by Pamela Morsi
He sat alone now on the long pine bench provided by the undertaker for the mourning of closest kin, understanding, perhaps for the first time, how his father must have felt coming home from the war to discover himself without family. His father was not without family now. All around him were Chavis gravestones as well as those bearing the names Gidry and Guidry, his grandmother's family. They were all here together.
He was upon the mourning bench alone.
A telegraph had been sent off to his mother yesterday, asking if the funeral should be delayed so that she might attend.
Her response had been prompt, brief, and to the point.
So sorry for your loss. Have no plans to return to Texas.
Gidry sat alone on the family bench, staring at the elaborately carved cherry wood coffin and the giant gash in the ground where it would be buried as he half listened to Reverend Hathaway's reading.
"A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted."
He had not believed it when they had come for him at the dance. He was certain that a night so bright with hope could not end with such agonizing finality.
They were mistaken; he had been absolutely sure of that as he had raced home. His father might be asleep or he might be worse, but he was surely not dead. He had not thought it possible until he had seen Aunt Hen's face. Her complexion as bloodless as if she were deceased as well, Gidry knew that in fact it was irrevocably true.
"But though he cause grief, yet will he have compassion according to the multitude of his mercies. For he doth not afflict willingly nor grieve the children of men."
In the thirty-six hours since, he had held himself together by sheer force of will and the requisite numbness of the occasion. He had calmly ordered the disposition of the body with the undertaker. He discussed the details of the funeral service with the pastor. He had selected the songs to be played. And he had even personally requested that Judge Ramey give his father's eulogy.
"A hero to his country," the judge intoned. "A friend to those in need."
Gidry continued to stare at the coffin. It was draped in flowers, mostly roses. Undoubtedly Aunt Hen's roses. He would not have imagined that after the Harvest Moon Dance that there would have been any blooms left in town. But they were all here now, all decorating the cherry wood box that held the cold shell of a body that was once Gidry's father.
"The sorrows of death compassed me .. .I was brought low, and he helped me. Return unto thy rest, O my soul, for the Lord hath dealt bountifully with thee."
Finally it was over. The twelve sturdy men who had borne the cherry wood coffin from the hearse to the burial site began carefully to lower it down with ropes. At last it lay still at the bottom, covered with beautiful flowers.
"From dust to dust," Reverend Hathaway proclaimed as he scattered a handful of dirt atop it. He nodded for Gidry to do the same.
He picked up a handful of the waxy black dirt and cast it down onto the coffin. Gidry thought it would make him feel better. He'd thought it would make it feel finished. Neither happened. He remained numb. Numb on the surface, hollow inside. He was lonely and lost, bereft. And he needed something to do.
Deliberately he walked to the other side where the dirt was piled high. Gidry took up one of the shovels there. He began to fill the grave, one spadeful after another. If the community were startled or scandalized, Gidry did not notice. It was hot, hard work, it was also the last thing that he could ever do for his father. He took off his coat, handed it to Reverend Hathaway and began to utilize the shovel in earnest.
People passed by. Some throwing in a handful of dirt, others dropped in flowers. Gidry didn't speak to them, he continued his work.
Slowly, ever so slowly, the coffin was covered. Then the bright colors of the flowers disappeared from view. There were other men beside him before the job was done. The rest of the mourners had drifted away, but several stayed behind to help, Elmer Corsen, Albert Fenton, and a farmer that Gidry did not even know.
They piled the dirt high upon the grave site, knowing that it would sink and settle as it gave way to the nature of all things. Gidry's brow was drenched with sweat and his cheeks stained by tears. He didn't care if one was mistaken for the other.
Gidry tapped down the last spade of dirt with the back of his shovel and stood silently before it as the men dispersed. He nodded as they patted him on the shoulder or expressed their sorrow.
He was thinking about his father. In his mind's eye he could see the old man as he once had been. Huge and vital, towering over his adoring son. He imagined his father laughing. It was not something he often did. Generally he was stern and gruff, a demeanor most suited to his position in the community. But Aunt Hen could tease him unmercifully and always wheedle a smile out of him, no matter the seriousness of the occasion.
