by Cathy Gohlke
“I shot those thieving darkies dead—those Yankee bummers set them to it! I’ll shoot you too, you Yankee cuss! Now, show me! Show me where you’ve tied him!” She threw open the barn door, shoved the gun in my ribs. It scraped my arm. I cried out, stumbled forward, slid, fell across slick ground, a thin sheet of ice.
“Get up! Get up!”
I willed myself stronger, able to stand, but my crooked arm weighed me down. What did she mean she shot the darkies? Who did she shoot besides Noah? The children? Where was Emily? Ruby? How long had I been out? Everything spun off kilter.
“Get up! Get up, or I’ll shoot!”
I pushed to my knees, off the frozen ground. The storm had stopped—no more sleet shooting from the sky, no freezing rain. The wind, not so fierce now, had blown the storm and clouds out, leaving a three-quarters moon to glisten off the layer of ice covering all the world. Hours must have passed since I left Mitchell House. How strange, I thought, to die there, in the barnyard of burned Ashland, all the world a-shimmer.
The gun dug into my ribs, shoving me upward. I cried out, “God! Oh God, help!”
“He won’t help you. He never helped me! He didn’t save Mama!” She laughed hysterically. “He couldn’t even save Ashland!” Ma’s venom spewed off the edge of reason, but she kept on, swinging the revolver through the air.
“I’ll never ask a living soul for help—not ever again. I trusted that fool Will Sherman—I trusted him to be a gentleman, a man of his word—and look what’s happened! He freed those slaves, and just see what they’ve done!” Ma shook the revolver at my face. I prayed it was not loaded.
“The slaves didn’t do this, Ma. It was a storm.”
“Get up! Get up, I say!” Ma kicked at my leg. “My home was already burned to the ground before this demon storm ever started! I had that fool Yankee in my sights just before the sleet started, sifting through my ashes. You’re all alike, snakes slithering through the spoils! Show me what you’ve done with Papa!”
I was her fool Yankee, sifting through the ashes, saved by the storm. What gave me the strength to stand I don’t know. It was strength beyond me, but in me. There was nowhere to go, no way I could take her to Grandfather. I turned to explain. The gun exploded near my ear.
“I told you I’d shoot! I’ve got three shots, and I won’t miss! Where is he?” Ma held the gun in two shaking hands, aimed at my face.
“This way.” I stumbled again but started walking. Three shots meant she’d only used three—two on Noah, one just now. Emily and Ruby were safe—if Ma was telling the truth, if she knew the truth, if she’d loaded all six chambers. I could only think to take her to Grandfather’s grave, to show her the marker, try to reason with her once we got there.
We both slipped and slid through the ice and ash, stumbling through the dark. I tried to take her the long way around the house, hoping she’d calm in the walking, hoping if all else failed that I could outrun her in the shadows, try again in the morning. “Father,” I prayed, “I don’t know what to do here. Help us.”
“What did you say?” she demanded.
“Praying. I was praying.”
“Stop it! I told you it doesn’t work.”
I nearly laughed. Crazy as that is, stumbling through the dark, hounded by my crazy mother with a loaded gun, yelling at me to quit praying, I nearly laughed. But I said, “How do you know it doesn’t work?”
“I tried it, you fool. I asked God to bring my Albert back from the war, back to me. I heard what they said—that he died in some foul Yankee prison! Murdered by Yankees! Murdered by you!”
“No, Ma,” I whispered.
“Shut up! All I want now is home and Papa, and look—look at my home!” Her anger turned shrill, but the gun did not leave my shoulder. “If God was real He’d blow you stupid Yankees to kingdom come!”
“I’m not a soldier. I swear I’m not a soldier.”
“Take me to him! Take me to Papa!”
We groped our way to the family plot, to the iron fence covered in ice, a ghostly border in the moonlight.
“Why did you bring me here? Papa is not here!”
I pulled open the gate, praying for wisdom, for some understanding of how to get through to Ma. “This way.”
She followed me through the gate. I counted the stones. I couldn’t read the words in the dark. Grandfather’s stone was rougher, newer than the others. I remembered that Jed Slocum lay there too, buried beneath Grandfather’s casket. Did Ma know? Would she remember?
