by Pamela Morsi
"Pa says pine is all right," he told Hannah. "He don' want nothing too fancy, but he's just no good with carpentry and he wants Granddaddy to rest in a good strong box."
Hannah watched the boy take a deep swallow, trying to control the grief that trembled in his lower lip and moistened his eyes, but wisely refrained from comforting him. After raising her brothers through those difficult in between years, she learned that doing and saying nothing was sometimes the best course of action.
"You had best talk about what you want with my husband," she told him.
Clanging on the dinner bell several times, the two waited by the back step. Hannah brought the boy a bit of light bread with jelly to eat.
"Would you mind eating up some of this?" she asked hoping to take his mind off his troubles. "I suppose I just made too much of this bread this week and if somebody doesn't eat it up, it will just go to waste."
The boy took the bread with a nod agreeing to help her get rid of it.
"Those no-account chickens were thinking I'd be giving it to them, but we've fooled them, haven't we." The note of exaggerated conspiracy brought a hint of a smile to the young man's cheeks.
When Henry Lee approached at a hurried lope, she left the two to discuss business between themselves.
Henry Lee had made plenty of coffins in his lifetime. It wasn't a very pleasant job, but he knew from experience it was easier if the coffin was not for your own kin. He didn't really want to take the time out to do it, but just that morning he'd finished the singlings, so he could leave his still cold and start it up again when he returned. The young boy's earnest attempt to act the man of business touched Henry Lee and he promised to make the coffin that evening and bring it over before the funeral in the morning.
As Young Newt rode off, Hannah emerged from the house.
"Are you making Mr. Hensley's coffin?"
"Yes," he replied raising his arms to stretch high over his head and yawning. He slept only in bits and starts luring the distilling and after two days he was feeling pretty worn out.
"I told him that I would make it this evening and bring it over in the morning before the funeral."
"Good. I felt so sad for him, death is so hard to understand when you're young."
"Yes." Henry Lee nodded and the eyes of the two unexpectedly met. He shared a gentle smile with her.
"I was about his age when my mama died," Henry Lee said and then remembering what Preacher Farnam had told him added, "You lost your mother back then, too."
As their eyes held, they each were suddenly aware of the other in a new way. Able to see the hurt, the fear, the unreasonable confusion of suddenly having the focus of youthful existence cease. They could both remember that childhood vision of the future as an empty blackness. They had looked around for a word of comfort, only to find that they must face their grief alone. Each had decided to persevere, to relinquish childhood, in order to fulfil the day-to-day tasks of life, to accept the numbness of the moment, and do what had to be done.
The shared memory of that suffering built a tenuous bond between the two and as Henry Lee reached to take her hand it whisked away the troubles of the past few days. Neither of them had ever shared that feeling of cold empty anger that had ravaged their innocent dreams Now, with a look in each other's eyes, they saw a mirror image of the devastation each had faced, and the triumph each had achieved. And their joined hands were the first link either had ever allowed for sharing that heartbreak.
Henry Lee saw Hannah as she was, compassionate and resolved. Willing to take on the sorrows of others because she felt herself more able to bear them. Her strength didn't stem from an indomitable will or an inflexible nature, but from the need to be strong, to be constant and unshakable for those around her.
Hannah suddenly understood that Henry Lee's light and frivolous nature was the brightly shining paper and ribbon on a package that contained immutability, intelligence, and a determination to succeed, not despite of heritage, but rather because of it.
The two stood transfixed, stunned by the sudden insight into the soul of the other and the knowledge that the ground they were treading was, for the moment, not a solid firmament.
Henry Lee looked away first, almost embarrassed by the depth of feeling that had come upon him.
"Guess I'd better get started if I intend to finish before dark." He turned away, not quite sure how to take leave. Glancing back he saw her smiling at him. Smiling and something else . . . something more . . . but Henry Lee could not imagine what it was.
