What Momma Left Behind

by Cindy K. Sproles

  “Where you off to? I told you I’d be up to take Abeleen down to the pastor. He’s in town.”

  I pulled Sally to a halt and lifted my face toward the morning sun. The early sun always felt cleansin. Like it could take hold of what was in a body’s soul, be it sickness or sadness, and suck it out. I felt them same words I told Calvin seep to the surface again. I was gonna say it again. I was gonna push the words out for Ely to hear.

  “Ain’t no need to take her to town. She can stay with me. I got these Whitefield youngins. What’s one more?” I shrugged.

  “You’re gonna need help. Want me to tag along?”

  “Much obliged. I ain’t ashamed to take your help. Besides, they ain’t stayin for free. They have to help with chores.” I raised my voice and turned to the children. “That clear? Everbody has to help with chores in exchange for a bed and food.”

  They nodded.

  “We ain’t gonna be called a bunch of misfits. We’re gonna do what we have to do. Ain’t we?”

  “Miss Worie, I gots to say, this is mighty big of you,” Ely said.

  I snapped the reins against Sal’s rear. “You think this is big. Just wait till we get to the Whitefields.”

  They wasn’t nobody more taken back than me when I pushed open the Whitefields’ cabin door. Flies buzzed in the cabin, and there was still the stench of death. Ely went to openin the windows. There was no need to guess what shape Mrs. Whitefield was in. Leastways, not with all them flies. Where they was flies, they was maggots. The thought made me gag.

  “Lord have mercy.” Ely pushed his nose into the bend of his arm, then held up the other hand. “Make them youngins stay in the wagon.”

  My eyes burned from the smell as I turned toward the children still in the wagon. “Stay there till I call you.”

  Doanie promptly set down. T. J. went to cryin for his momma, and Farrell buried her face in Doanie’s lap.

  “It’s gonna be fine. You’ll see. Just sit still.” I pulled my shirt around my nose and followed Ely through the cabin. Sure enough, there laid Mrs. Whitefield, one arm across her eyes and the other across her stomach. Maggots crawled all over her, and it was all I could do to not vomit.

  “What do you need outta here?” Ely covered Mrs. Whitefield with a quilt, partly to cover the sight, partly to cover the smell.

  “Uh . . . what beddin and clothes these youngins have. Extra plates and cups.” I scanned the small cabin. Pickins was slim. A rocker by the fireplace, a small table in the corner. Blankets in the cupboard. We didn’t have much at our cabin, but lookin around this house, I could see Momma had left me plenty.

  Ely helped me load a hay-stuffed mattress in the wagon, and I gathered what few things the children had. As I started out the door, my eye caught a rag toy layin in a basket by the fireplace, made from scraps of old clothes with button eyes. I could see Mrs. Whitefield had intended it for T. J. I set in the rocker and drew my fingers over the tattered toy. The needle still hung from the button eye. I pushed it through the cloth, tied a knot in the thread, and bit it off with my teeth. T. J. would want this sweet gift. It wasn’t nothing fancy, but a body could see the love in each stitch. Every one exactly the same size. Carefully darned together. Kissed with tender lips.

  I could see there was more to motherin than birthin and feedin. There was tendin to, carin for . . . lovin. There was things I’d took for granted with my own momma. And I wondered for a minute if I could come close to bein what was needed for these little ones.

  The words from Momma’s Bible come back to me. Then were there brought unto him little children, that he should put his hands on them, and pray . . .

  Brought to Him. Brought to me. My heart ached. The sting of death was still fresh in my own heart. Could I manage this?

  Ely tapped my shoulder, and I jumped like I was jabbed with a prod. “Miss Worie, Pastor Jess just rode up. He was passin by, so I hollered at him.”

  “Oh. Alright. Don’t reckon I’ve ever met the pastor.”

  “Good man. He is for sure. He can tell us what to do with Mrs. Whitefield.”

  I walked onto the porch, clutchin that rag toy tight. The pastor slid off his saddle and walked toward me. He stopped at the wagon and hugged the children, pullin T. J. outta his sister’s arms and tossin him into the air. It was the first time I’d heard the boy giggle.

