by Leisha Kelly
“Ah, Worthams!” Mr. Hammond exclaimed. “What would we ever do without Worthams? Now if it don’t look like God’s done sent a young’un to set me right. I s’pose you’ll tell your pa on me, won’t you, girl? You might as well tell him that it’s jus’ like I said. It’s all done. Wilametta’s waitin’ to meet ’em . . .”
He walked back into the bedroom without another word and shut the door behind him. Bert sunk back into his chair. But I just stood there, looking at Frank.
“What are we gonna do?” Bert asked, his voice sounding horrible broken. Frank moved to his side and put his arm around his shoulder.
“We’re gonna be strong for the rest, that’s what we’re gonna do,” he answered. “That’s what Joe’d want. Don’t you think so?”
Berty tried awful hard, but he couldn’t stop the tears. He nodded anyway, and Frank leaned into him with a full embrace.
“It’s okay. It’s okay to cry,” Frank told his brother. “The pastor says it is, an’ you’ve seen him at it, ain’t you?”
Berty nodded again.
“We ain’t gonna be able to help it for a while. We ain’t gonna be able to help a lot a’ feelin’s. But we gotta do the best we can. You’re almost a man, Bert. Writin’ for the newspaper an’ everythin’. I’m so proud a’ you I can’t even say how much.” He stopped a minute, struggling for more words. “I need your help. I know it hurts. It ain’t gonna stop hurtin’. But we got Emmie comin’ home this afternoon, an’ she’s jus’ a little thing. An’ Harry. An’ he’s like Pa in that he’s more liable to hit somethin’ than let hisself cry. An’ Rorey, an’ you know there ain’t no tellin’ ’bout her—”
“What . . . what can I do?”
“If you can—if you’re feelin’ better—take Sarah home for me. Tell Mrs. Wortham what happened. I know she’s hurtin’ too. They got their own problems. But tell her that we need her or Mr. Wortham here for a while tonight, if they can manage it. An’ I need ’em to get word to the pastor an’ Sam and Lizbeth, or maybe you could go to the Posts an’ ask them to go—”
“Frank,” I told him then. “I can do all that. Bert can stay here.”
“No, Sarah Jean,” he said real solemn. “You don’t know how to handle the horses. I need Bert to take ’em an’ leave ’em there. Please.”
His strange eyes were like stormy pools, and I could scarcely bear to look at them. Oh, Frank, I wanted to ask him. What more are you afraid of? If your pa wants to drink so bad, what would be the harm of just letting him go? He’ll get drunk. Maybe he’ll cry his eyes out. And then he’ll come home. But I couldn’t speak those things. There was something about Frank right now that I just couldn’t argue with. Neither could Bert. He nodded his head and dried his whole face on his sleeve, and then he got up to get his coat.
“Thank you, Sarah,” Frank told me. “More’n I can say. Thank you.”
Reluctantly, I left Frank alone with his father and went with Bert to tell my mother the most heartbreaking news I’d ever carried. I knew she’d drop everything to do what Frank asked. She’d do it even without him asking. She’d probably send me to ask the Posts to take the word into town so she could start back here with Bert right away and be here even before the kids got home from school.
Bert was coughing something terrible, but neither of us had taken the time to get the rest of his tonic down him. I knew my mother would handle that later. She would know far better than me what to do.
26
Frank
Bert and Sarah Jean were quick about leaving, and I was glad. But I stood looking around me at our house, and it seemed so empty I wanted to scream. I should’ve been prepared for this. I’d thought I was. But the news had still come and hit us broadside. Maybe there was no preparing. I felt like I’d been picked up and slammed sideways all over again. I needed to pray, to set my head straight about all this before seein’ anybody else, or even talking to Pa again. I knew he’d try leaving. Only Sarah being here and being so bold with him had stopped him, but I wasn’t sure anythin’ would stop him the next time.
I got on my knees, trying to put my thinkin’ together. Thank you. For Sarah being here. For her to be comfort to Bert on the way over there. For her to help getting us her folks here, ’cause I know we’ll need ’em.
