Deep in the Heart

by Gilbert, Morris

  “Gone hunting.”

  “I orter o’ gone with ’em.”

  “Maybe tomorrow. How about some tea?”

  “Sounds good, granddaughter.”

  Jerusalem hung the kettle in the fireplace that dominated one end of the room, and as soon as the water was boiling, she made sassafras tea. She poured two mugs full, handed him one, then pulled up a chair and sat across from him.

  Josiah held his tea for a moment, looking down into it as if it contained some mystery, then slowly raised it to his lips. He was eighty-three years old and had fought in George Washington’s army during the Revolutionary War. His skin was darkened by the sun, for he had lived out-of-doors all his life. After the Revolution he had gone to the mountains and trapped furs. Later he had worked as a riverboat man on the Missouri River for a number of years. All of his life’s pursuits had been harsh, and most of the men he had lived and worked with were now dead. His old hands were unsteady and covered with liver spots. His face sagged, but Jerusalem could remember when it was strong and had few wrinkles. His eyes, however, were still bright—at least on his good days. For the past two years, he had been troubled by a strange affliction. Jerusalem did not know what to call it. At times he would cease to speak, or if he did, his remarks had nothing to do with reality. The spells used to last only a few minutes, but lately they had been getting longer.

  “I recollect once when I was in Daniel Morgan’s command. We overrun a lobsterback camp. The Redcoats was havin’ tea. We kilt most of ’em, and the rest run off.” He sipped the tea, and his lips turned themselves upward in a smile. “We all had some of that tea, and I remember I sat myself down right on the body of an officer in a fancy uniform. Old Morgan laughed at me and said I didn’t have much taste in furniture. That’s been a long time ago, granddaughter, but I still remember that shore was good tea.”

  Jerusalem had never tired of her grandfather’s stories of the Revolution, or of his time in the mountains. He had been a strong man in his day and was one of the few completely honest men she’d ever known. She sat for a time listening as he spoke, then finally she heard a sound from the bedroom and got to her feet. “I’ll be back, Granddad.”

  She moved quickly through the door to the bedroom and went to the cedar bed that dominated the room. Her mother, Jewel, was coughing, and blood had spattered the front of her nightgown. Jerusalem reached down and pulled her mother into a sitting position. She grabbed a cloth off of the table next to the bed, dipped it into the basin, and began to wipe her mother’s face. “Now, Ma, you stop that coughin’. Here, have a sip of water.”

  She held her mother upright until color came back into the thin, drawn face. Jewel Mitchell Satterfield had been a strong woman until a year ago, and then she had begun complaining of a pain in her stomach. At first it had not seemed too serious, but now the pain was constant and increasing. “Do you feel like getting up, Ma?”

  “I . . . I think I might, daughter.”

  Ten minutes later, after getting her mother cleaned up, Jerusalem helped her through the door to a chair at the table. Josiah looked up at her and said, “How’re you feelin’, Jewel?”

  “I don’t complain none.”

  “You never do,” Josiah said. He came over and put his hand on his daughter’s shoulder and stroked it for a moment. He had lost his wife thirteen years ago, and Jewel was his only living child. He stared at her with an unreadable expression, then moved back to his chair.

  Right then the front door slammed, and Jerusalem turned to see Moriah come in grasping a small coon to her chest. At the age of twelve she had her mother’s dark red hair, but her eyes were brown like her father’s. She had a bright, alert expression and nodded at her mother. “Ma, I’m teaching Charlie some tricks.”

  “You put that coon down, Moriah, and boil your grandma some eggs. Two of them.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Moriah put the coon down in a box, and the little fellow immediately reared up on his hind legs and peeked over the edge. He looked like a masked bandit with his bright eyes.

  “When that coon gets big enough, he’ll be good eatin’,” Josiah said mischievously.

  “You ain’t eatin’ my coon, Grandpa!”

  “I don’t reckon I will, nor any of them other varmints you take to raise.”

  As Moriah walked over to the larder to get two eggs to boil, Jerusalem went back into the bedroom, removed the soiled bedcovers, and put on fresh ones. She carried the dirty linens out to the dogtrot, where she stuffed them into a large wooden box, then went back into the big room. She sat at the table talking to her mother until Moriah set a small plate with two soft-boiled eggs in front of the sick woman. “You try to eat all of this, Mama,” Jerusalem said.