  “They ain’t nothin sweeter than a child’s laughter. No wonder the good Lord wanted them brought to Him.” The pastor set T. J. back in the wagon.

  Brought to Him? They was brought to me. Leavin little children without folks didn’t sound like a person who wanted them brought to him. It was strange the pastor spoke the same Scripture that was on my mind.

  “Ely.” He tipped his hat.

  “Pastor Jess. Good to see you. You’re just in time.”

  The pastor stuck out his hand. “And who’s this here lovely lady?” He cupped my hand between both of his, his touch gentle, his smile kindly.

  “Worie. Worie Dressar.” I eyed his hand, then gently pulled mine away.

  “Dressar. Dressar. Any kin to Justice?”

  I felt the color leave my face. “Yes sir. He’s my brother.”

  The pastor cocked his head, his eyes readin me like a book. “Justice is a good man. He’s just burdened. Visited him at the jail yesterday. He’s about dried out.”

  I wasn’t sure what to say. He was right. Justice was never a bad child. But when Daddy died, he went to drinkin and that become his lover. Daddy’s passin was hard on Momma and me, but Justice suffered. Momma tried over and over to veer Justice away from the hooch, but it had its grip tight on him.

  Justice looked like Daddy. Tall, rusty-colored hair. Eyes as green as the summer fields. When he was dry, he was a hard worker. Kept the farm up. Watched over me and Momma. But when he give in to the hooch, it’d take him away for days. Leave him in a hard place.

  “What am I in time for?” Even with a puzzled look the pastor was handsome. He was younger than I expected. To hear Momma talk about him, he was older than her, but he wasn’t much over me. A squared chin lined with a short, well-kept beard sprinkled with white. His hair was cut neat around his ears and neck. His shoulders were broad and his hands large and strong. I wondered if he was anything like he seemed. I could tell he worked at more than preachin the good book.

  It took me a minute, but I managed to muster the words. “Mrs. Whitefield is dead. Died from the fever.”

  Pastor Jess wheeled around and looked at the children. “Oh no. When?”

  “Ain’t sure, but these youngins come to me yesterday huntin for food. When we come here to see what could be done, we found her dead in the bed. From the looks of her, she’s been gone a spell.”

  The pastor bowed his head. His lips commenced to mouth a silent prayer. “These children are . . .”

  “Orphans.” I finished his sentence. Nobody knew what that meant better than me.

  The preacher pushed his hair back and reset his hat. His fingers scratched at the hair on his chin. “It might take me a bit to find a place for them to stay.”

  “No need, Pastor. My own momma died a few days back. It’s just me now. I’ll tend to them.”

  He took my hand again. “I’m so sorry for your loss, Miss Worie. Are you sure you wanna take on youngins? You’re mighty young yourself.”

  “My age ain’t got nothin to do with the needs. But what we want here is knowin what to do with Mrs. Whitefield. We can’t just leave her to be eat by the varmints.”

  The pastor walked into the house, and I could hear his voice. “Oh Lord, I pray for this woman and her soul. She was a good woman. Special in every way. Take her soul into Your arms and give her peace.”

  After a bit, he come from inside. “The house reeks. I don’t reckon it can be lived in now. We sure can’t pick up the body without it fallin apart. So you got all you need for them youngins from inside?”

  I nodded.

  “Then you take them children and head home. Ely, can you stay
with me?”

  “Indeed, Preacher.”

  “Go on now. Take them children home. I’ll be along later. Help you settle them in.”

  I climbed into the wagon and nudged Sal to move. Just as we made the bend at the top of the summit, I caught a whiff of fire. When I turned to look behind me, I could see flames risin above the treetops. I reckon they did the only thing they really could. Set the house ablaze. That would be the best way to do away with Mrs. Whitefield.

  That sweet smell of rain was took real quick by the scent risin from the Whitefields. Just one more ugly memory. Burnin wasn’t somethin folks did unless the ground was so froze they couldn’t dig or they was some bad sickness. I hated for them youngins to see such a thing, but it was the right thing to do. The whole mountain would know soon.

  We set there for a spell, watchin the smoke curl into the sky. Them youngins had a minute to take in that they didn’t have a home no more.