I could feel her step back. “You’re trying to trick me.”
“I’m not, I swear. The words on this stone tell where he is.”
“Strike a light.”
“I don’t have a lantern.” Surely she could see that.
“Strike a match—from your pocket.”
“What?”Then I remembered. I did have a small tin of lucifers that I always carried in my pocket. Ma knew that. How could she know that and not know me? I pulled out the tin, thankful, fearful, and struck the lucifer. That tiny flame sprang between our faces in the dark. The woman that was Ma looked older, harder, fearsome. But in that moment she must have seen me.
“Robert?” The match burned low. “Robert?” Her face drew, puzzled. She pulled the gun from my side.
“It’s me, Ma. It’s me.”
She seemed confused about her surroundings, anxious, but tried to connect a thread. “Where is Papa? What have you done with him?”
“Grandfather died in the winter, Ma. You and Emily buried him here.” The match died out.
“No, no. That is not possible.” Fear crept back in her voice. I struck another match, saw her grip on the revolver tighten.
“Look. Look at the words, Ma.” I pulled her finger to Grandfather’s stone, helped her trace the words. She shook her head.
“No. No.” My chances were slipping.
“Hold. Hold, Ma.”
She looked at me, seeing me, not seeing me, confused, frightened. “Why do you call me that?”
“Because you’re my mother. I love you, Ma.” I said it, meant it, with all my heart.
She sat back onto the frozen ground, limp. “Why? Why would you love me?” She held the revolver, but loose, in her lap.
“Because you’re my mother,” I said again. “Because I love you.” What else could I say? My mind wouldn’t hold anymore, and the night began to spin again.
“I didn’t love Papa,” she said as she touched the stone. “I didn’t.” She pulled her hand away. “I was afraid of him.” She almost laughed. “I needed him. I wanted him to love me. But I don’t think I loved him.” She sat quietly a moment. “How could I do that?”
I didn’t know what to say, didn’t know if I should speak.
She touched my arm. “Where did you learn such a thing—to love me?”
“Where?” I repeated. I wondered if I was dreaming—if I’d passed out and was dreaming this graveyard nightmare in the three-quarters moonlight. “It’s the love God gave me. His love in me.” They weren’t my words. I didn’t have any more words. I didn’t understand it, but the words came, and even though I couldn’t form them in my mind, I meant them. I said them. “Christ in me.”
“I never knew that.” Ma shook her head. “I heard Rev. Goforth—do you remember him? He used to talk to me about that—Christ in me—before the war. I never knew what he meant.”
“I didn’t know what he meant either, Ma—not then. But it’s something that grows inside—all our life, I think.” I felt her stare at me through the dark. “Ask Him, Ma. Ask Him to come, to live inside you.”
I felt her shake her head again. “He wouldn’t want to, not in me.”
“He does, Ma. He loves you. He loves you—even more than I can—more than Pa or Emily or—anyone.”
“Albert. You were going to say, ‘more than Albert.’” I couldn’t answer that, and silence stretched between us. “I loved him, you know. I loved Albert. And I loved Charles. I loved you, and Mama, and Miss Laura. Divided.
My heart was always divided. Loving one betrayed the others. But I couldn’t stop loving them—any of them. And I couldn’t stop hating, though I don’t know why.” She pressed her fist against her forehead, rocked back and forth. “I don’t know why.” She sighed, “Oh, I’m tired, Robert. So very tired. I can’t keep fighting like this.”
“I know, Ma.” I pulled her to me with my good arm. The effort made the gravestones tilt in my head. And then another thought came. It wasn’t a thought I’d ever held, but my mouth formed the words. “Loving is who God is. It’s a way we’re like Him.” And then I said the thing I never thought I’d say to her, never thought I’d link between her and Cousin Albert. “Don’t begrudge the love you gave.”
“Oh, God,” Ma whimpered, her head turned into my chest. I couldn’t hear what else she said, didn’t know what sense, if any, formed in her head. The wind picked up again and the pounding of horses’ hooves beat; the rattle of wagon wheels rumbled down the lane, onto the circular drive. We strained toward the sound. A lantern bobbed through magnolia and bare maple branches, a ghastly dancing in and out among the pines.
