I said. “He told her that Moody’s trouble was punishment for us defying the church.”
“Did he really say that?” Hank said. He leaned far out to keep his balance while nailing the two-by-sixes together.
“He said the Lord punishes everybody in his own way,” I said.
“Preachers is just human, even if they are anointed,” Hank said. “They make mistakes same as the rest of us.”
When I climbed down to get another two-by-six I looked up at the rafters against the sky. They leaned together, pointing like fingers to the center of the sky. The rafters really looked like the shape of a church, like the figure of a church. Hank carried a two-by-four on a beam easy as an acrobat on a high wire.
Twenty-four
Ginny
IT WAS U. G. that drove up into the yard that March evening. U. G. was the kind of man that always took responsibility in a quiet way. He come to the door, and when I met him his hat was already in his hand.
“Come on in,” I said. I knowed the news was not good when he didn’t say nothing as I led him to the fire. We hadn’t heard a thing from Moody in weeks, and I was afraid of bad news.
“It’s about Moody?” I said. A chill rippled through me down to the bones in my toes.
“Afraid I have bad news,” U. G. said. He paused. “Where is Muir?” he said.
“Up on the mountain working with Hank on the church,” I said.
U. G. shook his head and looked into the fire.
“What has happened to Moody?” I said.
“Moody has been shot by a deputy,” U. G. said, almost under his breath.
“I don’t believe it,” I said.
“I hate to be the one to tell you,” U. G. said.
“Where did it happen?” I said.
U. G. took me by the elbow and led me to the couch. He set down beside me and put his hand on my shoulder.
“The deputies stopped by the store yesterday,” U. G. said. “They asked if I knowed where Moody might be. I told them the truth, that I didn’t know any more than they did. The big square-jawed feller named Thomas said the sheriff wanted to make a deal with Moody. If Moody would tell what he knowed about the Willards’ bootlegging with Peg Early, then he might get off light, might even get the charges dropped. Jenkins said if Moody didn’t turn hisself in the Willards was going to find him and kill him anyway.
“I seen the truth in that. Moody’s only hope was to leave the country or make some kind of agreement with the sheriff. He couldn’t spend his life running from the sheriff and the Willards. I truthfully didn’t know where Moody was laying out, didn’t want to know. If I had to guess I’d say he was somewhere beyond Pinnacle, probably in one of the caves on Ann Mountain, but I didn’t tell them that. I told the deputies I’d try to find him and talk to him, if they wouldn’t follow me. They agreed and said they’d appreciate any help I could give.
“To throw them off I got in my truck and drove down to South Carolina, where they couldn’t arrest nobody anyway. I drove down to Highway Eleven and cut across the foot of Gap Creek to the Caesar’s Head highway. Then I drove back up to North Carolina just south of Cedar Mountain.
“To make sure nobody was following me I pulled into a haul road and waited behind the brush for half an hour. But nobody come by or stopped, so I started walking toward the branch that runs on the back side of Ann Mountain.
“That side of Ann Mountain is all boulders and rock cliffs. A man could hide out there and hold off a posse if he wanted to. There was rocks that jutted out above the oak trees like towers. There was rocks that leaned out so far it made you sick just to look up at them.
“I stood below them rocks and hollered out Moody’s name. There was nothing but an echo. ‘Come down and talk,’ I yelled. ‘I have something to tell you.’
“Tell you, the cliffs on the far ridge repeated.
“‘I want to help you,’ I shouted between my hands.
“Help you, come back from the ridge.
“Something stirred behind me and I turned to see Moody holding his pistol pointed at me. He had a beard and his hair pointed every which way. He looked cold and hungry.
“‘You ain’t got no right,’ Moody said.
“‘The sheriff can make it easy for you,’ I said.
“Moody looked weak and tired. The pistol shook a little in his hand.
“‘I wouldn’t have led the law to you,’ Moody said.
“‘The Willards are going to kill you if they find you,’ I said. But I was no longer sure I had done the right thing in coming to Ann Mountain. What if the Willards had followed me? I had an ugly feeling in my gut, and an itch in the back of my neck.
“‘You think I don’t know that?’ Moody said.
“‘Moody!’ somebody yelled from the laurel bushes across the branch. Moody whirled around and pointed the pistol at the laurels.
“‘Drop that gun,’ they called. ‘Your life ain’t worth a snowflake in hell out here.’ It was Thomas the deputy.
“‘You have done this,’ Moody snarled at me over his shoulder.
“‘You promised to let me talk!’ I shouted at the laurel bushes.
“‘You have done this to me,’ Moody said again. I thought he was going to turn and shoot at me. But just then Thomas stood up and stepped out of the undergrowth.
