What Momma Left Behind

by Cindy K. Sproles

I crawled to my feet and shoved open the door. The ashes of the burned mattress simmered. What would I do? How would I manage?

  In a fit, I went to kickin and stompin them ashes, bellerin like a sick goat. Anger crawled up from the deepest part of me, hurt seeped outta my heart, and fear eat at me like a hungry buzzard. Momma had left me in more ways than one. She’d left me with two brothers that wasn’t worth their weight. And then there was the secret of that blessed old jar. I knew Calvin would be back after Momma’s cannin jar, and I had no intentions of bringin it out of its hidin spot to see what was in it. It’d stay in its hole. After all I’d been through the last two days, I wasn’t sure I wanted anything Momma had to give.

  “How could you, Momma? How could you?”

  CHAPTER

  FOUR

  I sat on the porch step, watching the sky go from blue to yellow. A hawk circled overhead, and with each pass he made, it was like he was draggin new colors into the clouds. I watched as they melted into gray. The sun slowly slipped behind the mountain, takin what light was left to the evening away. Crickets rubbed their legs together, makin the song that danced on the night breeze.

  Alone. They was no singin from the kitchen. No one to set me at the table and continue to teach me words and letters. Nothin. I could read some, but I needed to know more. My dream to be a teacher was gone. Faded with the end of daylight.

  I didn’t need no lantern to make my way to the smokehouse. I’d done it so many times I knew ever rock and hole in the path. The plank door creaked on its rope hinges when I pushed it open. To the right hung a fresh side of smoked venison. Justice and me had tagged a small deer days ago before he got to drinkin. A knife, snug in its sheaf, hung on the wall. My fingers crawled up the wall and wrapped around the handle, slippin it free from the leather case. Bracing one hand against the meat, I sawed through the toughened carcass, still warm as it smoked. Just enough for supper and a tad for breakfast.

  “Thank you, good Father, for the blessin of this provision. I’m much obliged.” I swiped the knife clean on the tail of my skirt and placed it back in its holder. Though I ain’t rightly sure how thankful I am for this mess I’m in.

  I didn’t feel right close to the Almighty right now. My anger was as much at Him as it was Momma. But Momma always prayed over the food. I reckon I orta. I dipped the meat in the bucket of water that sat by the door, then shook it dry.

  “You hear that, Lord? I ain’t real fond of You right now. How’s a person supposed to trust a body who lets this kind of mess happen?”

  Momma’d read from her Bible and tell us about the amazin sacrifice the good Lord made on our behalf. I never rightly grasped why He saw a need to die. And right about now, I wondered what that “big sacrifice” Momma talked about had to do with this ordeal.

  I slipped the meat in my pocket, then reached over to one side and grabbed two chunks of applewood, tossing them in the smoker hole filled with embers. It only took seconds for the wood to catch, and a new sweet-smellin smoke went to fillin the room. “That oughta last through the night.”

  Takin hold of the knotted rope handle, I slammed the door closed behind me. Ever step I took landed hard against the ground, and for a little bit I’d have sworn I was digging holes with my heels.

  They was so many feelins rushin through me, I couldn’t catch a good breath. “Can’t You see what You’ve done to me?” I shook my hand toward the stars. “If they is a good Lord, You sure can’t prove it by me!” My chest felt like it would rip open and spill my heart out on the ground.

  In the midst of my own pain, I heard a whimper.

  “Hooch, that you, boy?” I clicked my lips together for the old hound to come. “Hooch! Come on!”

  The whimper grew louder.

  I ain’t one to get spooked easy, but seein as I found my momma dead, then buried her, I was a little skittish.

  “Calvin? That you?” I inched toward a stand of grass just off the path. “I ain’t scared of you. Come on out and stop playin games.”

  The weeds rustled and I rubbed my eyes. I couldn’t believe what I was seein. A child—a girl—crawled from the weeds.

  I squinted hard to see. “Who are you?”

  “Doanie. Doanie Whitefield.”

  “What?” I couldn’t be sure I heard her right. “Get outta them weeds and let me see you.” She stepped closer and I took her by the arm. “Let’s go to the house. I can’t make heads or tails of who you are.” I wrapped my hand around her arm and my fingers kissed. “Lawsy, girl. You ain’t got a bit of meat on your bones.”