  Josiah shuffled across the room and sat down beside his daughter. He reached out awkwardly and ran his hand over her hair. He was a big, gentle man, despite all the violence and grief he had seen throughout his life. The look on his face seemed to say that he knew more hard times were ahead for him.

  “Here come the boys,” Moriah exclaimed. She ran to the front window and looked out, then yelped, “They got somethin’! Why . . . it’s a huge snake, Ma!” she cried out. “And a fat ol’ possum!”

  “A snake and a possum? Well, there’s supper, at least,” Jerusalem said. Her eyes twinkled as she looked at her grandfather. “Will you have snake or possum tonight?”

  “I’ve et both, granddaughter. They ain’t neither one bad eatin’.”

  Jerusalem went outside, and for the next few minutes was subjected to Clinton’s loud protests. “We’ll all go straight to the pit if we eat that ol’ snake, Ma! It’s in the Bible!”

  “Clinton, stop being foolish. Your religion is gettin’ a little bit aggravatin’. There’s nothin’ wrong with eatin’ anything God has made.”

  Clinton started to argue, but at a stern look from his mother, he shut his mouth.

  Jerusalem put her arm around her older son. “You two did fine, Brodie.” He’s the gentlest of all of us, she thought. I don’t know how he’ll make it in the world if he don’t toughen up a little.

  Meanwhile, Clinton simply could not be still. “We’ll all go to perdition if we eat that snake.”

  “Hush your mouth!” Jerusalem said quietly. “You go clean that possum now, and I’ll clean the snake myself. And if you don’t want to eat it, then don’t.”

  Clinton sat at the table bolt upright, displeasure written across his face. His mouth was drawn into a tight line as he stared at the large bowl containing the stew that made up the main dish for supper. Jerusalem had bowed her head and asked the blessing, and when she looked up, she saw Clinton’s angry expression. “If your religion forbids you to eat it, then don’t eat it, Clinton,” she said and winked at Brodie, who sat across from her.

  “That’s right, Clinton,” Brodie said, keeping a straight face. “I don’t think you oughta.”

  Jerusalem filled the plates from the deep bowl for everyone at the table except Clinton. She said sweetly, “You can have biscuits, Clinton, and maybe some blackberry preserves.”

  Josiah Mitchell had watched the exchange with a slight smile. “I purely admire a man who stands up for his religion, Clinton,” he said solemnly. “I surely do!”

  Clinton stared around the table and saw that everyone was trying to contain their smiles. He suddenly picked up his bowl and stuck it out toward Jerusalem. “All right, I’ll eat the ol’ snake. And when we all wind up in the fires of judgment, I’ll be reminding you all of this.”

  Everyone at the table laughed, and Mary Aidan, who was sitting in Moriah’s lap, kicked and crowed.

  “You sure know how to mix up a tasty stew, granddaughter,” Josiah said, taking a bite. “I declare, I believe you could make somethin’ good out of a skunk!”

  “Well, we have Brodie to thank for this,” Jerusalem said.

  “It wasn’t him,” Clinton snapped. “It was Anthony Wayne that done caught that ol’ possum, and it was an accident that Brodie shot the sn
ake.”

  “It was not. I aimed to blow his head off and I did!”

  After dinner there was still enough daylight left for the older children to go out and play for a while. Jerusalem saw her grandfather go off to the other room of the house where he slept, and then she put her mother back into bed. “You take a rest now,” she said. “You ate good tonight. You’ll feel better tomorrow.”

  “Thank you, daughter.”

  Jerusalem went to check on Mary Aidan, who was sleeping soundly and sucking on her fist from time to time, then turned and left the cabin to gather eggs. There were none, and then she remembered that Moriah had brought them all in earlier in the day. Hearing the sound of horse hooves, she looked up and saw a buggy pulled by a pair of matched bays. Narrowing her eyes, she recognized Ryland Rusk, the vice-president of Planters Bank in Arkadelphia, the town six miles away. She watched as he got out of the buggy and tied the lines. Suddenly, she felt a sharp pain in her leg, and looking down, she saw the black rooster Judas. Without a wasted motion, she leaned forward, grabbed him by the neck, swung him around three times, and with a swift twist, wrung his neck. The headless body hit the ground, rolled over, then got up and began running around. “You’re an active chicken now,” she muttered, “but you won’t be for long.” She then turned to face Rusk, whose face registered his shock at the sight.

  “Well,” he said, grinning, “I see you’re having chicken for supper.”

