by Jan Karon
His mother had bought new cook pots from a traveling salesman, and sent her old ones to Peggy’s house. He’d carried this very pot down to Peggy himself—how many years ago?
He tossed it into the weeds.
He remembered his grief, and how he struggled to keep it hidden, and the questions he asked himself again and again. Why would Peggy leave his mother, who loved her and taught her to cook and sew and memorize scripture and write her name and read and not say ain’t, who even had Peggy’s teeth fixed so she could chew?
Why would she have left the little house she loved so much and kept so clean, even with all the dust from the road—the house she said was the only real home she’d ever known? And her chickens—Peggy had been sole caretaker of the Rhode Island Reds that laid the Whitefield eggs, and later ended up on the table in a bowl of dumplings. She had loved her chickens, and staved off the cook pot as long as reason would allow.
But more than all that, why would she have left him, the one she’d called baby, the one who had saved her life, the one who she always, always said was her very best friend in the whole wide world?
And yet, one day—he’d been in fifth grade—he came home from school, and Peggy wasn’t in the kitchen or in the washhouse or anywhere else. Just like that, she had gone away from them forever.
He’d searched the two rooms of her house again and again, always calling her name and expecting her to answer, bewildered that her clothes still hung on nails in the corner. She had even left her apron draped over the back of a chair, as if she would walk in the door any minute.
As far as he could tell, she hadn’t taken anything with her except her Bible, the dress and shoes she often wore, and her coat the color of broom straw.
He wandered to the barn and searched the stalls, fearful that she’d been looking for bantam eggs in the loft and fallen through the rotten boards.
But there was no trace of Peggy, and his mother could answer none of his questions. She seemed as distraught as he.
He went to his father, sick with grief. ‘We should tell the sheriff.’
‘Absolutely not. And don’t mention it again.’
‘I’ll find her,’ he said.
His father’s face was set like stone. ‘Leave it be. Do you hear?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I’ll find her,’ he told his mother.
He went to her church on Wednesday night and stood in the road in the gathering dusk, watching the congregation assemble. But Peggy didn’t come. He approached two elderly women and asked if they knew Peggy. He was dumbfounded that he couldn’t tell them her last name when they asked, because he didn’t know it.
He’d been forced to describe her. ‘Tall,’ he said, struggling to put something of her essence into words. ‘Bony.’ That had been her view of herself. ‘Wears a red kerchief.’ He didn’t call it a head rag, like most people; he was trying to be respectful. They said they hadn’t seen Peggy and had wondered about her themselves.
He went with Louis to the walnut tree to get a pack of peanuts, and demanded to know what Cole knew.
Cole looked at him as if he were a dog pile. ‘Peggy done gone where th’ sun don’t shine.’ Then he laughed and danced around like a fool.
‘Don’ pay no ’tention t’ that crazy nigger,’ said Louis. ‘He don’ know n’ more ’bout Peggy than us whose hearts is broke.’
He wrestled for two days with what Cole could have meant about ‘where the sun don’t shine.’ The sun didn’t shine in a grave. The thought nearly stopped his heart, he felt faint even thinking such a thing. Maybe she had died or been killed, and put in a grave without anyone knowing.
He rode his bicycle to Tommy’s house and did his bobwhite imitation from the road. ‘Go with me somewhere,’ he said when Tommy came out.
‘Where?’
‘Th’ nigger graveyard.’
‘I ain’t goin’ t’ no nigger graveyard.’
‘Okay, then, I’ll go by myself since you’re chicken.’
‘I ain’t chicken. Just ain’t los’ nothin’ in no graveyard.’
He rode off, believing Tommy would follow, but he didn’t. He felt betrayed. Why was he the only one looking for Peggy? Why were people doing what they always did, digging postholes, riding around on a horse, pulling weeds out of the garden, as if Peggy were in the kitchen baking biscuits? She had vanished without a trace and nobody seemed to care, except Louis, who was too busy working to look for missing people, and his mother, who now had no help with the cooking and laundry, and wouldn’t know where to look, anyway. It was all up to him.