  We stepped onto the porch, and I grabbed the lantern off the hook and held it close to her. The child’s cheeks was caved in, her eyes sunk into her head, and her frame frail. “Lord have mercy,” I whispered. “This here is what I’m talkin about, Lord. Why would You let this happen? This here is a little one.”

  “I come lookin for Miss Louise. She’s been bringin us beans and such. Can you get Miss Louise?”

  I stood starin at the girl. She had no idea Momma was gone. It was hard to speak the words that needed to be said, but I mustered up the courage. Pushin her hair behind her ear, I leaned next to her and whispered, “Doanie, Miss Louise is gone.”

  “Reckon when will she be back?”

  I swallowed hard, then took in a deep breath. “No, you don’t understand. Miss Louise passed.”

  The girl lifted her head toward the sky and bellowed like a hurt animal. She yanked her arm from me and shouted, “What am I supposed to do now? They’s three of us at home. Farrell is five, T. J. is just three. What will I do?” Her legs buckled and she grabbed at me to steady herself. “I got no way to feed ’em. They’ll die. I’ll die.”

  I knew Momma was keepin up the Olsen youngins, but I had no idea she was feedin the Whitefield children. This didn’t seem real. Now this one child stood toe to toe with me. She laid her face in her palms and cried.

  How many children was Momma feeding?

  It was hard to know what to do. I was still harborin my own grief. It had only been three days. Now here I was, about to do something I never imagined I’d do. I always dreamed of makin my way to Knoxville to learn to be a teacher. To learn good enough to be able to come back to the mountain and teach the wee ones. Momma told me about some fancy folks who lived there. They might take me in and help me get the extra schoolin. Now that Momma took her own soul . . . my working hard at my chores, huntin when the boys was nowhere to be found, doin what Momma told me, seemed all wasted.

  I’d never get to learn better. Momma’s teachin at night was a start, but it wasn’t enough. Now it’d never be no more.

  Words seeped outta my mouth like molasses drippin from a jar—slow and thick. I tried to convince myself this was a mistake, but it was like the good Lord stuck His hand down my mouth and pulled them words right out. They was no doubt I’d regret it. Anytime words come thick and slow, it was a mistake.

  “Where’s your brother and sister?”

  “I left them down the path.”

  “Lord have mercy. Go get them.”

  Doanie stood workin out a good excuse why they was down the path.

  “Go get ’em! Now.”

  The girl took off down the path like a flash of lightnin.

  “Lawsy, lawsy. Where will I put them?” I slapped my arms against my sides. Answer me, Momma! Where am I gonna put these youngins? Where?

  A cool breeze brushed past me, and when I looked up I could have swore I was starin at Momma. “It’s warm out, they could bed down in the hayloft.” I covered my ears. Momma was dead, and the dead don’t talk. My mind was messin with me.

  I dug my knuckles into my eyes and rubbed. When I took down my hands I saw what I thought was Momma—the outline of a bent-over tender cedar.

  They wasn’t no desire in my heart to take care of these . . . these . . . The word stuck in my craw. “These orphans.”

  I felt my legs commence to shake. Orphan. I’d done become what I feared most of bein. My heart went to racin and
I bent down, snagged a rock, and threw it as hard as I could at that cedar tree. “Liar! You wasn’t Momma!”

  The shadows of the night can twist a body’s sight and make us see what we want to see, not what is really there. I reckon what I wanted was to see Momma. Seein as that wouldn’t happen, I needed to move past my grief and on to what would be the reality of my life.

  I was an orphan who had to pick up the work of her momma, whether she wanted it or not. And that made me mad.

  Doanie made her way back up the path, brother and sister in tow. I eyed them for a minute, then let them sticky words slide out. “Don’t you worry none. This here can be your home.”

  This here can be your home. It was like I’d stepped on the mountaintop and shouted them words down into the valley. They bounced off every rock and crevice on the ridge and come back on me. Back at me like a lie.

  Doanie reached down and scooped up little T. J. His pants hung heavy with manure. Farrell, the middle child, wrapped her arm around her sister.

  I knelt and reached out my hand. “You Farrell?” Her eyes dug into me like a cat clawin to get away. “How old might you be? Six? Seven?”