“‘Put down your gun,’ the deputy called.
“I seen the look on Moody’s face. It was like the strain went out of him all of a sudden. It was a look of relief that come over his face. I reckon he was just plain wore out with hiding and waiting. He turned slow as a man about to open a door and raised the pistol toward the deputy. He didn’t pull the trigger. I don’t think he ever intended to pull the trigger.
“A shot come from the laurel bushes. It was the other deputy that had Moody in his sights. He shot Moody right through the chest with a slug.
“I run to Moody and tried t
o stop the blood with my jacket wadded up against the wound. But the blood just kept streaming out. I tied my jacket across his chest, but the jacket was soon soaked and dripping as we carried him out toward the haul road. It was long after dark before we reached the highway, and he had bled to death before we got even close.”
When U. G. stopped I felt like all the blood had drained out of my heart. I was too weak to say anything.
“Moody called your name out as we carried him,” U. G. said.
“What did he say?” I asked.
“He just said ‘Mama’ twice as we toted him,” U. G. said.
I took a breath, but there was no air in the room.
I thought of Moody with his pistol in the woods at dark. He had been dead a whole day and I hadn’t knowed about it. I had give life to him and suckled him at my breast. There is no greater grief than a mama’s grief over her own flesh and bone. I was so stunned I watched myself in my grief like I was another person.
A truck whined into the yard and ground its gears and stopped. I was numb as I watched them open the back of the van and lift out a stretcher. U. G. held the door for them.
“Are you Mrs. Powell?” the deputy said.
“Put him on the couch,” U. G. said.
They laid the stretcher down on the floor and lifted Moody onto the couch. He had several days’ growth of beard and his hair was not combed. His eyes was closed and his features looked like wax. There was blood on his coat.
“Ma’am, would you sign this?” one of the deputies said, and held out a clipboard with a piece of paper on it.
I ignored him.
“It just says you received the body and will assume custody of it,” the deputy said.
I turned away from him and looked at Moody. The stain on his coat had turned black. Fay sobbed on the corner of a chair.
“I will sign it,” U. G. said to the deputy.
When the deputies was gone and the truck had whined out of the yard, I tried to think what to do. If I set down and let myself go I would never get up again. There was grief in me that would turn me inside out and crumble me to pieces if I give in to it. There was sobs in me that was worse than any vomiting or seizures if I let them out.
“You set down, Ginny, and I’ll take care of everything,” U. G. said.
“No,” I said, “Moody has got to be laid out. I’ll go clear the kitchen table.”
Fay looked up at me, her face red and her eyes wet. “How can you think,” she sobbed, “of laying him out yourself?”
“I’ll do what has to be done,” I said. I couldn’t soften the anger in my voice. The pride and anger give me strength. Without the pride and anger I would have fainted.
I stepped into the kitchen and collected the salt and pepper shakers off the table. I gathered up the sugar bowl and the molasses jar, and the little jar of pickle relish. Taters was already boiling on the stove, and I set them aside. I pulled the oilcloth off the table and folded it on the counter by the water bucket. There was crumbs and a little dust on the bare wood of the tabletop. I brushed it off with a wet rag.
“We’ll bring him in here and lay him on the table,” I called to U. G. and Fay. I throwed some sticks of wood in the stove and poured the kettle full and set a dishpan half full of water on top of the stove.
“You don’t need to do this,” U. G. said.
“I do need to do it,” I said. I rolled up my sleeves and stiffened my will against the tide of grief I knowed was coming.
Just then Muir walked through the kitchen door. His face was twisted all around as he said, “I heard about Moody.” Then he busted out crying. His lips stretched every which way. He took me in his arms.
I told him we would have to lay Moody out, and it would take all of us to carry him. I led Muir into the living room and told him to lift Moody up while I pulled his coat off.
“Oh, Mama,” Muir said, and took Moody by the shoulders.
Moody’s arms was stiff as wood. They had been laid over his chest and it took some yanking and pulling to get the sleeves of the coat over the wrists. It was so awkward I felt myself blushing, in spite of the icy grief that soaked through me. The body was so heavy and cold it was hard to think it was my boy Moody.
As I tore the coat off, Florrie come into the room and asked me what I was doing. I didn’t even know she had come to the house. I told her I was getting the body ready to lay out.
“Set down and don’t make a spectacle of yourself,” Florrie said.
“Since a cooling board wasn’t used the back is curved,” I said. I told her to help me carry him to the kitchen if she wanted to be useful.
“What are you trying to prove?” Florrie said.
Fay and Muir was both sobbing and useless. I seen I had to do what needed to be done.
