The Road From Gap Creek: A Novel Hardcover

by Robert Morgan

  “Why would he open the casket?” I said, giving Carolyn a hard look. Mama had once hinted that Carolyn had tried to break her and Papa up after they was first married and living on Gap Creek.

  “Because it’s his only chance to see Troy one last time,” Carolyn said. “Didn’t they give Hank the key to the casket?”

  It was true the undertaker had give Papa the key to the coffin. I shuddered to think what might be in that box. That airplane had exploded and burned up. There might not be anything but a few burned bones or a skull, or a few rags of clothes. Can you imagine the horror of looking at the burned-up remains of somebody you loved? After five years who knew what the condition of such remains would be? It might be a nightmare for Papa to see. And then again there might not be anything at all in the coffin, for the bombs had blowed everything to pieces. It could be the worst thing of all for Papa to look in that casket and see nothing at all.

  “The coffin will not be opened,” I said.

  Papa didn’t say nothing, and nobody else said nothing.

  “You could let him speak for hisself,” Carolyn said.

  “It ain’t your place to say what he does,” I said, and looked at her as hard as I could. Carolyn was not used to people standing up to her. She was spoiled. Her sisters had always let her have her way, because she was the youngest.

  “Carolyn is just trying to help,” Lou said.

  “Let her help somebody else,” I snapped.

  Carolyn turned and walked out of the funeral parlor, and I was happy to see her go. She waited in Garland’s truck until we come out after dark, and she didn’t speak to me when I walked by the truck.

  Now that Muir was pastor of the church, we could have the funeral in the old church at the foot of the mountain or at the new unfinished church at the top of the mountain. Muir had been hoping to hold the service in the new church, but it rained the night before and the road up the mountain was muddy and mushy. So the funeral was held in the old church down by the road, which the hearse could reach easy.

  I’d never been to a military funeral before. The honor guard with their rifles and fine uniforms lined up on the steps outside the church before we went in. The undertaker had us wait until everybody else was in the church before we entered. It had stopped raining and clouds was parting so you could see some blue. Just then a checker-painted taxicab pulled into the parking lot and a woman dressed in black got out. I seen it was Sharon and she was by herself.

  The undertaker was about to tell us to start walking into the church, but I said, “Wait.” Sharon come right up to us and I moved around to let her stand beside Papa. It seemed the polite thing to do. She tried to smile, but she couldn’t quite manage it she was so out of breath.

  “I had to come,” she whispered as we started to march in.

  I don’t remember much about that service. I know we sung “Battle Hymn.” And I know that Muir talked about what a fine man, a brave man, an athlete, an artist, Troy was. But I don’t recall the words he actually said. All I could think about was Mama and how she would’ve felt if she’d been there.

  But I remember the graveside service very well, every second of it. The limousine we rode in behind the hearse wound up the little road to the top of the cemetery hill. It always seemed a lonely place to me, with crows in the trees and the mountain looming above. The cliff they call Buzzard Rock looked down. Water on the rock made it gleam in the sun like it had eyes. There was always wind in the broomsedge on the hill.

  Troy’s grave was right beside Mama’s and it made the back of my mouth tight and sore just to look at the two graves side by side. The tent was up over the fresh grave, and after we set down, the soldiers assembled in a line on the other side of the grave. The creases on their pants was so sharp you’d think the uniforms was made of metal. Their shoes shined like hot tar.

  When the leader called out an order they all jerked to attention and looked straight ahead. When another order was give they raised their rifles straight up and down in front of their faces. Next they put the rifles to their shoulders and worked the bolts to put a cartridge in. Then the order to fire was give and they all pulled the trigger at once. The boom of the guns echoed off the mountain and made the crows call out their warnings like they was being shot at. The crows had no way of knowing the soldiers was using blanks.

  And then the soldiers worked the rifles to put in another shot and fired again. I winced with the roar of the blasts. And then they done it again. On command they lowered the rifle butts to the ground and stood at attention.

  I thought the ceremony must be over, but two of the soldiers handed their guns to others and walked to the casket over the grave. One got on either side and they begun to fold the flag. It was a big flag and they folded it this way and that way, again and again, until it was smaller than a pillow, and then they folded it once more so it was three cornered and brought it to Papa.

  As Papa held the flag on his lap I thought it was a fine and impressive kind of ceremony. But it was mostly sad that such a ceremony had to take place. Tens of thousands of such ceremonies was being conducted all over the country and all over the world. People had to be crazy, the world had to be crazy, to fight such wars. Smart people would never do such a thing to each other. They would find a better way to settle arguments rather than just killing each other. And for what? So they could have fine ceremonies and make speeches on a hillside at the end of the war?

  I was thinking such grim thoughts when I noticed a black roadster pull behind the last car on the driveway around the cemetery. I didn’t think nothing of it at first. People sometimes come to the graveside service even if they missed the funeral. Papa set on one side of me and Sharon on the other. Sharon give a kind of gasp when she seen the roadster. The man that got out of the roadster was her husband, Albert. He took something out of the trunk of the car and started walking toward us.