  The mornin passed quickly. I pulled the wagon to the edge of the summit and climbed down from the seat. Walking to the edge of the rocky path, I took in a deep breath. The clouds looked like tufts of white snow floatin across the miles of mountains. In the distance, I could see the remains of the storm from the night before, makin its way over the ridges. A bird soared on the breeze above, dippin and divin, and his call echoed over the pass.

  T. J. lifted his finger and pointed. “Bird.”

  “That’s right, baby. Bird. Beautiful bird.”

  T. J. raised his arms for me to pick him up. I brushed his hair from his eyes and gently kissed his forehead. “Look, honey. Look what Miss Worie found.” I pulled the toy from my dress pocket. “Your momma made you a rag toy.”

  He snugged the toy under his arm and poked his fingers into his mouth.

  I set the boy on his sister’s lap and crawled back into the wagon. “Hup, Sally. Hup.” Sal leaned into the yoke and groaned. “Good girl. Hup.”

  We turned the bend, and I had a strange feelin in my gut. Like I was bein watched. I turned real quick to look over my shoulder, wonderin if my mind was playin havoc with me again. Maybe I’d see my dead momma. I shook the thought from my head. A rustle in the bushes give me a jolt. I thought for a second I’d got a glimpse of someone followin us.

  CHAPTER

  EIGHT

  How much more could I take?

  “Carry the boy in and put him on that pallet.” I pushed Doanie’s hair behind her ear. “It’s been a long day for him.”

  Doanie hoisted the child, limp as a wet rag, and hung his head over her shoulder. She snugged him onto her hip and climbed from the wagon. Farrell followed. She stopped and eyed me.

  “What’s on your mind?” I asked.

  Farrell stared, never utterin a word, then trailed behind her sister. There wasn’t much reason to ask what she had on her mind. It didn’t take a real smart person to know. She could only watch the smoke from her home, along with her life, whirl into the sky. Her momma and daddy gone. Maybe she was angry. Maybe afraid. But broken for sure.

  I could only hope she didn’t blame me for her momma dyin. It didn’t take much to know that grief could skew the truth. Farrell might not see me as the woman who was willin to take her in. She might only twist the flames of her home and her momma’s dyin to me. Even when I had nothing to do with either.

  Still, her silence spoke louder than a scream. And to me, that wasn’t anything good. Pent-up pain was never good.

  “Miss Worie, she’ll be fine.” Abeleen squeezed my shoulder, wakin me from my thinkin. I nodded and patted her hand.

  This youngin was wise beyond her years. Momma used to tell me there was some folks who were helpless on the outside but fearless on the inside. All it took was a push to set the inside part free. Once it come out, they were strong. Real strong. Abeleen looked to be one of them people. She’d lost her folks, learned to fend on her own to survive. Even at eleven, she’d figured how to make do.

  “Abeleen?” I asked. “How did Miss Louise know to bring you dumplins?”

  The girl hung her head, her fingers drawin circles on the wagon bench. She pondered for a while before she finally spoke. “She was carryin corn from town, saw me haulin rock.”

  “Rock?”

  Abeleen wrapped her arms around herself. Her voice quivered. “I was buryin Daddy. He was so sick. He died on the porch tryin to call to me. They was blood comin from his mouth. All I knew to do was tie a rope around him and let the mule pull him into the woods.”

  “They ain’t no need to say no more,” I said. “You’re a brave child.”

  “Miss Louise helped me finish stackin rocks over Daddy, then next thing I knowed she was bringin me dumplins ’bout once a week. Sometimes I’d see her, other times she just left them on the porch.”

  I pulled her close to me and squeezed. “Poor child.”

  She pulled away. “I ain’t poor. Ain’t nothing poor about me. My daddy always told me we was rich with the love of the good Lord and that was all we needed.”

  I wasn’t about to argue with her even though I couldn’t say I agreed. I was still strugglin to understand how allowin a good woman to take her life was love. Still, the thought pacified Abeleen, and I figured I might as well start choosin my battles now. This wasn’t one to take on.

  “Well, don’t you worry none. You’ll stay here. We’ll manage this brokenness together.” I pulled her braids behind her head. “And I don’t mean no disrespect, but you need a good scrubbin. So help me put this wagon in the barn and then make your way down to the creek, wash that hair, and clean your skin.”