  She burrowed tighter against her sister.

  “Oh, I see, the cat’s got your tongue. Well, seein as the cat has your tongue, I reckon I can snitch your nose.” I gently took hold of her nose and tugged, sliding my thumb between my first two fingers. “There! See! I took your nose.”

  The child swatted at my hand. “Ain’t no sucha thang. You can’t steal my nose.”

  “Why, I reckon I did. Right here. See?” I showed her the end of my thumb barely poking through my fingers.

  Her eyes widened. “Give it back!”

  “You answer my question and I’ll see if I can hook it back to your face. How old are you?”

  Farrell stared hard at me, then steppin behind Doanie, she answered, “I might be five.”

  I thought I’d lose my stomach. This wee one was five. Doanie was ten. T. J. three. These was just babies. Babies without a momma or a daddy . . . without a home. And Momma had been feedin them. How’d she keep this such a secret? Like it was no ordeal?

  “Hey! You promised to give me my nose back.”

  “Well, let’s get somethin straight right now. I made no promise. I said if you answered my question I’d see if I could hook it back.” I rubbed my hand against my skirt and then blew on my thumb so she’d think I was cleanin off her nose, then I gingerly twisted it against her face. “Stand back, let me look.” I took her cheek and turned it from side to side, eyein her nose. “A body has to be sure we got it on straight. Don’t want you walkin around the mountain with a crooked nose.”

  Doanie smiled. Silent like, she nodded. I felt a rush of tears fill my eyes, so I coughed and spit to try to fight them back. I pulled the slice of meat from my pocket and held it up. “Supper needs to be cooked. Let’s go.” I pointed to the tore-up screen door. “It might be broke, but you still open it to walk in.”

  Farrell pulled open the rickety door frame and stepped inside. Doanie followed.

  I grabbed her shirttail. “Hold up there, girl. That boy reeks. You wait here and let me find some cheesecloth. I’ll clean him up before you take him in.”

  She smiled again. “He is ripe, ain’t he?”

  “Ripe ain’t the word.” I glanced into the darkness. The moon give off a haze that shadowed everthing. And there she was again. Momma. Standing at the edge of the woods.

  It was like the wind carried her voice. “You’re doin right.”

  I blinked and squinted. “Doanie,” I said. “Remind me to cut that cedar down tomorrow.”

  CHAPTER

  FIVE

  It took a while for the stew to make. Longer than Farrell could hold her eyes open. I didn’t have the heart to put them little ones in the barn, so I made my way into Momma’s room and looked over the wooden slats to be sure they was no blood left on the floor. I took some quilts out of the cupboard, made a pallet, and carried Farrell into Momma’s room and laid her flat. She balled the corner of the quilt in her hand and rammed it into her mouth. I reckon suckin on a blanket was the step after suckin on your thumb.

  “Good Lord. What have I done?” I kept askin myself that question. Takin in these youngins was more than I could manage. How can one orphan take care of three more? My knees went to wobbling and my hands shook. I knew the ways of housekeeping. Momma taught me to cook, can, sew. But motherin wasn’t somethin I had planned on. It wasn’t somethin that could be taught. I guess it just had to be experienced. What I wanted was to teach. That had gone by the wayside.

  I spied Momma’s Bible on the small table in the corner. Its edges wore, pages the color of the fadin sun. And writin. Momma always wrote smart words in her Bible. I bent open the book and the pages fanned past me like a peacock spreadin its tail. When the pages stopped I pulled the book close to my eyes and commenced to sound out the words.

  “‘Suffer little children, and forbid them not, to come unto me . . .’” I struggled to sound out the words, but as I thought on them, my anger toward Momma kindled. It burned sucha fire in my heart that it singed my soul. She took her life, and when she did, mine went with it.

  I slammed the book closed and tossed it back in its place. “Stupid book.” I never imagined this thought would cross my mind, cause I loved my Momma. But right now, right at this minute in my grief, I hated her. Despite its words, I didn’t want no youngins brought to me.

  Doanie rocked T. J. in the old pine rocker Pawpaw built. I wasn’t sure what creaked more, the rungs on the rocker or the floor. Before I knew it, Doanie had the youngin sound asleep.

  “Lay him by your sister, then come get you a bite of stew.”

