by Caryl McAdoo
Right there, two puncture wounds surrounded by a red blotch showed clearly on Reagan’s neck. “Snake bite. I never saw the thing, did you?”
Seve shook his head. “No.” He patted Reagan’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, friend. So sorry.”
“Mercy. Poor Liberty. How will she live without him?”
That bucketful got him free of mud. Then the rinsed warm ones got him clean. Flynn stood at the back of the wagon with a box. “I packed Papa’s suit and best shirt. That’s what Mam said to bring.”
The young man’s tears brought salty water to Laud’s own eyes. “I’m so sorry, Flynn. Here.” He held his hands out for the clothes. “You see to your mother. We’ll take care of him.”
The boy’s lip quivered, then he nodded. “Yes, sir. Thank you.”
The suit, white shirt, tie, and boots dressed their dead. Even had time to comb his hair before Corbin and the undertaker showed. First off, Seve got him off out of earshot, and before not too much longer, money changed hands.
Then he and the others carried Reagan to the hearse. Once the wagon rolled out of sight, Laud hunted his wife. He found her and the others on the backside of Seve and Mallory's rig.
Made sense. None of them wanted to see Reagan getting carried off. He eased down next to Esther, who held both his girls and waited for his sister’s sobs to subside again.
After a bit, she looked up. “He’s gone, Laud. How could a little bump like that kill him?”
“A snake bit him, Sister. Seve found the marks on his neck.”
“What?” She shook her head, wailed again, then buried her face in Flynn’s shoulder. Charity Grace sat her lap, weeping softly. Mallory stood toward the back, constantly patting and rubbing Libby’s back, steady dropping tears on her dearest friend.
Arlene held Rich, and Alicia had her little brother on her lap. Hopefully, the little guys wouldn't blame themselves. He needed to quiz Richard about exactly what happened, but that could wait.
His gut told him he best see to the living. He leaned close to Esther. “Want me to stoke the cook-fire?”
She nodded. “Yes, dear, and put the big pot close, but not too. It’s got leftover potatoes. Figured I could whip up some biscuits to go with them.”
“Any chicken left?”
“Not much. I had a mind to save that for soup tomorrow.”
“I’ll get things going. Nothing says I can’t make biscuits.”
Her look told him not to dare.
The camp quieted as the night lengthened. Alicia waited for sleep to find her. Steady sobbing came from the O’Neals’ wagon. Never in all her born days would she have thought anyone would have died on the way to Texas.
Everyone had been so excited, and moods stayed high.
Snake bit.
What a horrible way to go. Except, was it really? Apparently, Uncle Reagan hadn’t suffered. Not like when Grandma got pleurisy. Mercy, maybe a snakebite to one’s neck was a good way to go. The Good Book said all men had to die once.
At least, that’s what Grandma’s preacher said. Alicia hadn’t personally seen the verse. Before that day, it seemed as though anything like that loomed years and miles away for all of the clan.
What if it had been Aaron or Rich who got bit?
At least Papa O’Neal had lived forty-five years. He’d loved and been well loved. Poor Flynn, so heartbroken. It pained her so to see him hurting like that. She wanted to wrap her arms around him and never let go.
Her over-protective father would probably ban her from ever even looking at him again if she was to do such a thing. The more she thought about Flynn, the more her heart ached. Tears came and wet her pillow.
A hand touched her shoulder.
“I need out, Lesha. I got to go.”
She rolled over. Aaron’s chin rested on Arlene’s arm. She sat up. “Come on, then. But don’t wake Arlee.”
“I ain’t.”
Without getting out herself, she helped him out the back of the wagon. “Stay close.”
Real quick, he came climbing back but stopped short. “Aunt Libby’s still up, and she’s crying. Can I go sit with her?”
“Aww, that’s so sweet, Brother. You go ahead. I’ll be right there.” She threw her dress on, took care of her own business. The night seemed so normal. The stars twinkled for the first time in a couple of nights.
Crickets, frogs, and a nightingale’s song filled the air. From toward the woods, a hoot owl asked its age-old question.