Hannah, for her part, didn't know what it was either. She was aware that her spirits had lifted significantly and that there didn't seem to be any logical explanation for. She chided herself that she should be thinking about the poor Hensley family and their grief. But every time she tried to think of the Hensleys, Young Newt's face would suddenly turn into a young Henry Lee. And he would be looking at her that way, the way he had looked at her outside. As if they could see inside each other's hearts.
When Henry Lee came in for supper, the heat from the kitchen was overpowering and the smell of fresh baked bread was in the air.
"You're baking bread this late in the day?" he asked Hannah, knowing that the hot task was usually reserved for early morning.
"I've made some yeast rolls for the Hensleys," she answered. "You know how it is at funerals, so many people to feed and the family has neither the means nor the stamina to feed them all."
Henry Lee smiled. She tried to make her actions seem so efficient and practical, he thought, when really she's so very sad for them.
"I don't really know much about funerals. I usually just deliver the coffin and leave," he told her, prudently not mentioning that liquor was another commodity that he frequently delivered to the mourners.
"Well, we certainly don't have to stay if you don't wish," she said. "But I would really like to take the rolls and offer my condolences."
"You're going with me?"
Hannah's answer was wary. "If you prefer that I don't, I . .
"No," Henry Lee assured her. "I just hadn't thought about it, that's all. Of course you'll want to go," he answered, thinking of her tender heart surrounded by such a tough, practical facade. "And we can stay for the funeral if you like."
After supper Henry Lee finished varnishing Old Man Hensley's coffin.
His Dufold was finished enough to take down to the house. And setting it up in the workroom, Henry Lee tried every possible method to become comfortable. But the strange interlude between himself and Hannah on the back step had him as jumpy as a saloon girl at a Sunday School convention. He felt exposed and yet he didn't feel threatened.
He began to question the wisdom of waiting until after her baby was born to make her his wife. He didn't think it would bother him anymore to bed her. He chuckled to himself. No, it wouldn't bother him one bit, he wanted to bed her, and he was only fooling himself if he tried to say otherwise.
Maybe it was even the right thing to do. Maybe after sharing her bed for the next six or seven months he wouldn't be able to imagine the child being any other than his own.
In a few days they would be in Muskogee. It would make perfect sense for them to share a room, and to share a room meant to share a bed. They would make it like a real honeymoon. A time away from the everyday problems of their lives to devote to each other and the commitment of marriage. Henry Lee was not too familiar with honeymoons, but he knew that being alone with a woman for three days and two nights could bring a good deal of understanding. He smiled to himself, it could also be a good deal of fun.
Chapter Twelve
It was a terrible day for a funeral. The trees rustled with a gentle whisper, the birds sang, and bees droned lazily in wildflowers by the roadside. The bright blue sky was powdered with high cirrus clouds that sauntered across the top of the heavens, with a cool northerly breeze making the morning seem fresh and spring like. In short, the weather was the antithesis of the mournful reality of death.
The Hen
sleys lived a good distance from Henry Lee's place, so they started out early to arrive at midmorning before the majority of the mourners. Although Henry Lee's wagon was well-sprung, it was not as comfortable as the buggy. In addition to the jostling, there was no top and Hannah didn't own a parasol, so she was forced to wear her bonnet down close, with the brim shading her eyes from the hot sun. It certainly would not do to show up at the funeral with a bright red nose and too much sun in her cheeks.
The wagon held the coffin. In the bright sunlight it was polished and pretty. Almost too pretty, Hannah thought, to put into the ground. There was also a cauldron of butter beans cooked in fatback and a big basket of Hannah's yeast rolls. This made up her contribution to the funeral dinner. How food and funerals had become so closely tied in the communities of the prairie, Hannah did not know, but having a funeral with no dinner was tantamount to not saying words over the grave. It was as if the deceased was not much missed or deserving of the grief of the survivors. It was the responsibility of a preacher's wife to organize the dinner and Hannah, as her father's daughter, had instigated many a funeral meal and she knew that Reverend Brown's wife would be grateful for her help.
