“It’s mighty hot—you sure you won’t wear out?”
“I want to see the grave. Let me get a-holt of you, Phelie.” The little dry vine of a woman curled a tendril around her daughter’s arm and reached out for Callie.
“Oh, well,” said Ophelia, “we might as well take her.”
Leonie and the men went ahead, carrying the flowers. Ralphie had disappeared again. Nobody paid any attention to him, since he never seemed to be there even when he was.
Mathy’s grave lay at the far end of the cemetery in the thick shade of a pine. It looked very small in the big plot, like a child asleep in the parents’ bed. Leonie never liked to see it. Mathy’s soul was in heaven, but the little body in the white dress lay there under a few feet of earth, withering away. She couldn’t help thinking of it. They thought of it too, poor things; she knew they did. And if it hurt her, how much more it must hurt them.
Ralph went back up for a bucket of water, leaving Matthew and Leonie by themselves. Matthew bent over to examine the new stone.
“It looks nice,” said Leonie.
“Well, they didn’t do a very good job,” he said, frowning a little.
“No?” She bent down to look. “Oh, for goodness’ sake!” The remains of “Soames” were still faintly visible beneath the “Inwood.”
“It’ll never be noticed,” she said. “Nobody will ever know it if they don’t look for it.”
“I feel so foolish,” said Matthew.
“It was a natural mistake, Dad. Don’t think a thing about it.” She patted his arm. “Come on now and help me set these geraniums. Doesn’t it look nice?” she called as the other women approached.
“It sure is a pretty stone,” said Ophelia.
“Well, whose is it?” Aunt Cass fretted.
“It’s Mathy’s,” shouted Ophelia. “I told you about it, Ma.”
“Why, ain’t that Mathy?” said Aunt Cass, pointing to Mary Jo.
“No, that’s the baby!” Ophelia looked at Callie with a helpless gesture. “She don’t remember a thing any more.”
Callie wasn’t listening. She had walked over to the grave and stood with her hand on the warm stone, smoothing it gently.
“Here comes the water!” Leonie said in a loud voice. “Everybody get busy now. Mama, you fill the jars. Dad can start with the planting. I’ll sort the flowers—”
“I want to set down,” said Aunt Cass.
“There’s no place to set,” shouted Ophelia. “You can stand up a few minutes.”
“My legs is give out. I’ve got to set down.”
“Oh law. Well, set down here on the grass.”
“I can’t get down that far.”
“You’ll have to, there’s no place else. Unless you could—” Ophelia paused, with a glance at Callie.
“Well, let her sit on that,” said Callie. “She can’t hurt it.”
They walked her around to the new tombstone. “There,” said Ophelia. “Try not to step on the grave any more’n you can help. Now then, Callie, let me help y’all with them flowers.”
Everyone had something to do, and they chattered cheerfully at their labors, Aunt Cass perched above them like an overseer in a small communal field. Leonie was glad of the distraction; it gave them something to smile about and kept things from being so solemn. When they were through, they stood back to admire their work.
“Well now!” Leonie said briskly—when Ophelia interrupted.
“Poor little girl,” she said in a tone so unexpectedly mournful that it struck them like a chill. “Poor little thing. Here we are so happy together, and her layin’ there cold and dead.”
Leonie could have kicked her. Now what came over Ophelia! She glared at her in disapproval. Ophelia paid no attention, having assumed an attitude of profound grief. “I can’t hardly stand it,” she said.
There was an awkward hush, and Ralph removed his hat. Self-consciously, as if shamed into it, Matthew took off his. Leonie looked around uneasily. Her mother was gazing at the grave, her face tremulous. Ophelia took out her handkerchief and sniffed audibly. Catching the mood, Aunt Cass began to weep. Oh no, thought Leonie, not after all her efforts! They had done so well up to now! She glanced at her father. With a clutch of alarm, she saw his face begin to work. The children were staring at them in fright. Then her mother, her chin trembling, reached out for Peter, and the whole structure of the day rocked on the edge of collapse. Leonie cast about wildly—there must be something she could do, some way to save them—oh please—
As if in answer to her prayer, a frantic inarticulate shout echoed down the hill. (Glory be to God!) “What’s that?” said Leonie.