Did he know Uncle Reagan had died? Weren’t owls supposed to be wise? If he didn’t, maybe he was asking whooo’s being mourned? Surely, he’d know that for all the wails and sobs and tears.
She found Flynn’s mam sitting her rocker, staring at the fire. Just liked he’d asked, Aaron sat cross-legged on the ground next to her, hugging her leg.
Alicia pulled a cane-bottomed chair from under the wagon and sat real close on the other side of her. Though she thought of many things she could say, nothing really seemed right.
So, she and her little brother just sat there in the night with dear Aunt Liberty until a smidgen of light brightened the eastern sky.
The poor lady turned toward her. “Flynn is the head of our family now.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Alicia hadn’t even thought of that! Would it mean he couldn’t marry her because he had to provide for his mother and little sister? The regular thumping in her chest suddenly raced.
Would she lose her beloved, too?
“I’m going to speak with your Pa, sweetheart. I see no reason now for you two to wait.”
What? Had she heard right? What should she say?
“It’s just like the Bible says. A time to die, a time to marry. It was Reagan’s time to die, and I for one—and your Ma is another—believe it’s your and Flynn’s time to marry.”
The lady who until that moment had never appeared old to Alicia looked suddenly more like a grandma than a mother. Maybe that’s what she wanted. A grandbaby to love, maybe replace the husband she’d lost.
A time to die, a time to be born.
That sounded righter than the marry part coming after dying, but she would not be complaining. Marrying sounded just fine! She’d love nothing better than to give the dear woman half a dozen or more little darlings underfoot to love.
She hoped her boys would look like their father.
Speaking of Flynn . . . “Mam, where is Flynn?”
“Sleeping. I asked him to lie down with Charity. Poor baby couldn’t stop crying. He needed the rest.”
To Alicia’s way of thinking, Auntie needed the rest.
A somber morning ruled the little camp.
Even the little boys walked light, spoke softly, and minded their manners like angels.
The number of folks who turned out for her never-to-be-father-in-law’s funeral surprised her. Not as many as he deserved, of course. But a right nice bunch of good-hearted strangers must have heard and showed. Jackson had good people.
Tears threatened to wet her face from the start, but when the undertaker opened the pine box, she couldn't help but cry. Aunt Liberty and Ma wept through the whole service.
The Methodist pastor read a scripture, then offered a prayer for Uncle’s family and friends. Called Uncle Reagan a sojourner in this world, but said he’d gone home.
Just not to Texas.
Not with Aunt Libby and Flynn and Charity Grace.
After the grave diggers nailed on the coffin’s lid, Pa stood up.
“Reagan Flynn O’Neal was my friend. A good man, good husband, and good father. Known him since we were young men together and never saw him drunk or disorderly. He never started a fight.”
Pa stared down at his hat a minute then looked up again, with a grin. “Ended a few, but only because he had to.”
A small wave of quiet chuckles broke the morose mood a bit.
“Reagan worked hard and played hard. He was a man I was proud to partner with.” He looked to Flynn. “That passes to you now, Son.”
Flynn nodded.
“Don’t know what else to say, except I’m going to miss him.” He tossed a handful of dirt on the box.
Flynn stood and held up a fiddle and bow. “This here’s my Papa’s. He was a first-class fiddler and taught me everything I know. Last night, He came to me in my dreams and told me I could play his now and to play it today—a dirge for all of us.”
Tears overflowed. His lips quivered, and he sniffed once. “Sorry.” He wiped his face on his sleeve.
How could Alicia stand him hurting like that and not be comforting him? Holding him?
“But Papa said I’m also to play a lively tune.” He squinted his eyes shut, squeezing out all the tears they’d held. “‘To send me home on, Son.’ is what he said.”
Lifting the handle to his shoulder and resting it there, he raked the bow ever so slowly over the strings. If she didn’t know better, Alicia would claim it was his mother wailing. Then he played an even sadder and slower song.
“Thank you all for coming. It means a lot to my mother, little sister, and me.” He looked to his uncle. “Anyone else want to say anything?”