Lost in her own thoughts, she was unaware of Henry Lee's preoccupation. He had spent most of the night pacing his room and planning his future with Hannah. Now in the morning sun, he felt somewhat foolish. She was his wife, she'd made this bargain of her own free will. He had never wasted so much time and worry over a woman before. Of course, he'd never really had one that was his very own.
As he pulled his wagon into the shade in the Hensley's yard, the family began filing out of the house. Henry Lee helped his wife down from the wagon seat and then reaching into the wagon bed he retrieved the basket of rolls and handed them to Hannah. He carried the heavy kettle of butter beans himself, until they reached the porch where Young Newt relieved him of his burden, leaving Henry Lee standing on the porch with the menfolk, Newt Senior, his two brothers, his sister's husband, a couple of male cousins, and Reverend Brown.
"Good of you to come, Watson," the preacher told him, shaking his hand.
"Glad to do it." Henry Lee turned to Newt and his brothers. "I'm real sorry about your father. I didn't really know him much myself, but I've heard it said that he was a fine old gentleman."
His condolence conveyed sincerity and was gratefully accepted by the men. Hands were shaken all around, and when Newt took his he grasped it affectionately.
"I appreciate you making the coffin, Henry Lee," Newt said, "I can put together a bench or a chicken coop, but you got a way with wood that is mighty fine. I want my daddy to have the best."
"I know you do, Newt. And I think you'll be pleased." He gave him a hearty pat on the back. "Why don't you come on down to the wagon and have a look, if it suits you we can take it into the house."
As they headed back out into the yard Young Newt ran out to join them. In the clumsiness of his youth he allowed the screen door to slam loudly, which drew an immediate look of rebuke from his father and uncles. Henry Lee gave the young boy a private little smile of courage. The boy returned it shyly, grateful.
As they gathered around the wagon, Henry Lee drew back the tarp that protected the coffin from the sun and the dust. There was a moment of silence as each man realized how final today's events were.
Newt ran his hand over the beautifully finished wood with genuine tenderness. His reverence disconcerted Henry Lee, because he understood it. He quickly averted his eyes.
"This is very fine," Newt said at last. "It may take a while for me to pay you what I owe for this, Henry Lee, but it is what I want my daddy to have."
"It's only pine," Henry Lee said, wanting to quickly dispel any misconception about the price. "That's what the boy said to use. I just rubbed it up a little and put some roseberry shellac on it. Five dollars ought to cover it, pay me whenever you have a mind to."
Newt clasped his hand again. "I'm grateful."
They all stood together for another couple of minutes, exchanging small talk. It seemed strange to Henry Lee that no move was made to take the coffin into the house. It was as if they were collectively waiting for something to happen.
Finally, after an embarrassed glance toward the preacher one of Newt's brothers asked, "You got a jug on you, Henry Lee?"
Henry Lee glanced quickly at Reverend Brown. To his credit the preacher hurriedly masked his shocked expression and excused himself. Suddenly Henry Lee had an inexplicable wish that he were not in the whiskey business.
"We're not really drinking men," Newt explained, "but when things like this happen, well, it just seems like a little snort would help a lot."
"I'm sorry," he began lamely, "I don't have a drop with me. I ... I mean my wife . . ." Henry Lee didn't really know what he had planned to say, but whatever it was it didn't come out.
Newt raised his hand. "I know what you mean," he said. "My wife wouldn't approve neither, even if it does help. Somebody will show up with some sooner or later and if they don't, well, we'll just get through this the best we can."
Henry Lee nodded, thinking he was a hundred kinds of fool for forgetting. He was in the whiskey business, how in heaven's name could he have missed this opportunity?
"We best get this thing into the house," one of the cousins suggested.
Henry Lee and a couple of the younger men carried the coffin into the front parlor. Two dark-skinned women, who were sitting with the body, scurried away when the men arrived.
The old man was laid out on two boards strung between a couple of ladder-back chairs. The men set up a couple more chairs and placed the coffin between. Henry Lee opened the coffin and placed the lid standing on its side in front of it. This hid the chairs from view and gave the viewer less of the sense of a box.