“Jed Slocum!” Ma whispered.
“No, Ma. It’s not. He’s gone. He can’t hurt you.”
But the flame, the sputtering light through the dark trees shot fear up my spine. Even though I knew Slocum was dead, it brought back the night he returned to Ashland by torchlight, dragging two runaway slaves behind his horse. He’d axed the foot off one—off Jacob, who’d died. He’d beaten the younger boy, Jeremiah, senseless, a nightmare in blood.
Ma whimpered again, “Jed Slocum,” and shrank back.
“No, Ma, no. It can’t be. He’s dead.” I wanted to say, “Stay here. Wait for me. I’ll find out who it is.” But she pushed me back, pushed for all she was worth against my torn arm. I cried out, still reaching for her. But she was up and running, stumbling full tilt toward the house. I groped for the revolver, praying she’d forgotten it. But it was nowhere on the ground. “Ma! Ma! Wait!” I scrambled after her, but she was gone.
“Robert? Robert! Where are you?” It was a man’s voice, strong above the reining in of horses. I knew the voice but couldn’t place it.
“Stay back!” Ma screamed. “Don’t touch me, Jed Slocum! I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you, I will!”
“I’m not—I’m Wooster Gibbons, Ma’am. I’m from Sa—” He never finished because Ma’s fourth shot rang out, the lantern shattered, and the horses reared, whinnied, cried, pawed the sky in their traces.
“Wooster! Wooster!” I cried, tripping over the iron gate, gouging my knee, stumbling across the lawn toward the horses. “Ma! Stop it! Put that gun down!” But whatever moments of sanity Ma’d cradled were gone. A fifth shot whizzed past my head. I flew to the ground, belly-crawled toward the wagon. “God, stop her! Stop her!” I begged.
“Whoa, whoa!” Wooster, half standing, reined in the horses, stopped them from bolting. Only the darkness kept him from Ma’s sights.
“Wooster!” I’d reached the wagon.
“I’m all right. Who’s shooting?”
“Ma—my mother. You’ve got to get out of here. Go—now! She won’t stop!”
“Emily sent me to help you. I’m not going till it’s settled.”
“She’ll kill you, Wooster. She’s cra—she’s not in her right mind. You’ve got to get out of here!”
“We’ve got to get that gun away from her. We can do it together.” He ignored all I’d said.
“She’ll shoot. She’ll even shoot me. She doesn’t know me now.”
“How many shots has she fired?” he whispered.
“Five, I think.”
“One left. If we can get her to fire that without hitting us, we can take the gun away from her.”
“I don’t know if she has more—if she can reload.”
“She’d have to be good to reload in the dark.”
“She’s better than good,” I said. “She’s a better shot than I am. Better than you are.”
He swore. “We’ll just have to be careful. Here, take the reins.” Wooster climbed down from the wagon, grabbed his crutches, slipped across the ice. I tried to catch him, but he brushed me away and righted himself.
I tethered the reins, shaken that I’d not been able to help Wooster, shaken more that he’d nearly been killed, thankful beyond knowing that he’d shown up and I was no longer alone. “Wooster, I don’t know why you’re here, but—” He pressed my arm, and I felt the strength from him—strength he’d never carried the months we’d traveled South.
“Where do you think she’s gone?”
“I don’t know. I’m guessing near the house—she thinks she’s guarding the house.”
“The house? Emily said it burned.” Wooster squinted to see through the darkness.
“To the ground, but she thinks she has to protect it, guard it. Wooster, she’s—” I didn’t know how to finish.
“It’s all right, Robert. We’ll get her.” He pressed my arm again, and I felt new strength seep into me. “We’d best round the house. You come in from one direction, and I’ll come from the other. If we’re quiet she’s not likely to hear us, and we can close in till we find her.”
“But she’ll shoot—”
“She can’t shoot two directions at once. If we’re careful we’ll see her first—at least see her move. Just wait—like you wait for a snare.”
I shook my head, not knowing what else to do, worried sick that she’d shoot Wooster. He must have felt that.
“We’ve got to try,” he said. “You don’t want her saving that shot till daylight. Chances are good she’ll miss in the dark.”