In the far distant past he recalled a picnic. It was just the three of them in a shady spot by the river. His father insisted that Aunt Hen must be invited to every picnic because her fried chicken was the best in town. On this particular picnic it happened to be Aunt Hen's birthday. A fact that was a surprise to Gidry, but apparently not to his father, who after consuming the famous fried chicken produced a small gift for her.
Gidry was excited when she unwrapped the paper and ribbon; he loved getting presents. Then he was keenly disappointed to see a cup. A little boy could only think, what kind of present is a cup? It had a rose painted on it, which seemed to please Aunt Hen, but it was still just a cup.
The sweet woman, apparently sensing his dismay began to make a joke of it.
"What on earth will I do with an empty cup?" she asked in feigned dismay.
"You can drink coffee," Gidry told her.
"Yes, I suppose I could do that," she said.
"Or tea," he said excitedly.
"Yes, I like tea as well."
Aunt Hen looked over at Peer. There was a teasing sparkle in her eyes, and his father picked up on it.
'It's not a regular cup," Peer said. "It's one your Aunt Hen can use for a spittoon."
"A spittoon?"
"Yes, you know, for her chewing tobacco."
"Papa, Aunt Hen doesn't chew tobacco," Gidry told him.
"She doesn't?" His father's expression was all teasing puzzlement. "I must have got her confused with Mrs. Crenshaw."
The woman to which he referred did indeed chew tobacco. She was, to young Gidry's mind, at least a thousand years old and the dirtiest, smelliest old woman in Chavistown.
Aunt Hen giggled like a young girl.
"I am not Mrs. Crenshaw," she told them. "But what do you think, Gidry? Should I take up the tobacco habit?"
He didn't know how to answer.
"What's a habit, Papa?"
"It's something you like to do every day," Peer said.
Gidry nodded thoughtfully and turned to Aunt Hen. "Like gardening?" he asked.
She smiled.
"Well no, gardening is actually a hobby," she told him.
His father's voice was gruff, but his tone was teasing as he leaned forward to suggest to Gidry, "With your Aunt Hen, it is more like a habit."
She had feigned fury, and his father laughed. It was a broad, booming laugh that echoed off the river bluffs and filled the deserted clearing with its joy.
In his heart Gidry could almost hear it again, and it warmed him.
"Is there anything more I can do for you, Mr. Chavis?" the undertaker asked him.
He looked up, momentarily started. When the man had said, Mr. Chavis, Gidry had illogically thought that his father had arrived. But the only Mr. Chavis to be spoken to was himself.
"Nothing more, thank you, sir," he told the man.
Then he was alone.
He stood there. Wondering what to do. Wishing he knew what to do, seemingly unable to think.
He heard a sound behind him and turned to spy young Sharpy watching him warily.
"Hello," he said quietly to the boy.
The
little fellow nodded guardedly, then stepped closer to examine the hill of dirt that crowned the grave. He turned to Gidry, his childish face, solemn and sincere.
"I'm sorry about your papa dying, Mr. Chavis."
'Thank you."
"He was real nice to me, always," Sharpy said.
"That's nice."
"Are you going to get him a tupe-stone?" the little fellow asked. "I think the best graves are the ones with tupe-stones."
A ghost of a smile turned the corners of Gidry's mouth.
"Yes, I will certainly get him a tombstone," he assured the boy.
Sharpy nodded satisfied.
"Good," he said. "He got my mama one, so I wanted to make sure he had one of his own."
"He what?"
"He got my mama a tupe-stone," Sharpy said. "She didn't have one, just a two-by-four sticking out of the ground with her name wrote on it by the undertaker. So I went to Mr. Chavis and say, my mama's gotta have a tupe-stone, and he got her one. Ya wanna see?"
Gidry nodded.