  Her cheeks was stained with trails of dirt left from her tears. She snuffed and whimpered as she passed by me.

  “It’ll be fine, Doanie. We’ll go to your cabin tomorrow and bring up what belongins you and the others need. We’ll make do.”

  She sniffed again. “Yes ma’am.”

  I nearly fell outta my chair. I was seventeen, and though I’d courted Trigger Townsend once, we never married. I was still nowhere near old enough to be called ma’am. That made me even madder. I realized I lost more than my momma, more than my dream for schoolin, but I lost my childhood too.

  The embers in the fireplace glowed a faint yellow. And when I leaned down to stir them, ever breath I took in and blew out fed them. It was like they was as hungry as Doanie and hers. I dropped on a log, then took the bellows from the nail and probed the embers. One pump, two. A twist of smoke twirled from the log. Damp wood makes smoke, and since we’d had rain the day before, we was bound to have a house full of it.

  I raised the window just a bit and fanned the smoke toward freedom. My eyes burned as the white fog worked its way out of the house.

  Thoughts of Doanie’s plea bored deep in my mind. “What am I to do? They’ll starve. I’ll starve.” Them words eat at me hard. I loosened the smooth stick that held my hair in place, and it fell in strands around my shoulders. My fingers rubbed through the lengths of hair, twistin and turnin it. “What will I do? Me?”

  Ely Merrell told me a body needs to mourn the dead for seven days. “Give a body time to take in the loss and feel the hurt.” But from what I could see, they wasn’t no time for mournin. I was gonna have to figure a way to take care of these youngins. A way to rid myself of Calvin. A way to help Justice. A way for an orphan. The words dug deep. I was beginnin to see the burden Momma carried. Ain’t no wonder she snuffed out her life.

  I remember Daddy getting on Calvin when he lied. “All a lie does is breed another until a body is so full of untruth they can’t see light. The truth will set you free, boy. Set you free.”

  Momma and Daddy read from the good book ever night. But me, I wasn’t so sure about all that malarkey. So far all I’d seen was hardship. I’d come to figure, the truth might set you free . . . but not before it rips a body apart.

  Doanie never made her way
back to the kitchen for supper. When I called for her, she didn’t make nary a sound. Scared the dickens outta me.

  “Doanie, honey. Where are you?” I crept through the house and peered into the back room. There she was, layin on her back holdin one child in one arm and the other in another. I pulled a second quilt over them and tucked it. They was tired. Worry does that to a soul. Reckon I oughta know. Momma musta known I’d be a worrier and that’s why she named me the same.

  For an instant, I gazed over them three babies and my heart opened up. Compassion seeped from ever crevice of my body. I knew they was no way I’d let them little ones starve. What kind of person would turn their back on these youngins?

  There was only two split logs left by the fireplace, so I took the hook and shoved around the embers, then seated them two logs tight. The wood caught fast, and before you could say apple butter them flames popped and crackled, licking at that wood like a thirsty dog lappin water. The room warmed. I dusted my hands and made my way through the broke door to get an armload of wood.

  Lightning lit the sky, showin the outline of the ridge above the house. In the far distance, I could hear a soft rumble. Best take in two armloads. If the rain made it over the mountain it would soak the wood. I propped open the door and stacked a waist-high rack of wood. “That oughta do.”

  A breeze whipped up, carryin the scent of rain. It give me precious memories. Daddy loved to sit in the rocker on the porch during a spring rain. “Ain’t nothing sweeter than the smell of rain. It washes the soul,” he’d say. “Go ahead. Lift your nose in the air like a hound and sniff. Take in a big ole breath.” He’d stick his nose straight up and snort real loud, then cough. Momma patted him on the arm and laughed while me and the boys did just what Daddy told us.

  My heart ached for my folks and my brothers. There was a time we was a real family. Daddy, Momma, Calvin, Justice, and me. Seems we was happy until Daddy died. That’s when Calvin took a hankerin for money and Justice took to drinkin. Momma did her best to protect me from the death on the mountain. She kept me home, teachin me to read and write, and when she did mention the sickness on the mountain, it was to the point. “The fever is runnin wild. Keep everthing clean. You hear me? Boil the water. Wash the dishes and clothes in hot water.” It was like she knew somethin nobody else knew.