Her little brother stood and walked right up front, then climbed onto the platform. “I'm Aaron. Hi.” He waved a splayed hand, winning another quiet laugh that moved across those gathered.
The little fellow nodded toward the coffin. “He’s my uncle, and he jumped in the river to save me and Rich.” He pointed at his shadow. “That’s him. He’s my best friend and my partner.
“Uncle Reagan would never got snake bit weren’t for us, but I saw him last night, too. And he told me it weren’t my fault. Not mine. Not Rich’s.”
A single tear ran down his cheek then looked at his honorary auntie. “I’m sorry, Aunt Libby. Sorry, Charity Grace.” He glanced over to Flynn. “You too, partner. I’m going to miss Uncle, and . . . he was brave to save us.”
“Thank you, little partner. Anyone else?” No one said anything. Her sweetest heart lifted his gaze skyward and readied the bow. He shouted, “Sing, Oh Heavens! You're welcomed to sing along. You can read the words in Isaiah 44:23 if you don't know them.” He pulled his bow hard and a joyous tune leapt from the violin.
“Sing, Oh Heavens! For the Lord hath done it! Shout ye, over all the earth! Break forth into singing, ye mountains! And every tree there in the forest! Sing, for the Lord hath redeemed Jacob! Sing, for He is glorified in Israel! Glorified! Glorified! He is glorified in all the earth!”
He let the last note fade, tears streaming down his cheeks.
Alicia couldn’t stand it another minute. She ran to him and wrapped her arms around his neck.
She buried her face into his chest and wept with her beloved.
Chapter Seventeen
Sitting near the fire that night listening to everyone reminisce and rocking her baby, Liberty’s daughter’s whimpers and sobs turned into the soft sleep puffs she’d been making most of her eleven years.
Poor precious dear, such a Papa’s girl from the first. The very night she stopped nursing, she went to wanting her father to rock her to sleep. She brushed an errant curl off her cheek.
How she loved the beautiful daughter who looked so much like a feminine version of her father. Too heavy to rock to sleep anymore, but how could she send her into the wagon alone to be tormented by her loss?
Time would help.
Didn't time help?
Just when her legs were about numb, her brother rose and offered to carry Charity Grace to the wagon.
“Thank you, Laud. Guess I’ll turn in too. Don’t want her waking up all alone.” Liberty followed him then climbed in with her baby girl and snuggled tight.
Remembering how her husband loved spoiling the girl, new tears threatened, but she’d shed enough for one day. One chore hung over her heart, but it needed doing. She sat up, lit the lantern and wicked up the lantern.
Drawing the box out that Charity Grace had spent her hard-earned cotton money on, she opened it. The feather and ink rested next to the journal exactly as she’d left it, two days before.
Had it only been forty-eight hours?
On Sunday after church, September 20, 1840, Reagan Flynn O’Neal, Senior jumped into the Forked Deer River to save his five-year-old nephew, Richard Ross Worley.
~ + ~
“Thus saith God the Lord, he that created the heavens, and stretched them out; he that spread forth the earth, and that which cometh out of it; he that giveth breath unto the people upon it, and spirit to them that walk therein.” Isaiah 42:5
“Behold, he taketh away, who can hinder him? who will say unto him, What doest thou?” Job 9:12
A tear hit the page and smudged the ink. She leaned back, let them flow unbridled a bit, then wiped her cheeks.
Sucking in a deep breath, she filled her lungs, closed her eyes, and remembered the day when she’d slapped Seve’s face and ran out of the boardinghouse. Footsteps had pulled her around, and she wholly expected to see the big Norwegian.
But instead of Mister Van Zandt coming to apologize, Reagan stood there.
A sweet grin crept onto her lips.
The look in his eyes as clear as if it had been yesterday . . .
At the river, he hadn't opened his eyes again. When was the last time she looked into them? Her chest tightened, and her throat constricted. When was it? She tried to remember. He'd been fiddling, before that, dinner, cooking, walking home . . .
No!