He followed Sharpy across the cemetery, noting with some surprise that the little boy seemed very much at home here, as if he spent a good deal of time upon the lonely hill. He pointed out graves to Gidry as he went. There was fussy old Miss Fern, who used to play for church, and Mr. Buster, Albert Fenton's father-in-law.
He even pointed out the grave of the Redfern twins, a pair of nine-year-olds who'd drowned in the river nearly fifty years earlier. One boy had gotten a cramp and the other had dived in to save him and drowned as well. They were identical twins, and when their lifeless bodies were found, even their own mother couldn't say for sure which was Ezra and which was Amos. So they'd been buried in one grave, lying together in one casket. It was the kind of local lore that was passed down to each generation. Gidry listened to Sharpy tell the tale with the same awe, enthusiasm, and embellishments with which he had once told it himself.
The boy stopped a little farther on. Gidry stood beside him looking down at the stones. The larger, more prestigious one said Thomas Franklin Kilroy and carried the epitaph, Carried Home at Last. Beside it was a very much smaller stone of plain gray granite. It read simply, Mabel Merriman Kilroy 1862-1894.
The name jogged in Gidry's memory. Pru had mentioned this very woman at the dance. He had not been able to recall her name at the time, but he remembered her quite well.
"I knew your mother," he told Sharpy.
"Really?" The little boy's eyes were alight with anticipation. "Is that why your papa bought her the tupe-stone, cause she was your friend?"
Gidry shook his head.
"No," he told him. "I'm sure my father did it because . .. because she didn't have one. He probably wasn't even aware that I knew your mother."
The little boy nodded, accepting.
"I remember how she used to laugh," Sharpy said. "She would laugh and laugh, no matter how bad things were."
Gidry's smile was bittersweet. Had he not been thinking similar thoughts of his father only moments ago? He understood the child's feelings as perhaps he could not have a week earlier. He comprehended fully the painful knowledge that the laugh would be heard no more.
"I remember your mama long before you were ever born," Gidry said suddenly. "She had a bright, spangly red dress, and she was so pretty, I could hardly keep my eyes off of her."
"For true?" Sharpy asked.
"For absolutely true," Gidry replied. "I thought she was the prettiest girl in Chavistown. I use to lie awake at night dreaming up things to say to her to catch her attention."
Sharpy looked up at him, eager to hear.
"And did she like you back?" he asked.
Gidry shook his head.
"Oh no," he replied. "She had no use for me at all. To her I was just a loutish, clumsy boy."
"I bet if she could see you now, she'd like you," Sharpy assured him.
Gidry leaned over and ruffled the boy's hair.
"And I'm sure she'd be as pretty as I always remembered her."
The little fellow smiled up at him, eased, Gidry hoped, by the words.
"It's getting close to dark, Sharpy," he said. "I guess we'd better head back toward town."
The youngster agreed, and they began walking together in that direction. Gidry realized that some of the numbness was receding. If he could feel the boy's pain, then eventually he would feel his own.
"Do you live in your father's old shack?" he asked the child. "Or with one of the families in town?"
"I got my own place," Sharpy answered quickly. "I'm really glad that you're not mad at me."
"Mad at you?"
"I started not to speak cause I thought you might be," Sharpy admitted. "But Miss Pru says that a man has to undress his can-dough-latches, no matter what."
Gidry disguised a chuckle behind a cough.
"Absolutely," he agreed. "Condolences must certainly be addressed. Why did you think I would be angry at you?"
Sharpy looked at him curiously, as if not sure if his mind was addled.
"Because you caught me stealing the Jack-a-knees lanterns," he said.
"I understood from Miss Pru that you two had borrowed them for the dance," Gidry said.
Sharpy rolled his eyes, but didn't immediately comment.
"I thought they looked very pretty that night," Gidry assured him. "I thought they looked very pretty indeed."
The two parted company in front of Gidry's door. As he watched the boy hurry on, he wondered once more where the little fellow lived.
"His own place?"
Gidry shook his head in disbelief at the idea.