Everybody looked up, startled. The sound echoed again, a loud strangled cry of distress from somewhere by the church. Ophelia started up as if kicked in the rear. “Ralph-ee!” she shrieked and scrambled up the path as fast as she could go. Ralph was close behind her. The children broke rank and ran after them, stepping all over the graves.
“What in the world!” said Matthew.
“He must have fell down the well!” cried Callie. They started up the path, Leonie following.
At the top of the hill Ralph and Ophelia were running in all directions. “Where are you, son?”
“Here I am!” came the muffled voice.
“Where at?”
“Over here! Can you hurry a little?”
They found him on the fender of the car, a squirming mess of arms and legs, minus a head. Matthew threw back the hood. From the depths of the greasy interior, Ralphie’s red grinning face looked up at them sidewise. “I’m glad you come,” he drawled. “I caught m’ hair in the fan belt.”
They had to cut him loose with a pocketknife, and they nearly died laughing. They couldn’t help it, poor Ralphie looked so funny. Callie laughed till the tears ran down her cheeks. It did Leonie’s heart good to see her. In the thick of it, Ophelia let out another shriek. “Oh my laws! We left Ma down there on the tombstone!”
They laughed the rest of the day, first about Ralphie, then about Aunt Cass, and back to Ralphie again. Neither of those two minded. Ralphie was off by himself most of the time and didn’t hear them; and Aunt Cass, reacting like a barometer to the mood around her, enjoyed the merriment with the rest of them, hardly remembering what caused it.
Waving goodbye that evening, Leonie said, “I don’t know whenever I’ve had so much fun!”
“Poor old Aunt Cass!” said Callie. “Left sittin’ down there by herself!” And her eyes grew moist with laughter.
Matthew smiled after them and turned toward the barn. “Mercy, it’s late. I’ve got to get the milking done. Sukie?” he called, looking into the stall. “I reckon she got tired of waiting and went back to the pasture. I’ll have to go look for her now.”
“I’ll go with you,” said Callie.
Leonie watched them walk through the pasture gate, down through the walnut grove, and she smiled with satisfaction. It was like a picture show with a happy ending—the old couple arm in arm, fading into the dusk. She turned back to the house, giddy with relief. It was over.
In a surge of good feeling, she walked into the parlor and slipped the straps of the accordion over her shoulders. The room was too dim for reading music, but she sat in the gloom groping her way through the hymn. She kept hitting the wrong keys. “Shit-a-mile!” she said out loud and chuckled. It was the only expletive she had ever heard her mother use. Normally it embarrassed her, but tonight it sounded funny. She stood up and began to play her favorite song with a reckless disregard for mistakes. “When you’re smiling, When you’re smiling, The whole world smiles with you…” She sang the words aloud, and being all alone in the house and protected by darkness, she began to dip and sway, dancing about as she had seen them do in vaudeville. At the end of the number she bowed deeply, and rose to find two small figures pressed against the screen.
“You kids get away from there!”
There was a stifled giggle. “What are you doing?” said Mary Jo.
“Nothing—practicing.”
“You keep bobbing around.”
“It’s none of your business. You kids come in and wash your feet. It’s time you went to bed.”
After the usual countering and delays they came inside. She made them mashed-potato sandwiches and shooed them upstairs. Coming down, she found her parents had not yet brought in the milk. She listened at the back door but heard no sound from the barn. Could they still be looking for old Sukie? She lighted a lamp and sat down at the kitchen table to nibble a chicken wing. After a while, she went back to the door and peered out. It was too dark to see much. And they had not taken the lantern. She stepped outside and called. There was no answer.
“Now what in the world!” she said, going out to the barnlot. Something stirred in the darkness, startling her. “Sukie!” she said. The dark shape ambled toward her and Leonie put out her hand to pat the gentle old cow. She ran her hand over the smooth flank and reached down to feel the udder. “Why, you haven’t been milked yet! You old rascal, they’re still hunting you.”
