by Josh Weil
I could see them in the living room watching the TV. There was six or seven of them and one or two new. The older ones was holding the younger ones back from coming at us like the dogs.
You must be starving, Ma B said.
I told her I was.
What should I make you? she asked. What’s your most favorite thing?
Whatever leftovers you got is fine.
Now Geoffrey, she said. What’s your most favorite memory of all the things I make for you?
While I was thinking, one of the new kids bust free and come running out into the kitchen making a beeline for me. Ma B crouched down and made her noises how she does to the babies and says, You want your mama? You want a kiss from your mama, you Little Plum Butt? But the little plum butt kept going for me. Till Ma B reached out and sweeped him off his path and into one of her Ma B hugs.
Now what do you want super special? she said into the baby’s belly. She looked up. I know, she said, just as one of the older ones come and took the baby from her arms and Ma B kissed her on the cheek and said, This is Joanne. The Lord brung her to me—what was it Joanne? Four years ago? Could it be four years?
Yes, ma’am, Joanne said.
Four years ago, Ma B told me. This is Geoffrey, Ma B told her.
Hi, she said.
He was one of my first little sugar plums. He’s—he’s—you must be more than thirty, she said.
Yuhuh, I said.
Well praise the Lord, she said. The girl was still standing there holding the baby. Joanne, Ma B said, Can’t you just see how glad I am to see Geoffrey? Isn’t it funny, what a silly old woman I am?
You not old, I said.
She said, still talking to the girl, When Geoffrey didn’t come for my birthday I thought I was never gonna see him again. The baby made a noise and she said to it, Wasn’t that silly? When she turned to me again she said, You just don’t know how happy it makes me to see you again. And don’t think I don’t remember what your favorite is.
She gone off to make whatever it was. For a second the girl and me stood there looking at each other and then she said did I want to watch TV and I said no thank you and we split.
When Ma B was done she put the plate down front of me and sat cross the table with it empty in front of her. It was a veal steak, breaded and fried, with slaw and applesauce added for sides.
Now how’s that? she said, giving me a fork. Wasn’t no need for a knife what she’d already cut it up.
Looks good, I said. I ate a bite. Mm, I said.
I’m switching them from the starter feed to the grower a few weeks later, she said. Lose a little weight, but it’s more tender right?
Yuhuh, I said.
Yes ma’am, she said.
Yes ma’am, I told her.
Now, she said. How’re you doing out there?
Good, I said. Pretty good.
You know if it ever gets too hard you always welcome to—
I know, I said. Thank you.
You like the breading? she said.
Yes ma’am.
I can tell, she said. Now I know you didn’t finally visit out here just to warm your Ma B’s heart. She give me her look like Out with it.
I come to warm your heart, I said.
And?
Well I kinda got a question what I didn’t know no one—
Kinda? Or you got a question?
I got a question.
Good, she said. She put her hands together on the table almost like she was gonna pray.
I asked her, Did you ever go on a date?
Sure, she said. A long time ago, but I been.
Was it for eating supper?
Well there was more than one, Geoffrey.
Was one of them for eating supper?
I believe so.
Was there—was there some kind of rules maybe what the man knowed what maybe I oughta know and didn’t never learn?
Some kind of rules, she said. She lifted her thumbs from the fold of her hands a little and looked at them. Do you mind if I ask what kind of date this is?
I tried to think how to answer that.
Is it a first date? she said.
Nuhuh.
But it’s the first time you’re having supper with her?
Nuhuh.
No ma’am, she said. So you’ve been seeing her?
Yes ma’am, I said.
But it’s gonna be formal, she said.
I guess.
Is it serious? she said. Are you serious about this girl?
Yes ma’am, I said.
She looked at me for a long time and I couldn’t tell from her face what she was gonna do. Then whatever it was, she made up her mind on it.
Well first, she said, you got to pick the restaurant.
It’s gonna be at her house, I said.
She let go of her hands and put them flat on the table. Do you think that’s a good idea?