The graveyard at Peggy’s church had only one tree for shade; the graves lay open to a baking sun; even the weeds looked dead. He propped his bicycle against the tree and stood there like a dunce, not knowing what else to do.
It occurred to him to cross himself—maybe that would help—as he’d learned to do at Christ Church. That’s where his father was forcing him to go every Sunday, now, and his mother, too.
He felt naked without the protection of his mother’s Baptist church in Walnut Grove, where he knew everybody and could even sing the hymns, and where, two years ago, he had gone forward to make a confession of faith. For a long time, his father hadn’t attended church at all, then all of a sudden, out of the blue, his father had decided to go to church, but it had to be his church.
He hated the memory of being dragged out of Walnut Grove by his father like a sack of potatoes, to a place where people were different, very different. Most of the grown-ups weren’t friendly at all, and some of the kids in Sunday School wouldn’t speak to him. He didn’t like their cookies, either. Too hard, not soft like Peggy’s, plus all that kneeling and carrying on, and the sermon so boring he could gag, puke, and croak.
His eyes searched for a mound of red dirt that signified a new grave, but he saw no such thing.
Don’t let Peggy be here, God.
‘You’re looking for somebody?’
A black man in a black suit and black shoes, carrying a black book, was walking toward the shade of the tree.
His heart hammered. Yes, he was looking for somebody, but it was nobody’s business who.
‘How can I help you?’
A pain shot through his head, like a nail had been hammered into his skull. ‘Peggy,’ he said, trying to get his breath.
‘Peggy.’ The man moved into the shade, smiling.
‘She…’ He suddenly wanted to cry, but did not. ‘I can’t find our Peggy, she’s tall and bony and wears a head rag. It’s red. Peggy Lambert.’ That was the best he could do. He stared at his bare feet, anguished.
The man laughed. ‘Peggy Lambert is a fine woman. I don’t know how she’d feel about being called bony.’
‘She calls herself bony.’
‘Is she missing?’
He nodded. ‘For about a week.’
‘We didn’t see Peggy at church on Sunday or at meeting on Wednesday night. That’s unusual.’
He thought the man looked worried. It was a relief to see somebody look worried the same as him.
‘Brother Grant.’ The man held out his hand.
He took it. ‘Timmy Kavanagh.’ It was a comfort to shake hands like a man.
‘From over at Whitefield, I believe, where Peggy lives.’
‘Yes.’ He’d never seen anyone so dressed up on a weekday, except sometimes when court was in session.
‘Did you think you might find Peggy…here?’
‘I guess.’ He was suddenly crying, sobbing; he couldn’t hold it back and he couldn’t stop. He sank to his haunches, wailing. He wished he could die.
The man squatted beside him, not saying or doing anything, just squatting there. It felt good for him to be there. He cried til he had no tears left and his nose was running and his eyes were swollen, but he felt better, as if a crushing weight had been removed and he could breathe again.
When he got up, Brother Grant stood, too, and looked at him and nodded his head. ‘It’s going to be all ri
ght, Timmy,’ he said, as if he could look into the future like Jeremiah. For a long time, he would remember Brother Grant’s words, ‘It’s going to be all right.’
Back at Whitefield, he lowered his head, unable to meet his mother’s gaze. ‘I couldn’t find ’er. I tried an’ tried.’
‘Has anyone spoken with Cole about where she might have gone?’ She knew Cole had tormented Peggy like a sting bee.
‘Cole ain’t nothin’ but a crazy nigger.’ He burned with hatred at the thought of Cole.
‘What did you just say, Timothy?’
‘Nigger, nigger, nigger!’ He knew the word was taboo, that it offended his mother, but he didn’t care. ‘Jack Mickie says it all th’ time; ever’body says it.’
‘You’re not everybody, Timothy. You’re special.’
He turned his head away, exhausted, stricken, hopeless. He’d never understood why his mother wouldn’t let him say what his father said, and everybody else except Peggy.
‘Please look at me, Timothy. Since you were a very little boy, I’ve asked you not to use that hurtful word. I know you, my son, and the last thing you’d wish to do is hurt someone.’