  “Oh no,” Sharon groaned.

  It was just then that Muir stood up at the side of the grave and started reading from the hundred and third Psalm. “As for man his days are as grass . . .”

  Muir paused, and then said, “Let us bow our heads.”

  The crows on the mountainside was making a terrible racket and wind blowed in under the tent making the flowers around the coffin tremble. As Albert got closer I seen that he had something in his hand. Light flashed on it and I thought at first it might be a pair of glasses or a fountain pen. And then I seen it was a pistol. It looked like an army pistol, the kind you could buy for a few dollars at a surplus store.

  As Muir begun to pray, “Lord, we are here to honor our fallen brother, who we know is now at home with you,” Albert called out Sharon’s name. Everybody’s eyes turned toward him. Albert wore the same tan jacket and brown hat he had the time I’d seen him up town. I hadn’t noticed then it was an army jacket, but in the bright sun you could see where the patches had been tore off the sleeves and shoulders.

  Muir paused for an instant and then continued the prayer. Surely nobody would want to interrupt the prayer at the end of a funeral.

  “Sharon, you come here,” Albert said in a shaking voice. He didn’t point the pistol at nobody. He held it pointed at the ground. I’d not knowed he’d been a soldier in the war hisself. It occurred to me he might be shell shocked, as so many boys who’d been in battle was. I could see he was shaking as he stood there in the wind with the crows screaming in the trees beyond.

  Muir cut the prayer short and said “Amen,” then turned to Albert. He’d never seen Albert, but must have guessed who he was, and he held out his hand. Holding out your hand is a gesture that you want to be friends; it says there is nothing here to fear. But instead of shaking hands, Albert backed away, still holding the gun pointed down.

  The soldiers with their rifles just stood there. I reckon a man with a pistol who was probably shell shocked was the last thing they’d expected at a funeral. There was nothing in their rifles but blanks.

  “You get out of my way; this ain’t yo
ur business, preacher,” Albert said, so short of breath he could hardly talk.

  “This is a funeral,” Muir said, “for a fallen soldier.”

  Albert looked all around the crowd, and then he looked hard at Sharon before turning back to Muir. “You think the only brave soldiers are them that died?” he said. “Them that returns is just as brave as them that died.”

  “Nobody is arguing with that,” Muir said.

  The sergeant of the honor guard stepped out of the line and faced Albert. “Soldier,” he snapped, “take that pistol back to your car and leave here. That is an order.”

  “I don’t take orders no more,” Albert said.

  “Don’t disgrace the uniform,” the sergeant said.

  Albert turned toward Sharon and said, “You’re coming with me.” There was both threat and begging in his voice.

  The sergeant stepped closer to Muir and they both stood between Albert and Sharon. I was afraid Albert would raise the pistol and shoot, or the sergeant would try to hit him with the rifle. It was an awful thing to happen, at the end of Troy’s funeral.

  “Wait,” Sharon said. “I’ll come.”

  I almost blurted out that Sharon shouldn’t go with him; he was too dangerous. But I didn’t. I guess I thought that any way we could get Albert away from there would be good. If it was the thought of Troy that upset him so, then she should stay far away from Troy’s family.

  It looked like Sharon was going to take Albert’s arm, but she didn’t. Instead she walked on toward the black roadster and he followed her. She walked like somebody that has been give a long sentence. I hated to think what it would be like when she got home, away from all the curious eyes of the congregation. As I watched her get in that car and the car drive away, I thought how the war wasn’t really over. For us in Troy’s family, for those that had loved him, and for former soldiers like Albert, the war was far from over. In fact it would never be over for any of us.

  Nobody said anything after Sharon and Albert was gone. Nobody knowed what to say. Usually after a funeral people come up to the family and say what a beautiful service it was, how fitting for the honor and memory of the loved one who has been lost. But after what had happened it was hard for anybody to think of what to say.

  Lorrie come and up hugged me with tears in her eyes. “Oh, Annie,” she said. “I know you’ll always miss Troy.”

  “We all will,” I said.

  I held the tightly folded flag while Papa shook hands with each of the pallbearers and thanked them for taking part. Then he thanked each member of the honor guard. Lou and Garland had brought Rosie to the funeral and I talked to them a little. Carolyn had not come. It was like her to stay mad after an argument. Mama said she’d always been that way.

  As people started drifting back to their cars I told Effie and Alvin to be sure to come back to the house for supper. People had brought heaps of fried chicken and tater salad, and somebody had to eat it. I took Muir’s arm and we walked back to the limousine. Muir had never give up on me over the years. No matter what else had changed Muir was still there.