Yes ma’am.
You do?
Well it was her what thought it. She said we could—
What’s the girl’s name?
Linda.
Not a very pretty name, Ma B said.
Well Linda said we could have a nice supper together at her kitchen table what’d be almost like we was married.
How old is the girl? Ma B asked.
I don’t know, I told her.
Well she sounds serious. It sounds more serious than you let on, Geoffrey. Is it really that serious?
Yes ma’am.
Then I suppose your Ma B better help you. You want another steak?
I’m okay.
She took my plate and brung it back full as before. You can’t get veal like that nowhere else, she said while she cut it up.
No ma’am, I told her.
Now, she said, it’s been a long time since I’ve been on a date, but the first thing you need to know is be respectful. Do you know what I mean?
I told her yes.
Respect is just Expect with a little more, she said. She’s gonna Expect it. But the Re in front makes it twice as important. Next is, Watch your table manners. Do you have nice clothes? Okay. She pushed the plate to me. Take your fork with you. We’re going upstairs and see what Daddy has.
She told me to sit on the bed and take off my shoes and my shirt and my pants down to my underwear. The plate was too hot to put in my lap but I remembered enough not to put it on the bedspread what had been in the family since Ma B’s Daddy got married to Ma B’s Ma. It was Ma B’s Daddy’s bed and Ma B’s Daddy’s bedroom what she’d took over when he died and God made him his new bed in the graveyard what’s out back in them cornfields. I watched her open the closet what wasn’t hers. All his things was in there. She gone through the hangers making a sound tough on the ears.
Reminds me of my prom, she said. You’re gonna look just as handsome as the boy who took me.
There wasn’t no suit jackets what fit me. Nor no pants. But she got a shirt what I could roll up the sleeves and a tie what pinched the collar shut. She talked to me while she done up the tie.
She said, Now when you take this off, just do it partway so it stays tied, okay? Then you can just slip it over your head and slip it back when you’re ready and tighten it up. Don’t get food on it.
No ma’am.
The boy, she said, is supposed to knock once at the door, let the girl know he’s there. Don’t knock again. Don’t rush her. You gonna bring flowers?
I was gonna bring beer, I said.
Bring flowers, she said. You don’t drink beer.
Sometimes.
Geoffrey, she said. You don’t drink beer.
Okay, I said.
When she had the tie done, she stood back and looked at me. And when you leave, she said, it’s up to the boy to leave early without her having to ask so’s she’s not made uncomfortable. She looked at my chest. That tie smells like Daddy, she said. Put on your pants.
She give me shoes, too. They was shaped inside like the bones of his dead feet. I moved my own feet
around in them to try to get them unshaped.
Quit it, she said.
When she finished the second one, she stood up.
Let’s see, she said. Is there anything else a boy should know?
Ma’am? I said. I don’t mean to be ungrateful but is there anything different what a full growed man—
What do you mean? she said.
Nothing, I told her.
Geoffrey, she said. Have you thought about what you’re really getting into? Are you sure this is something you want to do? Have you thought about whether you love her?
Yes ma’am, I said.
Yes ma’am what? You’ve thought about it?
I do, I said.
She leaned back from me a little. Do you even know what that means?
Yes ma’am.
I don’t think you do. It’s hard to know, Plum Head. The best way is to think of the person you think you love, and then think of another person already in your life who you already know for sure you love, and do you feel like that? Maybe you should do that?
I stood there doing it. When I was done I told her, I done it.
I kept waiting for her to ask me what I come to, but she just stood there looking me over like there was something about the clothes was making her mad.
We gone downstairs to the family room and she made the hellos all around. There was nine of hers. Most was girls, but there was a couple boys too. They was all diminished. That’s how she names it. Some was just a little slow like me and some was a little slower and some you could see just by their faces what there was no way getting around calling them nothing but plain retards. Ma B said to them what I was Geoffrey who was one of her first babies, and brother to them all.
He has a date, she told them. He come to me for advice. Now doesn’t he look handsome?