‘Cole called me a white-ass peckerwood.’ He was flinging some pretty strong language around, but he couldn’t seem to care.
‘Let Cole call you what he pleases. What he means by such language is between him and God.’
‘Is what I just said between me an’ God?’
‘It is between you and God. That’s the whole point. God asks us to love one another, as Christ loved us.
‘The vile word you used is properly pronounced as negro, which is the Spanish word for black—that and nothing more. It’s how that perfectly harmless word is used these days that makes it hurtful. Louis doesn’t deserve such a word, nor do his wife and children. Not even Cole, who is blasphemous and spiteful. The mispronunciation of this word reveals a great deal about the person who uses it.
‘It reveals that one is narrow of mind, mean of spirit…’—the color rushed to her cheeks—‘and coarse.’
She was really upset; he might have to memorize a whole chapter this time.
‘Is Father all those things you just said?’
She turned away; he had caught his mother in something, though he didn’t know what. He had shamed her in some way, and he felt miserable for having done it.
When she faced him, he thought she looked terrible, older, not even like his mother.
‘What you may say in our home and out of it, Timothy, is Negro. Or you may say that someone is colored, or a person of color. That is the rule.
‘You’re to memorize First Corinthians, chapter twelve, verse thirteen. We’ll discuss its meaning after breakfast tomorrow.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
He walked to the door, not looking back.
‘Timothy?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’ He didn’t turn around.
‘I love you, my son.’
Later, he was riding in the wagon with Louis when he saw Cole dart from the bushes at the edge of Big Field, looking over his shoulder and toting a sack.
‘Ol’ Cole’s got gamblin’ goin’ on wit’ the pickers, which ain’t good a’tall. Mr. Matthew turn a deaf eye t’ Cole’s foolishness, he need t’ run that bad nigger off from here.’
‘Don’t say nigger.’
Louis pulled back on the reins as they bounced downhill on the rough track. ‘What I’m gon’ say?’
‘Say Negro. It’s Spanish.’
It took a while, but one day he realized that thinking about Peggy didn’t make him sad anymore, it made him mad. Really mad. He was furious at her for dumping him, dumping his mother, dumping Louis and Sally and everybody who cared about her. His anger was as terrible as his grief had been, and he relished it, and held on to it for a long time…
Up ahead, he saw two men standing where the washhouse once stood.
Towels were wrapped around their waists as if they’d just stepped from a shower stall.
Keeping a tight rein on the leash, he raised his right hand in salute. The tall white man and the shorter black man returned the gesture.
He walked up faster and called out. “Couldn’t find anyone home, thought I’d walk around. No harm intended.”
Barnabas wasn’t barking, which was a good sign.
The taller of the duo stepped forward. “T Pruitt. An’ this is my buddy, Ray Edwards.”
“Tim Kavanagh.”
They shook hands.
“I hope you’ll forgive me for making myself at home. I was raised here.”
T adjusted his towel; his wet hair was combed in a pompadour. “No problem. I recognize th’ name Kavanagh from th’ history of th’ place. Built by Porter in 1858, sold t’ Kavanagh in 1934, Kavanagh sold it t’ Jamison, and ten years ago Jamison sold it t’ my brother, Jess.”
“History in a nutshell. Good to meet you.”
“Same here. You Cath’lic?”
“Episcopal. Retired, but still wearing the collar. Sometimes it gives people a safe place to run. Y’all doing the work on the house?”
T laughed. “Doin’ th’ best we can. Put it that way.”
“It looks wonderful. Better than ever.”
“Got a ways to go. After we finished up at th’ house today, we jumped in th’ pond to cool off.”
“The pond is still there?”
“Oh, yeah. Got a few bass, a few crappie, a good many catfish.”
“Yes, but how many water moccasins?”
Ray grinned, revealing pink gums only. “We keep to our side, they keep t’ theirs.”
He pulled out his handkerchief and wiped his forehead. “What do you think the temperature is today? Ninety-six, ninety-seven?”
“Ninety-eight,” said Ray.