When had she looked into his eyes last?
Her fist clenched, and her short, ragged nails dug into her palm. She couldn’t forget his eyes! Every muscle in her seemed tense, at the ready to panic in an instant’s notice. Her fist shook.
Before church! She exhaled, and all her muscles went limp. Her fist opened and went to her cheek. Her face was cool.
When he pulled her out of the rocker.
That’s when it was.
He’d heated the water for a rag bath. He looked into her eyes. She closed hers again and relived the moment. Saw his love there, his passion. Coming up out of the rocker, she’d floated into his arms.
That was it.
Thank You, Father.
Praise the Lord. She’d not forget that moment or him washing her back.
Bless you, Lord.
The memory brought more tears, but tears of joy and thanksgiving for the remembrance—hers forever.
“Oh, Reagan, how can I go on without you?”
His death, it so seemed, ended her life, too. Over. It was over. Should she go jump into the river and let its current carry her to him? See if that stupid snake would bite her, as well?
No. She could not think that way.
God wouldn't like that, and neither would her husband. Flynn needed her, and Charity Grace even more.
For the thousandth time, she wiped her cheeks again then dipped the quill.
After he plucked the boy out of the water and handed him to Laud, he tried to climb out using a tree root, but . . . when he put his weight on it, the thing broke, sending him down onto the bank hard. He hit his head, a snake bit him on the neck too, and he passed into glory even before anyone knew what happened.
I protested some, but Seve—and Mallory, too—said we had to push on. Winter is coming, and we have to get to Texas. The whole clan had put everything into this journey.
If only . . .
She leaned against the seed sacks. Too many what-ifs and if-onlys. Too much water under the bridge. No doubt whatsoever of never seeing him again. She surely would be reunited in eternity.
Her name was written into the Book of Life when only a seven-year-old. She would see him again. Of that she was positive. But right then, she needed to be strong. For her children’s sakes.
Turn my weeping into dancing, Lord. Let there be joy in the morning.
“Mam?”
“That you, Son?”
“Yes, ma’am. Mister Harrell asked me to bring this to you.”
She scooted to the wagon’s end and lifted the flap. �
��What is it?”
“He called it sleep medicine.” Flynn extended a bottle.
She took it. “Tell Corbin thank you.” With a nod, she gave her firstborn a smile then dropped the flap.
Three sips turned into a big burning gulp. How long had it been since Reagan poured her first taste of hard liquor? She smiled at the memory, stuck the cork back in, then thought to write some more, but decided maybe she should lay down a bit.
With the last of her energy, she placed her implements in the box and stashed it beside the matches then turned out the lamp.
Well, maybe one more little nip might be in order.
Wasn’t every day a body buried the love of her life.
Tears flowed, then a sweet fog engulfed her.
Pins poked her eyes from the inside. Not possible. Was it? She raised up, but the pain drove her back to the pillow. She pressed her forehead into it and kept it there, raising up on her knees.
Why had she taken that last big gulp? She should have remembered how bad her head hurt in the morning. Then again, it’d been over fifteen years since Reagan got her drunk for the first time.
He’d thought it was so funny. She should have slapped him, but fell into his arms laughing with him, instead. That morning though, she had to admit . . . she’d done it to herself. Or maybe she ought to slap Flynn and Mister Harrell.
Right after her head stopped its aching.
If she pressed her palm to her left eye, it wasn’t so bad. Coffee. She needed some hot, black, liquid relief. She climbed out of the wagon. Her friend’s husband sat close to the fire, obviously lost in thought, holding a cup in his hand.
As she eased into her rocker, he looked up. “Want some?” He lifted his life-giving brew.
“Oh, yes. Please, sir.”
That first mug knocked a chip off her headache. The second loosed a good-sized hunk, then the third got her to almost back to being her old self. No. That wasn’t going to happen. She'd never be her old self again, not with Reagan gone.
Then . . . Who would she be?
Salty water pooled in her poor swollen eyes, but she blinked it back. Flynn and Charity Grace’s mother. And maybe soon, a grandmother?