  We unhitched Sally and set her loose in the pasture, then put away the wagon. When we was done, I pulled Daddy’s overalls off a nail in the barn and tossed them to her. “Go on now. Get washed up. Scrub them clothes too.” Abeleen’s mouth hung open like it was some big surprise I’d told her to bathe. “Go on now. I know your daddy would never let you go nasty.” I pointed toward the creek. “And shut that mouth lest you catch a few flies.”

  She hesitated but made her way to the creek.

  I set on the milkin stool and buried my face in my palms. Sobs welled up from the deepest part of me. The pictures in my head was about more than I could manage. Momma killin herself, fightin with Calvin, findin these youngins. Mrs. Whitefield. What more could happen?

  Though my heart ached, it only fueled my determination. This mess won’t get the best of me. “It won’t.” I wiped my face with the tail of my skirt and come to my feet. Takin a deep breath, I pulled my shoulders back and straightened up.

  Momma had managed to fill the corn bin. She’d helped Justice slaughter a hog and a deer—the meat hung in the smokehouse. There was hens that laid. Flour in a sack. That made for enough food to last a couple of months. Spring was fresh. There was plenty of time to get a garden in the ground.

  “I can do this.” And I could. Momma taught me all I needed to know to make do. All but doin it without her. “I miss you, Momma. And I still don’t understand how you could do this to me.” I lifted my fist into the air.

  “That sounded like a battle cry.”

  I yanked my hand to my side and wheeled around. My heart dropped into my gut. “Pastor Jess. You scared the tarnation outta me.”

  He stepped into the barn and pulled his hat from his head. “Wasn’t my intention . . . to scare you, I mean.” He stuck out his hand. “Friends?”

  I tried to find words. “Friends, I reckon.”

  He motioned to the bale of hay. “Can I sit?”

  “Sure. That’s about the best seat I can offer you.”

  “I suppose it’ll do. We need to talk about these youngins.”

  This pastor was comin across a little pushy. It wasn’t clear to me just what he was getting at. Maybe it was his tone. I ain’t sure. He wasn’t hateful, but it riled me that after his howdy ma’am, the next words outta his mouth was talkin about the children. We was managin just fine. The man seemed kind enough and Ely trusted him, but I guess I wasn’t to that place yet. N
ice as Pastor Jess seemed, he hadn’t earned my trust.

  “What’s to talk about? There’s four youngins. They’re welcome here. We’ll fare just fine.” I crossed my arms to show him I meant business.

  “You ain’t prepared to take on little ones. You’re a child yourself.”

  That was all it took to raise the hair on the back of my neck. I stepped closer, my finger straightened to a point. “I ain’t sure who you think you are, Pastor. But I’m seventeen. I ain’t no child. I’m a grown woman with plenty of know-how. Just cause I chose not to marry don’t mean I’m not prepared. So whoever give you permission to judge me, just take their words and—”

  “Hold up there. Just wait a minute. Don’t get your hackles up. I ain’t here to judge you. I’m here to help.”

  “Your idea of help is tellin me I can’t manage these children?” I could feel my temper crawlin from the depths.

  “All I’m sayin is you just lost your own momma. It might be too much for you to take on four children who has lost theirs.”

  “Ever think it might make us more alike, Pastor? I might just understand the pain them little ones feel. I might just understand the anger, the hurt, the frustration of becomin an . . . orphan.” I huffed. “I might just be more prepared than you think.”

  “Let’s start this conversation over.” Pastor Jess stood and pressed his hands deep into his pockets. His head twisted from side to side. “Can we try this again? I done messed up.”

  I walked to the barn door. “We sure can, Pastor. You can take the mess you made and scoot right on outta my barn. Get on your horse and leave.”

  The pastor dug the toe of his boot into the soft dirt of the barn floor. He drawed a line and stepped back. “I reckon I crossed over the line. Can you forgive me?”

  I was breathin like I’d run a race. It was all I could do to be stern but nice. What I wanted was to backhand him. Pastor or not. I took in a deep breath and swallowed. The pastor never looked up. It was like watchin a whipped dog cower. He never opened his mouth, and the silence was killin me.