“In th’ shade,” said T. “Come on, let’s go in an’ have a cold drink.”
“How’s yo’ dog do wit’ little dogs?” asked Ray.
“Not a problem. You have dogs?”
“Ol’ Tater an’ Tot’ll be comin’ in from th’ woods here in a minute. Prob’ly be headin’ back th’ way they come when they see this brother.” Ray let Barnabas sniff the back of his hand.
“I don’t want to intrude, we’ll get on up the road to Memphis.”
“Don’t run off,” said T. “Me an’ Ray like comp’ny. Us ol’ boys get lonesome out here in th’ woods.”
“Sho do,” said Ray. “Let me get some clothes on, we’ll go set on th’ porch like rich folks.”
“That’s good of you. Thanks. I could use a little company myself.”
“Hate for comp’ny to catch me wit’out teeth. They in th’ shop, so to speak.” Ray cut out across the yard. “See you in ten.”
“Ray lives over th’ garage, we built that a while back. I guess we tore down what you remember.”
“A cupola on top?”
“That’s th’ one. Roof caved in.”
They walked to the front of the house and into the hallway. “I’m camped out upstairs,” said T. “Won’t take me long. Look around down here, make yourself at home. You want a beer?”
“Don’t believe so, thanks.”
“I been dry ten years, but Ray likes t’ stock a few cold ones.”
He’d never paid much attention to the bones of Whitefield, which was built during the cotton boom of the late 1850s. While he’d known it was a handsome house, he’d taken the particulars of its design for granted. It was entirely different from the house in Mitford, which appeared to have been built for Lilliputians—these ceilings were twelve feet high, with ornate cornices into the bargain. Four plastered Doric columns, now bereft of fissures and the assorted signs of old age, separated the dining room and parlor from a wide central hall.
The place was beautiful. He gawked, noting every detail and wishing for his wife. Built-in bookcases had been added on either side of the parlor fireplace; French doors led to what had been the woodshed where Louis taught him to split wood.
In the dining room, he stop
ped and examined a window. New muntins. New glazing. New sills. By the time he was in seminary, the old windows had been nearly impossible to open and close. He’d urged his widowed mother to move into town, into something smaller, newer, and certainly less remote, but it was too late for that—she was finally at peace with living in the country, content with solitude and the company of Louis and Sally.
No more westerly view of the washhouse from this window. Instead, his gaze was led down the old wagon track, across the overgrown Big Field, and up to the tree line.
He remembered how they’d taken the rutted track and climbed the hill into the woods. Even with mittens on, his hands had been stiff with cold…
They zigzagged among the leafless trees toward the west fence; somewhere in the underbrush, turkeys gobbled.
‘Yonder by th’ fence post—that’n look nice.’
‘It’s too bent on top,’ he said. ‘Th’ star might fall off.’
‘How ’bout this’n right here, then? We ’bout t’ walk right into this’n.’
The crunch of hoarfrost under their feet, the stinging cold on their faces, the feel of the sled rope in his hand—and Peggy with her head wrapped in the red kerchief. It was the best thing they’d ever done.
‘I like that’n.’ He pointed ahead.
‘Yo’ mama say don’ point.’
‘How’m I s’posed t’ show you where it’s at?’
‘Don’ say where it’s at, say where it is. An’ ’stead of pointin’, say how t’ reco’nize it.’
‘Th’ one with th’ wide branches at th’ bottom, an’ broom sage growin’ all around. Next to that stump.’
‘Oh, law, that tree take two strong men t’ chop it down—we jus’ a bony woman an’ a baby.’
He stomped his foot. ‘I’m not a baby.’
‘Oh, you right, I forgot you ain’t a baby, an’ don’ stomp yo’ foot at me, little man. You hear what I say?’
He frowned back, so she would know he meant business.
‘When you was a baby, I’d be churnin’ with both hands an’ rockin’ yo’ cradle with my foot. You been my baby a long time, but I gon’ try t’ do better an’ quit sayin’ it. That’ll be yo’ Santy Claus from Peggy. Now pick yo’self another tree.’