I stopped, thinkin’ about Joe’s smiling face, about him pickin’ up Emmie when she was a baby, racing Harry ’round the woodshed, or even hitching the wagon to take all of us to church. Joe was the big brother I could talk to the best. He was the one who’d stayed with me the most when my leg was broke. He was the one most likely to stand in my defense when all the other boys I knew only gave me a hard time.
It was hard not to cry about all that. It was hard not to be fierce upset at God for all the things that had happened. But it wasn’t God’s fault; I told myself the same thing I’d told my pa. God doesn’t cause the pain in this world. He helps us bear it. He gives us a way out. Thank you, I told God, even though the words came out hard. Thank you that Joe’s not suffering. That he’s not been months tortured or half starved or laying someplace in pain. Thank you that he’s with Mama, and with you. Because he’s in the good place. He can’t be hurt anymore.
My eyes filled with tears. I couldn’t hold them back.
But then I heard the bed creak in Pa’s room, and I knew he was gettin’ up again. God, help me. Help Pa! I can’t just let him take off. I don’t know what he’ll do after all the things he said before. But I don’t know if I can stop him.
Pa’s door opened up slow, and he looked out at me. I wiped at my eyes real quick and thanked God I’d sent Bert off with the horses.
Pa looked terrible, like the grief and hard thoughts had already sapped him dry. “I weren’t sure,” he said kind of low. “I weren’t sure they wouldn’t be talkin’ ’bout Willy.”
“Me neither, Pa.”
He come walkin’ out to the setting room, but instead of taking a chair he went over to the wall for his coat that was hangin’ on a hook. “We got that to face eventually, you know.”
“It won’t be the same,” I tried to assure him. “Willy’ll be all right.” I was surprised he was talkin’ as calm as he was to me. But he was putting on his coat, and I knew what that meant. I stood up. “Pa, you can’t be goin’ nowhere. I sent the horses with Bert.”
“I know that. You think I care? You think you’re clever, boy, but it ain’t gonna stop me.”
“Pa . . . please . . .”
He looked at me awful hard. “We been through this before. If that Sarah Wortham hadn’t a’ been here, I’d already be gone. An’ I ain’t afraid a’ walkin’. What do you think you’re gonna do? You can’t stop me. I can shove you outta the way an’ keep on goin’.”
I got in his path again, even though I knew he might bust me good the way he would’ve done if Sarah Jean hadn’t grabbed his arm before. But I didn’t really care if he hit me. I could see in his eyes that it wasn’t his right mind talking, and if there was any way under God’s heaven I could stop him from leavin’, I’d do it. It was a gut hurt of some kind, a knowin’ that if I let Pa go in this kind of state, it’d all be done. I didn’t understand it. I could only think of Emmie and the others and what they already had to face. So I stuck myself between him and the door and braced for whatever he might do.
“Pa. Drinkin’ ain’t never solved nothing.”
“Get outta my way.”
“I ain’t lettin’ you go off alone. It ain’t right! Just like Sarah said!”
He took hold of my arm. His eyes were crazy angry. But for a minute he just stared at me, and I thought I seen somethin’ in him that weren’t so angry. Wild hurt. Like a scared critter caught in a corner.
“Pa . . .”
He shoved me, hard. It was all I could do to catch myself ’gainst the wall as he was openin’ the door.
“Pa!”
But he was already out. “You ain’t stoppin’ me, boy.”
My heart was thumpin’ so fast it hurt, but I run
after him because there was nothin’ else I could do. He’d talked about being gone from us. He’d talked about leavin’ us for good. I didn’t know what was in his mind, but I couldn’t let it be. Not when everybody was gonna be hurtin’ so bad over Joe. It was like the world was rocked out from under us already. They didn’t need no other blow.
“Maybe I can’t stop you,” I hollered at him. “Maybe you won’t let me tell you a blame thing! But if you’re goin’, then I’m comin’ too! An’ you can’t stop me, Pa. There ain’t no way you can!”
He turned his head. “Doggone it, boy. You’re headstrong.” “Just like my pa.”
He stopped in his tracks. “You don’t wanna come, Franky.”
“I will if I have to. If you take off, I swear I’ll follow.” For a second, he almost choked up. “Why?”
“Because I love you, Pa. We need you. I gotta see that you come home. What else can I say?”