She led Sukie around to the stall. As she started out, she heard their voices at the pasture gate. She was about to speak when something they said made her stop and listen.
“We don’t want to hurt her feelings,” her father said.
Whose feelings?
“No,” said her mother, “we don’t want to do that. She thought she was doing the right thing.”
Leonie shrank back into the darkness of the stall. What were they talking about? They passed close to the door and stopped a few steps away.
“But all them folks there,” said her mother, “and all that goin’ on. It should have been quiet and nice, just us, just the family.”
Her voice sounded so strange.
“Hush, dear,” said her father. “Dear love, don’t grieve.”
“I can’t help it.” The voice rose in a soft heartbroken wail. “All summer she wouldn’t let us cry!”
Leonie’s whole body had become one prescient ear. She stood rigid, listening to the furtive sobs on the other side of the wall. And she thought then of her mother in the churchyard at noon, the tears running down her face. Why, Mama hadn’t been laughing at all. She was crying all that time!
The soft gasping sounds went on for several minutes.
“Dry your eyes now,” said her father gently. “We must go in. She’ll be looking for us.”
In a moment, the back gate clicked. Leonie waited, giving them time to reach the house. Then, slipping out of the barn, she ran as fast as she could down the lane and up the road to the front gate. Noiselessly, she crept into the yard and sank into a chair left out from the afternoon, thinking the thud of her heart would give her dead away. She had barely caught her breath when her mother came out on the porch.
“Leonie? My goodness, you scared me. I thought you were upstairs.”
“No, I’m out here.”
“I came out to get the chairs.”
“I’ll bring them in when I come.”
“Don’t you want me to help you?”
“Don’t bother. I’ll bring ’em in later. I just want to sit out here for a while.”
“I bet you’re tired tonight, aren’t you, honey?”
“A little.”
“So am I. We looked and looked for old Sukie, but I guess she’d already come back by herself. I better go get the separator ready.”
“Mama?” Leonie paused and steadied her voice. “Did you have a good time today?”
There was hardly a moment’s hesitation. “Why, yes, honey, it was just real nice.”
She was lying. Mama, I never lied to you in my life, not if it really mattered. Why are you lying to me now? Why can’t you tell me, why do you keep pretending! The thought struck her like cold water—they had pretended all summer long! They had humored her, like an imbecile child. Little protests, shrugs, evasions, guarded glances began to crowd in on her. Her mind had absorbed them all, but backward, like words on a blotter. Now in the mirror of recollection she saw them straight. Mama forgetting to light the candles. Papa pleading no time to read. How little he had said during their discussions—she had done all the talking. And their evasiveness in the evenings—how often she had to go looking for them to make them come in and sing. Their dinner parties—the way they went through the motions, forgetting their new manners, never remembering to use the salad fork…. And Mama—Leonie winced, remembering how often she had caught her mother, magazine open on her lap, dreamily gazing across the yard, like a dull child in school.
They didn’t want to read—or sing—or learn or do anything that was pretty and intellectual and right! And if they didn’t, why didn’t they say so? All she tried to do was cheer them up. But they didn’t want to be cheered—they wanted to cry! Then why hadn’t they done it?
She knew why. They were afraid to. They were afraid to let her know that nothing she did would help. She could give them care and chicken salad, cheer and candlelight and music, she could love and honor and obey them till the cows came home—not all she gave them or gave up would make them give up Mathy.
3
The first thought that entered her mind was to push over the new tombstone.
It made a hasty exit as she reproached herself in shame. But she wanted to hit back—it was them she wanted to get at. She wanted to march upstairs in a holy fury and shout at them, “Look at me—I’m the one!” Why must Mathy get the attention, even now? Oh, the Bible had a word for ungrateful children, but what of the ingratitude of parents!