  “Good evening, Mr. Rusk.”

  “Miz Hardin, good to see you.” Rusk was a big, brusque man, well over six feet. He had an ample paunch, which he tried to cover up with good tailoring. His face was florid, and he had a pair of small eyes and a prominent nose. He took off his hat and ran his hand over his hair, which was plastered down with Macassar oil.

  “I was on my way to the McAdams’ place, and I thought I might stop by here so we could talk a little about your loan.”

  “I see. Well, come inside, Mr. Rusk.”

  “Oh, come now,” Rusk said with a smile. “You can call me Ryland.”

  Jerusalem did not answer. She went inside but did not offer the man a seat. He was a notorious womanizer, and his poor wife was helpless to defend herself from his disgraceful treatment. She was a plain, frail woman, and the four children all took after their father, so she was bullied by all of them.

  Rusk waited for an invitation to sit down, but when she remained silent, he cleared his throat and said, “It was a right hard winter for you, I suppose, Jerusalem.”

  For a moment Jerusalem considered telling him that she was Mrs. Hardin but instead said, “Yes, it was.”

  Rusk moved so close to her that she could smell his shaving lotion. “Your husband’s been gone nearly a year and a half. A healthy woman like you must miss having a man around.”

  “I manage,” she said, backing up as far as she could.

  Her reply was blunt, but Rusk went on. “Well, I suppose we may as well face up to it. Your bank note is coming due in two weeks.”

  “I’m aware of that, Mr. Rusk.”

  “You know, it sure would be a shame for you to lose this place.” Rusk waited for her to comment, and when she did not, he said, “That’s what’ll happen, you know, Jerusalem, if the note’s not paid. When Jake borrowed that money, we made that clear to him.”

  Jake Hardin had mortgaged their property to buy a fancy racehorse. He had not mentioned it to Jerusalem until after he’d bought the animal, and they’d had a terrible quarrel about it. She tried to persuade him to sell the horse and pay the loan back right away, but Jake had dreams of making it big at the racetrack and took him off to Little Rock to race him. Unfortunately, the animal evidently had a weak heart, for during the second race, he dropped dead. Jake had left for the mountains immediately afterward, barely pausing long enough to say, “I’ll go trap enough furs to pay off the loan, Jerusalem Ann.” That had been almost a year and a half ago, and there had been no word from him whatsoever.

  “I’d like to ask you to extend the loan until my husband gets back. He’s trapping furs. I’m sure he’ll be back soon with the money to pay you.”

  “Well, that wouldn’t be real good procedure, so maybe we could work something out . . . just the two of us.”

  Jerusalem stood still, her heart racing under Rusk’s unnerving stare. She had met the man before, and each time he had held her hand too long when greeting her and had squeezed her upper arm whenever he got the chance. When he stepped forward and tried to put his arm around her now, she pushed him away and said, “There’s nothing here for you, Rusk.”

  The banker’s ruddy face grew even more flushed. He started to grab her, but something in the woman’s steady gaze stopped him, and he said stiffly, “Well, I guess the bank will just have to follow its own procedures— unless you change your mind.”

  “I won’t be changing my mind. Good day, sir.”

  Jerusalem watched as the big man shoved his way out the door, anger in every line of his body. He jumped into the buggy, slashed at the horses with his whip, and tore off with the team in a dead run.

  Jerusalem released her breath and congratulated herself on not losing her temper. She walked slowly out of the house and down a path until she reached a small graveyard surrounded by a freshly painted white picket fence. There were only three graves in it—the old and sunken grave of her father, Mark Satterfield, and two newer ones that were still mounded up. She walked over to the newer gravestones, knelt down, and ran her fingers over the carved names. Robert “Bobby” Hardin, 1826-1830, and Hartsell Lee Hardin, 1828-1830. For a long time she sat there touching the cold stone, thinking, Only a year since I buried my boys—and it seems like a lifetime!

  Finally, she stood up and stared up at the darkening sky. “Lord, I’m just nigh about played out. I’ve got to ask you for a little help. I got plenty upset with you when you took my boys. I didn’t speak to you for a long time, but I been thinkin’ about it—you let me keep my other children. Maybe those two would have gone wrong and shamed me, but it hurt me somethin’ terrible to lose them. Reckon it always will.” She went back and touched the stone again. “I don’t see how I can go on, Lord, so I guess I’ll just have to ask you to take my hand.” She turned abruptly and walked away.