"I'll send one of the women to lay him out again," Newt said retreating from the room. He was quickly followed by his brothers, cousins, and his brother-in-law until there was no one left except Henry Lee and Young Newt. Henry Lee wanted to leave also, but the body couldn't be left unattended and he didn't have the heart to leave Young Newt alone. The two stared at each other for a couple of minutes, the inactivity making them feel uncomfortable.
Henry Lee looked down at the body of the old man. He looked somewhat familiar, but he couldn't remember actually seeing him alive. He reached over and touched the white material that lay between the old man's body and the boards.
“Are they going to bury him with this tablecloth?" Henry Lee asked the boy.
"Yessir," he answered. "Mama says it was a wedding gift that he and Grandmama got when they married, and he ought to bring it up to heaven when he meets Grandmama."
Henry Lee nodded, understanding the strange blending of religion and superstition.
"I think the two of us can lay your granddaddy out just fine and save the womenfolk some grief."
The youngster nodded, soberly.
Henry Lee wrapped the body with the ends of the tablecloth and told Young Newt to grab his legs. The man weighed very little in his old age and was rigid as a load of kindling. It wasn't difficult for the two of them to lift him off the boards and up into the coffin. He unwrapped the body and carefully arranged the excess material of the tablecloth around it, making sure that none of the rough wood of the coffin interior was visible. When he assured himself that there was nothing more that he could do, he picked up the boards laying between the chairs and set them aside.
Newt's wife entered looking overworked but stoic. She was flanked by Hannah and another woman. Henry Lee glanced at his wife, as if to gather strength, and then grasped Mrs. Hensley's hand.
"Mrs. Hensley, I'm so sorry for your loss," he said glancing at his wife from the corner of his eye. "Young Newt and I went ahead and laid Mr. Hensley in the coffin. Come see if there is anything that we've neglected."
They made their way to the side of the coffin where Newt's wife looked down at her father-in-law and gently smoothed his hair.
"He looks right peaceful,
don't he?"
The others agreed with her.
She turned to her son. "You and Mr. Watson done laid him out like this?"
"Yes, ma'am," the boy answered, a bit unsure.
"Thank you,” she said to Henry Lee and then gave a gentle motherly hug to Young Newt, who beamed brightly at having finally done the right thing.
The afternoon sun blazed down on the gathered mourners at the grave side. Henry Lee and Hannah stood together as Elijah Brown gave the eulogy for the old man.
The deep and melodious voice of the preacher was a comfort to those gathered.
"Brother Hensley loved these prairies," he said. "He started up his first place not far from here. He tried three different times to make a go of it in different parts of the territory, before he finally came down here to Sandy Creek with his son."
Many of those gathered had lived a similar life, moving from one place to another hoping to have better luck at the next plot of ground.
"All that time, all his whole life," the preacher went on, "Brother Hensley was looking for a home."
There were nods of affirmation from the family and friends.
"He was looking for a home!" he repeated loudly. "He was just looking for a home."
His voice became quiet, just above a whisper. "And yesterday, brothers and sisters, he found a home in heaven at last."
"Amen!" was heard from one listener.
"Hallelujah!" from another.
Old Man Hensley's daughter began sobbing loudly and was comforted by Newt's wife.
Hannah couldn't stand to look at them, so she stared at the coffin as if in a trance and took her mind elsewhere. It was a trick she had acquired years ago. Funerals always reminded her of her mother's death, and as a member of the preacher's family, she had to attend a good many of them. She had learned when still in her teens to allow her mind to wander to the necessary tasks to be completed. It was impossible to think of two things at once. If she thought about the practical details, her mind had no room for the pain. She quickly made inventory of the last few hours. She had never worked with these women before, but found them much like the women in her father's congregation. Their ways were different from Hannah's, but everything had got done. It was not how Hannah would have done it, but then her way was not the only way.