They some of them said yes.
Time for bed, Ma B said which don’t mean sleep, and never did. It means All Together Time. They gone into the workroom. You wouldn’t know it was the workroom less you knowed the work. What with no furniture but pillows and the sides piled with heaps of white cloths. They all sat in a circle on the pillows. Ma B took a cloth out a pile and spread it out between them all. She digged in the sewing box and passed the tools all around.
Well come in, she said to me. Take a seat.
That’s all right, I said.
You don’t think you’re part of the family no more?
No, I just—
Kim move over and make room for Geoffrey.
I don’t know how no more, I said.
Sure you do, she said. And if you don’t it’s time you relearned.
I sat down next to the one named Kim. They was working on a flower pattern like usual, but this one had little bluebirds on it too.
Where do you think the most important things in life is learned? Ma B said.
There was a couple wrong answers of School and the like before one of the older ones give Ma B what she was looking for.
That’s right, Ma B said. In the heart. The only part of the human body that’s capable of forgetting is the mind. The heart don’t know how to forget. Once it’s in the heart, it’s there for life.
She turned to the one beside her. What was something you learned today? she said.
We gone around the circle one by one stitching the daisies and bluebirds what she would sell once it was done and Ma B asking each by name. What was something you learned today? Till it got to me.
Geoffrey? She said.
To leave early, I said, So’s not to make no one uncomfortable.
That morning, I waked to the house all quiet but for the noise of the birds and the Holsteins leaving the milk barn and the veal calves calling after them. I got my stuff together and gone out. A couple of Ma B’s older ones come in past me, done with the milking. Ma B herself was over in the rows of calves shoveling out fresh cobs and hay for them to bed in. There wasn’t no one else about. I put the bag of clothes on back my bike and wheeled it over her way. Them calves was making some noise.
Morning, she said when she seen me.
Morning ma’am, I said. We talked a bit about the calves. Then she said, You got to work today?
Yuhuh.
You got a long ride to Ripplemead.
I know.
She got out the truck bed and drived the truck forward a bit, and climbed back in the bed. I watched her shovel. Then I climbed up with her.
Ma’am, I said.
She stopped her work.
Can I ask you something?
May you, she said.
May I?
Course you can.
You know the story about them Sarvers?
I told you it.
Is it true?
Sure it is.
The whole of it? I said. What nobody liked them and they was kicked out of town and go down that valley and wouldn’t nobody talk to them till they—
That’s not what I told you.
No, I said. I don’t believe it was you what told me.
I told it to you, she said.
I believe it was Dad Kreager what told it before I come here.
Well Mister Kreager had it wrong.
There was a bull up the hill what was driving a dog nuts. The dog stood a couple yards from it barking its head off and the bull would turn and the dog would follow and the bull would look at it and the dog’d go nuts again.
That dog didn’t never like a bull, Ma B said. Set down her shovel and sat on the tailgate and patted the metal and said, Come sit by me, Plum Head.
I did.
Here, she said and patted her leg. Lay your head down here and I’ll tell you the story.
I stayed where I’d sat. I don’t want no made up story, I said. I want the real one.
I know, she said.
I’m more than thirty, I said. I’m old enough for the real one.
That’s what I’m gonna tell you, she said. Lay your head down here.
Give it to me straight, I said.
That’s what I’m gonna, she said.
Ma B’s got a lap what feels hard as wood.