  CHAPTER

  TWO

  Whoa up there, Abishag—there’s a good girl!”

  Jerusalem paused for a moment after bringing the blue-nosed mule to a halt in front of the Planters Bank. She was W fond of the animal—quite a beauty for a mule—and named her Abishag, after the beautiful young Shunammite girl in the Bible who had served King David in his old age. Abishag was an anomaly as a mule, being sweet-tempered, and Jerusalem had no trouble hitching her to a buggy. Her other mule, Samson, was huge and had the temperament of a rattlesnake. Jake had been able to handle him through the liberal use of a club, but none of the other members of the family could do a great deal with him. Even as Jerusalem sat in front of the bank thinking, she wondered how she was going to get Samson and Abishag hitched together as a team to do the spring plowing. But that was the least of her problems right then, for if she didn’t find a way to work something out with Ryland Rusk, there’d be no spring planting.

  Sighing, she got out of the buggy, walked around to the other side, and picked up Mary Aidan, who was wrapped securely in a thick blanket. Jerusalem pulled the blanket back and smiled at the baby. At the age of six months, Mary Aidan had learned the art of charming her mother, grinning at her toothlessly. “You are a darling, Mary Aidan Hardin,” Jerusalem whispered and touched her daughter’s smooth pink cheek.

  Putting the baby over her shoulder, she turned and let her eyes run down the streets of Arkadelphia for a moment. The sullen March weather had plagued the land and given the town the look of a slatternly woman just waking up.

  “’Tis the ugliest town I ever saw, and that’s saying a lot,” Jerusalem muttered, then walked quickly toward the bank. The wind whipped bits of paper and trash along the street. A few people were stir
ring, but they all seemed paralyzed by the unusually cold March winds.

  Stepping through the door of the Planters Bank, Jerusalem took in the scene at a glance. Toward the back of the building, a counter five feet high with a brass network framed the tellers’ windows. She was surprised to see at least a dozen people there waiting, some of whom she knew. She got at the end of the line, and a tall, rawboned woman turned around and greeted her with a smile.

  “Hello, Jerusalem. We missed you’uns at church Sunday.”

  “Baby was ailing, Martha. Did I miss anything?”

  “The preacher made a mess of it. He preached on election—or tried to. I swan, Jerusalem, only the Lord knows where he gets them crazy ideas of his! I reckon we got what we deserved for lettin’ a Yankee who kin read Greek come down here and pastor our church.”

  The two women talked for a moment, and then Jerusalem saw Alvin Carstairs, the president of the bank, come out of his office. “Excuse me, Martha. I need to talk to Mr. Carstairs.”

  Jerusalem was aware that Ryland Rusk had been watching her ever since she had entered the bank. He was seated at his desk talking with a roughly dressed farmer, but his eyes were fixed on her. Jerusalem had to pass by his desk to reach Mr. Carstairs.

  “Hello, Jerusalem,” Rusk said as she walked by.

  She gave him a spare nod, then went to stand before the president. “Mr. Carstairs, I need to speak with you.”

  Carstairs was sixty-four years old, a slight man with a weak chin. He wore a beard to cover it, but the scraggly growth only served to emphasize the flaw. He was a nervous man, and his hands fluttered over his vest as he nodded to Jerusalem. He took out his watch and looked at it, then said, “Why, yes, Mrs. Hardin. What is it?”

  “I wanted to talk to you about our loan.”

  “Oh, you’ll have to talk to Mr. Rusk about that.”

  “I’d rather talk with you if you don’t mind.”

  “I’m sorry, but I let him handle all small loans. You understand. I’m sure something can be worked out.”

  At the banker’s haughty tone, one of Jerusalem’s “moods” came over her. Jake had first called them that, and the rest of the family had learned to recognize them. Her grandfather called them “fits,” and they amused him no end. As a rule Jerusalem was a straightforward woman with control over her emotions, but from time to time something would rise up within her, and she would hear herself saying words she had no intention of speaking. More than once it had gotten her into serious difficulty. Even as a young girl this trait had been evident to her family, and her parents had tried to curb the habit. It came upon her now as she thought of Rusk’s brazen advances toward her the day before. She raised her voice so that everyone in the bank could hear plainly and said, “Mr. Rusk has already offered to help me with my loan. Yesterday he stopped by and said that if I would show him some affection, he’d give me an extension.” The anger in Jerusalem’s voice left no doubt in anyone’s mind as to what she was referring to.