He shook his head. “You ain’t needed me a long time, boy. You work with Samuel Wortham. You make your own money. You do all right.”
I’d never heard him say anything like that before, and I wasn’t sure how to respond. “Pa . . . there’s more to it than that.”
“Like what?”
“Like lovin’ you. And knowin’ that all the rest love you too. Wouldn’t matter if we was all rich as Solomon on our own. You’re still our pa. And we need you. ’Specially now.”
“You’re somethin’, Franky. You don’t never let go.”
“I can’t. Don’t you understand?”
He turned and looked at me. For the first time I saw the tears in his eyes. “I can’t handle this. Everybody’s gonna be cryin’ an’ all. I can’t do it.”
I nodded just a little. “I feel the same way. But we gotta do it. There ain’t no choice in the matter. Them younger ones—they ain’t got nobody else.”
“They got you. An’ the Worthams.”
“That ain’t the same as their pa.”
His shoulders kind of shook, and I might have hugged him, but I didn’t know what he’d do. “I ain’t no kinda pa,” he said. “You know that by now.”
“You’ve tried hard,” I told him. “Ten whole years since we lost Mama, and most a’ the times’s been good.”
He smiled, just a little, but even that was still sad. “Hard to picture you sayin’ that, boy. I’m well knowin’ I ain’t give you the best a’ times.”
“It’s all right, Pa. I’m just wantin’ you to do the best you can now.”
He sighed. “That’s just it. I ain’t got no best. Not for times like this.” He started walking.
I followed him. Pa was tall. He was strong and could move pretty fast if he wanted to, but I did my best at keepin’ up. “Where you goin’?” I called out.
“You aim to follow me all the way to town?” he shouted back. “It’s durn cold out here. Purt’ near eight miles too.”
“I reckon I can make it if I have to,” I answered him. He shook his head. “Then what? You gonna try a’ drink or two?”
“No, Pa.”
“You ain’t gonna stop me.”
“I would if I could. If I can’t, I’ll just wait. You gotta stop sometime. Then I’ll get you home.”
He kept right on going, but his voice was different, low and broken, like he was havin’ trouble saying any-thin’ more. “Willy told me once that you was lily-livered ’cause you wouldn’t fight at them boys that teased you. I reckon he was wrong.”
“Pa. It’s all right to be hurtin’. We’re all gonna be hurtin’.”
He shook his head at me again. “You know I can’t take you them places I been, don’t you, Frank? Last night with Ben was bad enough. That’s why you’re followin’ me, ain’t it? You don’t belong there. You know I ain’t gonna be able to do it.”
“I’m hopin’ you change your mind,” I agreed. “I just wanna get us back inside. You ain’t had no lunch. The kids’ll be home after a while.”
“I can’t eat, Franky. Not right now.” He stopped.
“I can’t either,” I said gently. “And it’s all right. Somehow or ’nother, God’ll help us, and it’ll be all right.”
“You really believe that?”
I took a deep breath. “Right now, Pa, it’s hard. But I’m gonna believe it anyhow.”
He turned and looked at me. I could see something workin’ in him, and I wished he’d just come out and say whatever it was, but he almost turned away. “Why don’t you go back inside?”
“Not without you.”
He sighed. Real deep. “Frank. I just need to be alone. I just need to walk a while. I can’t go to town. I see that, all right? I just wanna go by your mama’s grave a while an’ talk to her. I think . . . I wanna tell her to be watchin’ out for them boys—for Joe, an’ maybe even Willy if worse comes to worse. I need some time. You understand that, don’t you?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I understand that real well. I’ll come with you.”
His eyes turned angry again. “Franklin Drew—”
“I tol’ you I aim to follow you.” I hoped he could understand. I couldn’t let him go alone, not even to Mama’s grave, because I didn’t know what he’d do after that.
“Weasly cuss.”
“I love you, Pa.”
“You done said that already.”
“It’s important. I want you to know. We’re all gonna need each other. We’re gonna need a lotta love gettin’ through this.”
He started off again, his feet crunchin’ into the frozen, icy grass. We got to the timber, and he didn’t stop.
