As I run I try to make sense of what has happened, but it is like a horrible dream that I don’t know how to wake up from. I want the day to start over. I want my father to be standing in the kitchen filling his thermos and kissing my mother before he goes to work. I want him to come home safe and sound like he always does.
Only old people are supposed to die, and sometimes babies if they are sick. Nobody is supposed to die who is strong and healthy and happy. It goes against the nature of things. A person dying young makes life seem unfair and too scary. It means it could happen to any of us, at any time, when we least expect it.
At the end of the road, I stop and rest my hands on my knees to catch my breath. I haven’t run like that since the end of the year races in seventh grade. I came close to winning that year and if Freddie Myers had skipped school that day, like he did most days once planting season commenced, I would have won the ribbon.
The look of the land changes the closer I get to the river, as if the mountains are intent on flattening out to greet it. Making my way through tall grass, I follow the path that Daddy and I must have walked together a thousand times. I smell the water before I see it and emerge from the grasses at a small sandy beach. The sight of the water causes me to sigh. Visiting the riverbank is like visiting an old friend. I collapse on a mound of earth, still refusing to cry. Crying might make it too real.
I take in a few deep breaths. Then like a summer rain that sneaks up on a sunny day, the tears come. They arrive slowly at first and I wipe each one away as it falls. But pretty soon I am caught in a downpour of tears, at the very place Daddy and I have fished since the time the grasses were taller than me.
When I got older he showed me how to clean the trout we caught, and one Christmas gave me a special knife to use. I never liked cleaning fish, but Daddy was proud that I was more like him instead of my sisters. They scream at the sight of any kind of fish guts, like I’d torn out my very own eyeball for them to see.
Memories flood over me, and then I remember the last time we were together, earlier that morning.
“Have a good day at school,” Daddy says, giving me a kiss on the forehead. He’s kissed me in that same spot so many times I half expect there to be a worn-out place where his lips touch, like the worn-out place on the kitchen rug where Mama always stands to cook.
“School is so boring,” I say, rolling my eyes.
“There’s too much to discover for life to be boring,” Daddy says back to me. “Study the birds, the trees, the patterns on leaves. There’s always something new to see.”
It is just like him to say something special like that.
“Waiting on your sister again?” he asks, buttoning the top button of his work shirt.
I nod. Meg always makes us late to school with her prissing.
I hold my stomach and feel a little sick. Not sick-sick, but like a bad storm is coming. “Are you okay?” Daddy asks.
“I guess,” I say. “I just feel a little funny.”
He feels my forehead where he kissed to see if I have a fever.
“Daddy, don’t treat me like I’m a little girl,” I say.
He smiles. “Forgive me, honey, but you’ll always be my little girl,” he says.
I lean into him, knowing I don’t really need to forgive him for anything.
“Do you believe in the secret sense?” I ask him. “Aunt Sadie told me about it yesterday.”
“Our grandmother had it,” he says. “She could always tell when someone in our village was about to pass on or she would know just when somebody needed something. A kind word. A cup of tea.”
“Sadie says I have the gift, too,” I say.
“Then you probably do,” he says. He smiles like he’s just found another reason to be proud of me.
“You two are like two peas in a pod,” Mama says from behind the screen door. She startles me, with her way of showing up all unexpected.
“Gotta go to work,” he says, winking at me.
“Be careful, Joseph,” Mama says.
“You know I will,” he says. He throws Mama a kiss and smiles. Mama calls Daddy’s smile the “famous McAllister smile.” In an old photograph of my grandfather you can see the same smile. Whenever I have private time in front of the mirror in the kitchen, which isn’t that often given my three older sisters, I practice that smile. I want to be the first girl in our family to have it.
Daddy grabs his thermos and lunch pail off the top step and starts down the hill. “Take care of that stomach of yours,” he says to me.
I’d almost forgotten the feeling in the pit of my stomach and now wonder if this could have anything to do with the secret sense.
He throws up his hand in a goodbye, but doesn’t look back. About halfway down the path he begins to whistle like he does every day on his way to work. His whistling often takes over where his banjo can’t go. I watch him until he is totally out of sight, with the strange feeling that I might never see him again.