“You are beside yourself,” Florrie said and took my arm.
U. G. and Muir took Moody’s shoulders, and me and Florrie took his legs, and we carried him into the kitchen. Water was boiling on the stove and the windows was starting to steam up.
“Me and U. G. will do this,” Florrie said.
“No, Mama, I will do it,” U. G. said to Florrie.
I felt my will was a dam holding back a great tide of confusion and mourning. I had to shove hard as I could. If I let the dam bust loose I would drown.
“You all go back to the living room,” I said. “Muir and me will do this.”
“Why are you acting this way?” Florrie said.
“I will lay out my own son in my own house,” I said.
“You are on your high horse,” Florrie said.
They all stood back when I brought in another lamp and set it at the side of the table. I pulled off Moody’s overalls an inch at a time, and I pulled off his shirt. He had been shot through the chest and blood had dried around the hole between two ribs like brown paint. There was wet blood in the wound, and the smell of old blood.
“You leave this to me,” U. G. said.
“Stand back,” I said, “and bring me some camphor.” I seen the only thing to do was cover the wound with a bandage soaked in camphor. When Muir lifted the body so I could strap the bandage around the chest, Moody’s eyes come open. I closed them before anybody else could see. The eyes had a milky, cloudy look.
I poured hot water in a pan and got a piece of soap and started washing Moody on his hands and arms. His hands was stained with berry juice, or maybe it was blood. I scrubbed his neck and behind the ears. I hadn’t washed his face since he was a boy. I was careful not to open the eyes again.
“Bring me your razor,” I said to Muir.
“I will shave him,” U. G. said. “You can let me at least shave him.”
U. G. was a barber and used to shaving people. I let him shave Moody while I scrubbed his chest and belly. Moody’s bowels had opened after he died and I cleaned that up with hot water and a cloth. I had not seen Moody’s private parts since he was a little boy. I tried not to look at the scar on his groin.
This is a test of dignity and strength, I thought. This is a test of faith. I will not give in to grief yet. Moody’s anger was in his blood, and his temper was beyond his control. It was like all his life I had seen this moment coming. And just as he had begun to change, to soften and grow up, he had been killed. It was too sad to describe in words.
And it was my fault. I didn’t know how exactly, but I was his mama and I was responsible for him. At the very least I had failed him by not expecting enough of him. I had expected a lot from Muir, and almost nothing from Moody.
I emptied the pan off the back porch and got clean water. I washed Moody’s legs and feet. With my scissors I trimmed his toenails. His toenails was long and crooked and dirty.
“Now, what is he going to wear?” I said to U. G.
“Does Moody have a suit?” U. G. said.
“All he has got is overalls and flannel shirts,” I said.
“He can wear my old suit,” Muir said.
“Moody don’t need a suit,” I said. “He never w
ore a suit in his whole life.”
“If his funeral is going to be in church he has to wear a suit like anybody else,” Muir said.
“Your suit is too big for him,” I said.
I got clean overalls and a shirt out of the bedroom and we slipped them on Moody a piece at a time. I remembered how hard it was to lift a dead body from the time Tom died. The weight and the rubbery stiffness make it almost impossible to fit clothes on the frame. It took all of us lifting and pulling, pushing and rolling, to do it.
After Moody was dressed we left him laying on the table. Muir would have to make a coffin the next day out of some of his oak boards. U. G. volunteered to bring him some handles to screw on the sides and a nameplate and some hinges. I set a lamp on either side of the body and left it there.
“You come set by the fire,” Florrie said to me. “I’ll fix you something to eat.”
“Don’t want nothing to eat,” I said.
THE NEXT MORNING Preacher Liner come while Muir was hammering at the coffin in the backyard. I heard him talking with Muir where he worked at the sawhorses, and then the preacher knocked on the door.
“Ginny, I have come to be with you in your hour of tribulation,” the preacher said, stepping into the living room, hat in hand.
I was not surprised to see the preacher, but I was surprised he had come so early in the morning. And he was tense, like he thought he might not be welcome. He looked at Moody’s body still laying on the kitchen table. I had put a handkerchief soaked in camphor over Moody’s face to keep the skin from turning black.
“The Lord will not put on us a greater grief than we can bear,” Preacher Liner said. The preacher turned his hat in his hands and looked around the living room. He looked sick. There was bags under his eyes, and his shoulders was stooped. I had never seen him look so old and worried.
“Would you like to set down?” I said.
“I have come to ask about the funeral,” Preacher Liner said.
I told him we ought to have the funeral today, since Moody was killed the day before yesterday.
“Where was you planning to have it?” the preacher said. His question startled me. I told him we had planned on having the funeral in the church.
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