It was hard goin’. I couldn’t maneuver so good as him on account of my knee that don’t bend just right. But I kept at it, hoping he’d quit and go home. I didn’t know if he was really headin’ for Mama’s grave, or hopin’ to shake me and take off for Fraley’s or someplace else. I didn’t try to talk to him. He hadn’t wanted to listen. I just kept crunchin’ through the frozen timber after him, glad the snow had melted before it got so cold again. He was gettin’ further ahead. But I wouldn’t lose him. He could get a way off further than that, an’ I’d still see him and hear him.
Lord, if we ain’t home by the time the rest of ’em are, give Bert and everybody peace. They know Pa and they know me. They know I wouldn’t take off with no purpose. Help ’em understand that I’ll be back soon enough. An’ I’ll be bringin’ Pa with me.
For a minute I wondered if I wasn’t being too hardheaded. Maybe I oughta just let him go. But my heart was too heavy to trust him. And I knew there was time before anybody got home. Maybe I could still persuade him. Maybe the good Lord’d touch his heart.
Tears filled my eyes as I made myself keep going. I thought about Robert being shot so bad, and I wondered if Mr. Wortham had found out anythin’ more about Willy. Surely they’d been together. I hoped so, because that would have been comfort, not to be alone. I wished there’d been somebody there with Joe too.
I knew Pa was hurtin’. He couldn’t help that. Even if we’d known this might happen, it was still about the awfulest thing I could imagine. I thought of Job and what he’d said after everythin’ that happened to him. “Naked came I out of my mother’s womb, and naked shall I return thither: the Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord.”
Those were strong words. Job had lost a lot. All his kids. And the Bible says he sinned not, nor charged God foolishly. I knew that Pa had started to charge God foolishly, when he’d said the Lord was punishin’ him, that it was his doing, as if God had caused Joe’s death on purpose. I knew that was wrong. It had to be wrong. And yet Job said, “The Lord hath taken away.” I had a hard time puttin’ all that together in my mind.
Pa slowed down. He knew I was still behind him. I knew that, even though he didn’t look back. We were goin’ in the direction of Mama’s grave, and I was glad. Maybe Pa needed that. Maybe he was right in what he said. Lord, be with him. Give him peace.
I watched him slow some more through the trees. We weren
’t far off now. I thought of Joe in these woods, fishing in the pond or searchin’ up crawdads ’tween there and the creek. Pa almost looked like Joe from the back. They were both tall and lanky, taller than me. With brown shaggy hair and shoulders that seemed too broad to fit the rest of ’em, they was built just alike. It’d never been hard to tell whose boy Joe was.
I sighed. It seemed like there must have been some kind of mistake. How could he be dead? Maybe he was still missing, and there’d been some kind of mix-up somehow. He was a good soldier. Smart and strong. With so much ahead of him. He was a good brother too. Quick to take care of us that was younger.
Maybe I had some of the same angry in me as Pa had. I could feel it, down inside. I wasn’t sure who I could be angry at. But it helped me understand Pa a little, at least right now. Who could blame him how he must feel? If he seemed a little hateful, how I could fault him, so long as he didn’t do nothin’ hurtful? Surely he wouldn’t.
Maybe he’d need someone when he got done talkin’ at Mama’s grave. Maybe I oughta give him a little time, like he said, so he could cry where no one could see him. Then when the cryin’ was done, maybe he’d be ready to not be alone.
The timber felt lonely, frigid, with slick patches of ice where puddles had gone solid after a freezing rain a couple of days ago. The wind was stirring the barren treetops, and here and there a tiny piece of ice would cascade down and hit the ground with a soft little plink. We were almost to Mama’s grave, where the buttercups and the daffodils and all the other flowers we’d planted so long ago bloomed so pretty every spring. But there was nothing bloomin’ now. The woods seemed as lifeless as Mama’s weathered stone.
I saw Pa up ahead. He just sunk to the ground in sight of Mama’s grave. I stopped, not wantin’ to bust in on something I figured he needed. I almost turned back so I could leave him truly alone for a minute like he wanted. I wished I could. I wished I could know that he wouldn’t take his chance to get shuck of me in the woods. It didn’t seem like respect to be followin’ him when he didn’t want it, but I could picture Emmie cryin’ in my mind. I could picture Bert’s sad face, and I knew how it had upset them last night when he disappeared.