Sitting beside the deep flowing river, I try to imagine a life where Daddy never whistles or plays the banjo again. A whole new shower of tears begins, and I am glad I am alone with only the river watching me. After a while, I am so worn out with sadness I fall asleep and don’t wake up until after the sun has gone behind the ridge. The breeze on the water is cool now and I wish I’d thought to bring a sweater. A maple tree showers down crispy leaves that have started to change colors. The tips of the green leaves are edged in yellow and red. Daddy taught me about trees. He believes that trees are angels, and that a person can pray to trees or the river or the land just like a person can pray to God. We only cut down trees if we absolutely have to, and even then we make sure we make good use of them and thank them for their service. I never thought about how hard that might have made his job at the sawmill. Seeing all those trees come down.
A fish breaks the surface a few feet away, breaking the spell of my memories. I push away the thought that Daddy and I will never stand on this bank together again. After I wipe the last of my tears, I get up to walk back home. Now we are the family with a house of mourning.
I shiver and wrap my arms around myself. The leaves of the maple burn red with the setting sun like the burning bush appearing to Moses. I take this as a sign that on this day my whole life has changed forever.
CHAPTER NINE
A crowd has gathered back at the house. Every light is on and every window open. Neighbors sit on the porch drinking coffee and smoking their hand-rolled cigarettes. It is like a giant party, but nobody is smiling and their voices are low and muffled. Max, Aunt Sadie’s dog, is taking a nap and blocks the door into the house. Everybody has to step over him to get inside or out.
A couple of men nod at me when I go by, and I nod back. Their faces say they feel sorry for me. I stick my hands in the pockets of my dress and scoot by people, wishing I could have stayed at the river all night. Even on normal days I don’t like being the center of attention. Max thumps his tail twice against the wooden porch as I pass, as if only pretending to be asleep. After I pet him, I go inside looking around for my family. The crowd is as thick as church on Easter Sunday, except without any hope of resurrection.
The first people I see when I go inside are Preacher and his wife sitting in the living room. I have to resist grabbing him by the lapels and tossing him out of Daddy’s chair. He takes a neatly folded white handkerchief out of his coat pocket to soak up the sweat from his forehead. For someone who has a guarantee of going to heaven, he sure does sweat a lot.
Preacher motions for me to come over. “Your Daddy’s one of the fortunate to get to go to the Great Beyond so young,” he says.
“I wish people would quit saying that,” I say. “What exactly is he beyond?”
Preacher’s eyes widen like I haven’t heard a word he’s said every Sunday service since I was a little girl. “Well, he’s in heaven, of course. He’s in a better place. He’s beyond this earthly place. ”
“What could be better than sitting her
e amongst all his family and friends?” I ask.
Preachers face turns red and Amy’s look tells me I’d better just drop it.
Amy sits squashed between Aunt Chloe and Uncle John, who are both big people. She looks about as miserable as I feel. I walked past their latest new Buick on the road below the house. It looks bigger than the last one, probably to accommodate their size.
Amy nibbles on her fingernails like she does when she’s nervous. Every corner of our house has people crammed in it, with no place for the shyest McAllister to hide.
Aunt Chloe is Mama’s younger sister and she lives with her husband in Rocky Bluff. My hope is to duck into the kitchen unnoticed, but when Aunt Chloe sees me she hauls herself off the sofa and comes over and hugs me like I am her long lost relative. I let her do it, even though she wears enough perfume to choke a goat. The smell always makes my eyes water and sticks to my skin and clothes. Whenever she comes over for Sunday dinner, her scent lingers in the house well into Tuesday. In the privacy of our bedroom, my sisters and I call it Ode to Toilet Water.
“Louisa May, we’ve been worried about you,” Aunt Chloe says. Before I can get away she pulls me into her, and I hold my breath like I am diving into the deep part of the river. After she releases me I tell her that I am fine, which of course is the lie of the century.