The house was barren and empty. The scent of flowers still lingered in the front parlor. He didn't venture in there. He made his way to the kitchen. The table, counters, and shelves were full of food. Virtually everyone in the county had called while his father was laid out. Nearly all of them had brought a pie or ham or a mess of peas. Gidry surveyed the accumulation, thinking rightly that the amount of food available would feed a small army for more than a day.
He felt empty, very empty. But somehow nothing appealed to him. He made his way from room to room, finally finding his way upstairs to change out of his suit. Dressed once more in his cowboy duds he felt a little more relaxed.
Gidry stepped into his father's room. It was dark and empty, the shades all drawn. The bed had been stripped completely, the mattress tick gone. He tried to recapture the feeling of being here with his father. The few short weeks where they had, perhaps for the first time, met each other on an equal basis. The strange numbness pervaded him. He tried to recall the pleasure in his father's eyes as he regaled him with Wild West tales. But the only image that would come to his mind was the vacant, glassy eyes of death staring up at him.
Gidry shook off the emotion. The memory, however, remained.
He walked around for a long moment assessingly. It was traditional for a man-to take the main bedroom of a house as his own when he inherited. Gidry couldn't imagine that. And looking around he could come up with no good reason for doing so. His own room was larger than this one and was nicely shaded by huge red oak that grew on the far side of the house. It was strange that his father had made this little corner his bedchamber. It was neither large nor had a good view.
Gidry walked over to the east window and drew up the shade. The only thing one could see really well from this room was Aunt Hen's garden. Of course, it was certainly pretty enough when in bloom, he decided.
It was then that he saw Pru. She stood at the back door, as usual, and her lantern was ablaze. Gidry's eyes narrowed at the sight. How many nights had he stood at this window watching that garden, waiting for Pru to leave the house to meet her lover.
"Damn!"
Gidry slammed his fist against the window frame with tremendous force.
She was going to meet him now, again.
By God! He decided angrily. It was unconscionable. She was going to meet some worthless, lowlife adulterer. When it was he, Gidry Chavis, who needed to
be held and soothed and comforted. It was he who should be finding solace in her arms. Because it was he that had gently and most ardently offered to make her his wife.
She refused him because of what had happened so very, very long ago. Well, she was not so blameless herself. And he would tell her so. He would tell them both!
Gidry Chavis tore down the stairs, his jaw set in determination.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Sharpy was not in the milk shed this evening. Pru was disappointed. She'd hardly had more than a moment to spare for the little fellow in the last couple of days. Aunt Hen had taken the death of poor old Mr. Chavis very hard. But sad as she was, she was also determined to see that everything was done properly and to be of as much assistance to Gidry as possible. Pru didn't fault her aunt for her concerns or actions, but it did make it more difficult to keep up with the little boy whose care she'd taken upon herself.
They'd had only a moment to talk that morning. The little boy appeared very curious to compare the funeral for Mr. Chavis with the one held for his mother. He'd also shown a keen interest in Gidry and how he was taking the loss.
Seeing how sympathetic his young heart was, she'd urged him to formally offer words of comfort to him. The little fellow admitted to some trepidation at doing so. Apparently he thought the incident at the cotton gin would have soured his hero against him.
Pru hoped, for the boy's sake, that it had not.
It would be good for Gidry as well. He looked so lost and alone out on Cemetery Hill. She had thought to follow Aunt Hen's stoic example of graceful good breeding. When he picked up the shovel, however, and began to fill the grave himself, Pru's heart ached for him, and she'd been unable to hold back the tears.
She thought of the long years when he was away. Wasted. So very wasted. He'd returned to find his father forever altered. And now, after only a few short weeks, dead.
Pru hated that. She hated the pointlessness of it. She hated the pain it evoked. And she hated seeing Gidry so hurt. After all that had been said and done and left unable to be undone, she still loved him.
At that moment the door to the milk shed flew open and slammed back upon its hinges. He did not look hurt, or sorrowful. At that moment he looked at mad as the very devil.