The chances didn’t seem so good to me, but I sure didn’t want to face Ma with a gun at dawn. Cousin Albert taught her well. “Well, let’s do it,” I said, knowing I might be giving away Wooster’s life—or mine. “Keep to the pines on this side. I’ll come around by the barn.”
“Done,” he said. “I’ll see you in the morning.” I heard the forced smile in his voice.
I pressed Wooster’s arm, prayed that morning would be only a few hours away.
We circled the house in wide arcs. I couldn’t see Wooster as he moved among the pines and magnolias. I prayed Ma couldn’t either. Once I heard a sharp intake of breath—maybe Ma’s—but I wasn’t sure. I waited and waited, crouched in the dirt.
It reminded me of times as a boy that I’d crouched in the dirt beneath the Heaths’ front porch, waiting, straining to overhear my parents and the Heaths and the Henrys talk, tell each other secrets and plans not meant for my ears. How I wished that was what I was doing now.
But I was waiting, again, for Ma to speak, to move, to show me somehow where she was—so I could do what? Overpower her? Push my mother to the ground and pry a gun from her hands, knowing one of us might end up dead? That’s exactly what I needed to do, and the idea made me sick. How could I do this thing?
Because it needs doing. The answer seemed so plain. For her own sake and everyone’s sake I needed to stop her, protect her from herself—from the horrors that some sick part of her was capable of. That didn’t make it easy.
From somewhere to my far left I heard a whimpering, a whispering, a running prayer or pleading. I realized I’d circled too far out, too near the back of the house, almost on a path to the summer kitchen. Ma’s voice was somewhere near the front of the house, so I circled closer, keeping low to the ground, almost crawling, keeping to the shadows, sliding over the ice. And then it cracked. The ice cracked, and the sound carried far on the soft wind.
Ma screamed. I saw her jump, stand, aim her gun in the moonlight. I froze, knowing it was the end. From the other side of the house Wooster let out a rebel yell, as loud and shrill and bloodcurdling as any dying rabbit I’d ever heard. Ma turned toward his scream, firing the revolver, screaming in return.
She stumbled backward, screaming, “No! No!” She slammed the front door standing open in open space, and rushed up the staircase. Ma’s screams followed her up
until she reached the landing that landed nowhere, then dropped down, down into the cellar, ending only with the crash of boards and the sharp thud of her body against the earthen floor.
“Ma! Ma!” I knew she could not have survived that fall. “Ma! Ma! Ma!” I yelled into the cellar at the top of my lungs. I was still screaming into the darkness when Wooster jerked me, dragged me, fighting, back from the edge, knowing she was beyond my reach, always and now forever beyond my reach.
Thirty-Nine
Ma’s body was broken in three places. I still pray that the first break made it so she didn’t feel the others.
Wooster and the Widow Gibbons stayed three weeks. They’d driven out from Salem to visit Mitchell House, arriving just before the storm, wanting to see how Emily was doing and if I’d found Ma. They hadn’t known about Grandfather’s death or the journey to South Carolina—none of it.
Only God knows how much it meant to have them there. Now Wooster was the strong one, the healthy one who took charge, who’d saved my life yet again.
It was beyond my ken. Ma couldn’t really be gone, couldn’t really be dead, could not be buried in the family plot beside Grandfather and Grandmother Ashton.
I could not understand how the children played, why they cried, forever hungry, how it was that Noah’s leg and shoulder mended. Nothing in life had stopped—nothing but me and Ma.
I caught them laughing once; Emily and Ruby and Wooster stood in the kitchen, laughing at one of Henry’s antics. I stared at them, not angry, not exactly—just not understanding. What could there be to laugh about—now—ever?
The morning Wooster and the widow were to leave, Wooster and I walked early the mile to Ashland, to Ma’s grave. Old George had fashioned a false leg for Wooster back in Salem, and a shoe made to fit. With one crutch he stepped along at a good clip—faster than I felt up to—but we pushed on just the same. We didn’t talk. It was a thing I liked about Wooster. When we reached her stone, I sat, just sat, tired beyond telling, on the rain-wet ground.
“You might like to plant some flowers here, Robert, before you go,” Wooster said.