Aunt Chloe’s eyes are bloodshot and I wonder if that is from crying over Daddy or from her perfume, which is especially strong tonight. Chloe has had an easier life than Mama. Chloe’s husband, my Uncle John, owns a furniture store in Rocky Bluff and makes a good living. They never had any children.
“I just can’t think of anything more horrible than what’s happened to your daddy,” Aunt Chloe continues. She sniffs back tears and plucks a lace handkerchief from her cleavage.
“I’d better check on Mama,” I say, stepping away before Aunt Chloe has a chance to hug me again.
In the bedroom, wall to wall people stand around talking about Daddy in whispers. From the look of him, you can’t even tell he’s been in an accident. All the blood is cleaned up and one of Aunt Sadie’s beautiful quilts covers the bed, the one with the hummingbirds sewn on each corner. Besides selling mountain remedies and blackberry wine, Aunt Sadie—like Mama—makes quilts to sell to city people, though Sadie is much better than Mama when it comes to making quilts. Mary Jane’s grandmother in Little Rock bought one from her when she came to visit two summers ago, and she paid Sadie fifty dollars for it. After that, some of her Little Rock, high-society friends wanted one, too. Sadie manages to make one quilt every winter and has a waiting list seven years long, all the way into 1947.
I try to hide my shock at seeing Daddy laid out on the bed. He is wearing his Sunday shoes and his only suit, the suit he wore to every funeral and wedding in Katy’s Ridge, and the suit he always complained about how stiff and uncomfortable it was.
“How dare you make him wear that,” I say to Mama over the whispers. “He should be wearing a pair of overalls and his favorite flannel shirt if he has to wear them for all eternity.”
I feel bad now for running off to the river and not making sure things were done right.
The voices in the room go silent and a dozen set of eyes look at me like I’ve just killed Daddy myself.
In a matter of seconds, the look on Mama’s face changes from all-consuming grief to fuming anger.
“She’s just distraught,” somebody says in my defense.
I recognize the voice as Miss Mildred who plays the organ at the church. In the past, I’ve spent a fair amount of time making fun of Miss Mildred and realize now that I will have to stop, since she spoke up for me.
Not the best organ player, Miss Mildred’s hymns are riddled with bad notes that sound like little farts. I have spent my entire childhood swallowing giggles as fast as her little organ farts come out. Some of us learned that you can swallow air and make little farts, too. The boys are really good at this, which guarantees more giggles. If Mama’s cold looks don’t stop me from rolling all hysterical down the church aisle, I force myself to think of Jesus on the cross.
In the next instant I feel guilty for thinking about farts while Daddy is laying dead. But then I figure that he might find it funny, too. However, the wrath of Mama sobers me quick, as she pulls me through the crowd and outside to a corner of the porch where no one can hear us.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Mama says. Her whispered words come out like shouts. “Have you no respect for the dead?”
“The dead is Daddy,” I say.
She takes a step back like I’ve just slapped her hard in the face.
Sadie’s dog, Max, comes over and sniffs my crotch, as if this is the only comfort he has to offer, given the blessing out I am about to receive.
“Louisa May McAllister, this is how things are done when someone dies and you will respect it or you will be cleaning out the outhouse for the rest of your natural life. Do you hear me?”
I smile, grateful that Mama is taking me down a peg because it makes me not feel so much like an orphan. She narrows her eyes at my smile.
“Yes, ma’am,” I say. “I will respect how things are done.”
She lifts her head as though proud of winning this battle and I follow her back into the house to pay our respects to Daddy. The crowd parts as Mama makes her way back to the rocking chair next to the bed, the chair where all we babies got rocked, me being the last. This rocker is more like a family member than of a piece of furniture and creaks out a tune on the wooden floors as sweet as any Daddy might have played on the banjo. It will probably be the chair that rocks all the grandbabies, too.
While it is easy to imagine Jo, Amy and Meg having babies and bringing them here to be rocked in the family chair, it is much harder to imagine myself doing it. I’ve already decided that I’ll have babies only after I’ve finished all the fun things in life, like going on adventures and exploring a world bigger than Katy’s Ridge.