She sat in a tense huddle, praying incoherently for help. And in her bitterness and disappointment, she wondered if it were the same with God, if a lifetime of devotion meant no more than a last-minute confession of faith. Didn’t the Bible itself intimate as much? Of the one that goes astray there shall be more rejoicing than of all the ninety and nine that go not. Why should one try to do right?
“Leonie?” said her mother from an upstairs window. “You still out there?”
“Yes.”
“Hadn’t you better go to bed? You’ll be worn out tomorrow.”
I don’t care if I am, she said to herself. But she rose and began to carry in the chairs. Go to bed, get up, study your lessons, go to church, work, practice, come home, be good…as long as she could remember. She climbed the stairs wearily, closed her door, and lighted the lamp. The volume of Shakespeare lay on the dresser, held open by the hairbrush. The sight of it made her shudder, thinking how tiresome they had found it, her trying to force it on them. But Papa always said—Never mind what he said. That was only talk. She snapped the book shut and with a grimace hid it under the clothes in the bottom drawer. They wouldn’t have to read it any more.
“Mama,” she said, in the morning, “I think I’ll go away for a while.”
“Oh? Where to?” said Callie.
“Does it matter?”
Callie lifted her eyebrows. “I only wondered. I guess if you don’t want to tell me, you don’t have to.”
“I thought I’d go up to Kansas City and pick me up a boy friend and dine and dance and go to a speakeasy and raise Cain.”
“Wha-at?” said Callie, bewildered.
“I’m only joking.”
“Well, I hope so!”
“Carol Pokorny has been wanting me to come up to Plattsburg and visit. I thought I’d go up there for a week.”
“That’s a little better.”
“We could go down to the city to shop, it’s not far, you know. And I need some school clothes.”
“Why, I think that would be real nice. Go ahead, why don’t you.”
“I guess you can get along without me.”
“I think we can. I think we’ll get along just fine.”
A few days later, Matthew drove her to Renfro to catch the train. Her mother was working up apples that morning, the kitchen full of steam and hot jars and pans of peelings. But Leonie went ahead. They arrived at the station early and waited in silence. Matthew drummed i
mpatiently on the steering wheel; he was supposed to help a neighbor harvest oats that morning. At last the train pulled in.
“Have a nice time,” he said, giving her a peck on the cheek. “Be good.”
She leaned out to wave, but he had already gone back to the car and didn’t see her. All right for you, she said, settling back. Nevertheless, remembering his habitual, perfunctory “Be good,” she couldn’t help feeling a little guilty. For she had lied; she had no intention of spending the week with a girl friend in some burg. Instead of catching another train in Kansas City, she was going to stay there and do as she first told her mother—dine and dance and raise Cain, the only difference being that she didn’t have to “pick up” a boyfriend. She had one waiting there—Kenny, the basketball coach, who was handsome and dashing and had a wonderful voice and who wanted to see her. He had said so a number of times in his letters. She took one of them out of her handbag and read it over. “If they ever let you off the reservation,” the letter said, “be sure to give me a ring. I’ll show you some of the bright spots, we’ll have a real hot time.” It was something of this temperature that she had in mind. She was going to buy some new clothes and call up Kenny and have some fun, sophisticated fun! She was going to dine and dance and go to shows, and if he wanted to take her to a roadhouse or a nightclub, all right, she was going. Her parents wouldn’t approve, but they wouldn’t know about it. And they needn’t get worked up if they did. Times had changed. Nowadays, perfectly respectable people went to shows on Sunday, they went dancing and played cards; lots of girls even smoked—and it didn’t mean they were going to hell. Hell had shifted its location; it was farther away than people used to think.
She arrived in the city just after noon, and following the ritual of winter weekends (when she and her friends came in to shop), she went directly to Fred Harvey’s and ordered a Coca-Cola. The farm offered nothing like this. It had always seemed to her that the prickly drink was the very flavor of the city—biting and bittersweet; frankly synthetic; stimulating. She drew it in slowly, taking in with it the sights and sounds around her. Fortified by the elixir, she stopped on the way out and bought cigarettes, slipping them into her bag with a quick glance around.
The Moonflower Vine Page 30