First of all, she said, the Sarvers wasn’t kicked out of nowhere. They chose to go. There was a big family of them lived in Pembroke and Narrows and some in Ripplemead and a few elsewhere around Eads County. It wasn’t cause nobody liked them. They was popular as a pie. Now just cause they was popular don’t mean they was the same as everyone. No sir. They wasn’t much like anyone else at all. See, they was all of them diminished. Every one of them. Some in town called them slow or fools or whatever else the unenlightened ignorants still use for names. But they was diminished only in the narrow sight of them who was so alike they could be swapped from wife to husband or job to job and wouldn’t nobody know the difference. Them was the bricklayers and millers and lawyers and doctors. But the Sarvers, they was the ones you knew was different soon’s you come to town. They was veterinarians who could talk to animals, bookkeepers who could make sense of numbers no one else could. They was the ones writ the hymns and the ones who sung them best. You know the painting of all them history people done over the whole back side of that old dance hall in Narrows? It was a Sarver done it. You ever get to the library in Coalsburg, you ask them for The History of the New Valley. It was writ by a Sarver. They was the ones who all the others that was so normal wished in their hearts they could be.
So why’d they leave?
You want the movie version or the real one?
I want it all straight.
Well it was simple, she said. They just got bored. They got bored with the everyday hassle of living with all them who was everyday people. There was so many of them, lines of them at the bank, crowds of them at the markets. And the whole bunch of them, they was just so boring. Didn’t take them Sarvers long to start to think, What would it be like to live among just Sarvers? A whole town of Sarvers. Well, once they got that idea it didn’t take long before they was leaking out of the regular towns. The towns tried to hold them. Them who hi
red them upped the salaries. There was a whole lot a daughters offered up for temptation. Harts Run even elected a Sarver mayor. He refused it. Within the year, they was all but the last ones gone. Two three more years, you couldn’t find a Sarver nowhere in the New Valley. Except for down in one hollow, where they all was.
They’d bought a mess of cheap land way up high on the Swain River. Wherever it was flat it was boggy. Wherever it was dry it was steep. Normal people wouldn’t have lived on land that bad if you paid them. But they wasn’t normal people. They turned it into what you would not believe. While everyone was selling off mules to buy up tractors, the Sarvers bought up all the mules they could get their hands on. There was timber on them steep slopes where no tractor could get and it was all chestnut. Practically the whole forest. Back then it was the most wanted wood, got tannins in it so it’s near impossible to rot. Them Sarvers cut it careful, farmed them trees like corn. Under them, they run hogs. If you ever tasted hog raised on chestnut meat you best not get up hopes for the menu in heaven cause whatever they serve up there ain’t gonna come close. Lower down, they planted orchards and that wet, sunny bottomland turned out perfect for berries. In the bogs they growed arrowroot and fields of rice and whole stretches of lilies. At its peak, it was gossiped there was a dance hall and three-story church and it was knowed there was a mill and must have been upwards of a hundred people living in twenty, thirty homes. Nobody knows for sure cause nobody but Sarvers was allowed in. I see you looking at me, she said. You’re thinking, If it was so good why’d they leave?
They got some kind of sickness, I said.
Who told you that? Mister Kreager?
Yuhuh. He said there was a farmer what found—
I’m sure Mister Kreager was a fine man, but it’s clear he didn’t know a nose from a knuckle. What they got was what the entire country got. Was what’s known as the Blight. You ever seen a chestnut tree growing round here?
I don’t know.
Well you haven’t. They all dead. Was something come from overseas that wiped them out. All of them. When the chestnuts gone, about thirty years of careful plans gone with them. Without the trees the hogs gone. The slopes got washed out in the rains. The orchards was near buried. The Swain got dammed up. About the only thing that didn’t go was the taxes. Well, you can start to see it now. The day the government come and tell them it was taking their land was the last day anyone seen a Sarver alive. That day the county sheriff come with his men and he seen too many Sarvers for his taste and decided he better come back again when there wasn’t so many gun barrels that seemed to take a interest in his head, or at least when he had more guns of his own. It was two three months before he got up the nerve and gathered the men to come out and collect. Nobody knows exactly what happened in between. They found them in the dance hall, every one of them, dressed in their finest and laid out holding hands in a circle that wound itself toward the center like they’d been dancing in a long line and just expired midstep. It was suspected to be some drug. But the autopsies didn’t show nothing unnatural in the blood. They must have done it right when they got word the sheriff was coming out, cause their bodies was fresh dead and there was a baby crying in—