Besides all the other things Aunt Sadie does, she also works as a midwife here in Katy’s Ridge. I’ve gone with her a few times on a delivery. Mainly I take care of the younger kids in the family, if there are any. But I’ve heard enough hollering coming out of bedrooms to wonder if babies are worth all the pain they bring with them.
Contrite as the best Baptist, I make my way back through the crowded room. People nod as if to acknowledge the effort I am making. Even with the window open the room is stuffy. It isn’t big enough for this many people. When I reach the bed I touch Daddy’s hand and then yank it away. It is cold, like something in the icebox. Before I can stop them, tears rush to my eyes. The last thing I want to do is cry in front of all these people so I sniff them back so hard I feel a rush of air in my eyeballs.
After I slide in beside her, Mama puts her arm around my waist and anchors me in place as Mr. Blackstone, Daddy’s boss at the sawmill, tells her how much Daddy will be missed.
“You’re very kind,” Mama replies.
“You’re very kind,” I echo, trying to match Mama’s tone.
Mr. Blackstone’s daughter, Becky, is four years ahead of me in school. Seeing him this close I now know where Becky gets her big nose because her father has one just like it. Their eyes are alike, too, small and narrow. The only inconsistency being that Mr. Blackstone is practically bald and Becky’s hair is long and straight.
“I don’t know how we can ever replace him,” Mr. Blackstone concludes.
Mama thanks him again for his kindness and squeezes me like I am not to repeat it. If she resents Mr. Blackstone at all for Daddy’s accident she doesn’t let on, although I heard her say to Daddy more than once that Mr. Blackstone is cheap and hasn’t hired enough men for all the logging that needs to get done.
Before he leaves, Mr. Blackstone shakes the tips of my fingers like he is afraid to touch my whole hand, which irritates me to no end. Before I have time to react, Mama shoots me a look that would stop a full grown mountain lion in its tracks. In the meantime, I do my best to ignore the
body lying on the bed in the clothes Daddy would have burned if she let him.
“Where are your sisters?” Mama asks.
“I think Jo and Meg are in the kitchen,” I say. “And Amy’s keeping Aunt Chloe and Uncle John company.”
“Why don’t you go help Jo and Meg,” she says, releasing her arm from my waist.
Mama’s answer for everything that ails a person is hard work. For her, life is just one big chore with no end. Daddy always said she was stubborn as an ox, and she plowed to the end of the row of everything she did. He said we girls would be grateful for that trait someday. Though I don’t see how gratitude and working like an ox are related at all.
As I’m leaving, I glance at the old photograph Mama always keeps on her dresser. She never talks about her past. Her parents came over from Germany, but we’ve not heard one story about them. I’ve spent some time studying that photograph. The grandparents I never met are standing on a small rug out in a dirt yard, somewhere in Germany, dressed up in front of a Hansel and Gretel house. They look stern, not a bit of happiness on their faces. Aunt Chloe never talks about them either, but sometimes I hear Mama and Chloe talking in German together in the kitchen when they don’t think anybody else is listening.
Before leaving the room, I turn and look over at Daddy. I just keep thinking that any minute he will sit up and ask why all these people are in our house. When he hears the story of how we all thought he was dead, he’ll probably laugh so loud it can be heard in the next valley. Wishful thinking comes in handy if you want to keep reality from sinking in too fast.
My fantasy fades when I notice my father’s arms have been folded neatly across his chest. He could be sleeping except for that. Nobody sleeps that way. Maybe that’s why people do it. So mourners won’t go poking around on dead people expecting them to wake up.
The kitchen is crowded and busy like Thanksgiving dinner is being made. All sorts of food sits on the kitchen table that people have brought, but Jo and Meg are making more. Every burner on our old stove has something cooking, as well as the oven, and the kitchen is hot as Hades. Jo peels potatoes by the sink and still looks fresh, no matter how hot it is. It doesn’t seem fair sometimes that she can be so beautiful and the rest of us are so plain. What makes it all right is that Jo doesn’t seem to know how pretty she is.
The Secret Sense of Wildflower Page 9