  Twenty

  I won’t say having a baby ain’t hard, for everybody knows it is. The pains and then the waiting and then the pains getting worse are harder than anything you ever imagined. The pain shrieks through you and out of you as you push and strain and scream to high heaven or deep hell, all melted in sweat and hair sticking to your forehead. You think you can’t stand it no more, that you’re going to die and wish you could die. But you don’t. And finally it’s over and you’re wore out and have a glistening baby that has to be wiped off and held close.

  But the hardest thing for me, because it lasted so much longer, was the summer leading up to the birth of Angela, my first child. Because I kept getting infections, bladder infections, kidney infections, uterine infections, Dr. Fauntleroy said it might be necessary to take the baby, to save my life. He said he was afraid there’d be a miscarriage anyway, so it would be safer to end the pregnancy. But I’d waited too long to have a child to do that. If the Lord wanted me to have a baby, he would let me have the baby anyway, no matter what the doctor said. I remembered Mama’s stories of having her first baby when she was alone in that old house on Gap Creek. I knowed it could not be as bad as that because I had a doctor and could go to the hospital in town.

  “Then you must stay in bed until the baby comes,” Dr. Fauntleroy said.

  “But that’ll be all summer.”

  “That’s why I think we should take the baby now,” the doctor said.

  But I told him I’d stay in bed, if that’s what it would take. I wouldn’t leave the house all summer.

  “And you must restrict your diet,” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Only eat the things you can hold on your stomach,” he said. He recommended toast and milk, ginger ale and soda crackers. Light things like that.

  “I’ll get poor as a whippoorwill,” I told Muir.

  But the doctor was right about the diet. If I eat anything raw or the least bit greasy, I’d throw it up. Nothing that was spicy would stay down. I found I could eat grits or cream of wheat three times a day. And what I preferred most was sourwood honey, honey on toast, honey on biscuits. And banana pudding because it was so cool.

  I’ll say this about Muir: he took care of things and the house while I laid in bed all that hot summer. He washed dishes and brought me tea and done the washing. When he was off at work I was by myself except when Papa was around, or sometimes Effie or Lorrie come to visit.

  Sometimes Muir brought me a magazine, but I didn’t feel much like reading. I didn’t even want the light on. I kept the curtains pulled and laid still to keep my stomach settled. If I moved around, I’d throw up. I could feel the baby growing inside me. Everything I eat, I eat for the baby. It was so hot you didn’t want to move anyway. Even with the window open and the breeze pushing the curtain the heat built up in the afternoon and made me feel so weak I couldn’t hardly move. I was weak from not eating much anyway. I laid there and tried not to think about Mama and Troy and Old Pat.

  AFTER ANGELA WAS born I was still weak. Because I’d eat so little that summer, she was poor, with legs like pipe stems and toes little as beads of dew. Dr. Fauntleroy said I might not want to nurse her but give her formula, but I wouldn’t hear of that. She was my baby and it was my place to feed her out of my own breasts. And once I started nursing her I was glad I had for it was about the nicest thing I’d done. If there is something more satisfying than nursing your own baby, I don’t know what it is. As I held Angela to my nipple it seemed there couldn’t be nothing more important in the world.

  Whatever men think is important may be important to them, but nothing to me could be more important than taking care of Angela. If men had babies, maybe there wouldn’t be such awful things happening all the time I thought. If men had babies, they’d know what was more important than wars and always fighting about things.

  Every time I picked up Angela I felt that sweetness inside me where she’d been. Her skin was soft as a petal, and when I give her a bath she glowed all over. I liked to watch her upper lip as she took the nipple. I thought I’d bust when she smiled the first time. And then a few weeks later she laughed when I took her hands and went patty-cake, patty-cake, the baker’s man. I wished Mama was there to see her. It hurt to think she’d never see her granddaughter.

  It’s hard to explain how having a baby and taking care of a baby changes the way you look at things. It sounds a little silly when you try to put it in words. But the truth is having your own baby makes you feel connected to everything else. With a baby you ain’t alone in the same way as before. You’re taking part in the future and with the people that come before you. All you have to do is take care of this little living thing to have a part in all creation. You feel foolish telling that to somebody, but that’s the way you feel.

  Even when Angela had the terrible colic I still had the satisfaction of taking care of her. Her belly h
urt and she would cry. I’d feed her and then she would get the bellyache again. I set up with her and rocked her and walked around with her. Muir got up and rocked her and toted her around while I got some sleep. Dr. Fauntleroy prescribed some paregoric, and that helped a little. It seemed like I must be doing something wrong, and that the colic would never end. And then it did.

  The reason you feel so important as a mother is because you are important. Nobody else in the world will care as much and love as much this little thing that cries and don’t know where it is and needs its butt cleaned up from time to time. Nobody can ever love it like you do. All its life depends on what you do for it now. The most important thing is just to let it know that it’s loved. Having a baby of my own made me understand Mama better.

  Having a daughter is special to a mother. I know having a son must be exciting and wonderful too. You want to raise a son to be a man you admire. Having a son gives you a special chance to have some effect on the world. But the same could be said for having a daughter. For you feel a closeness to the little girl, a likeness. You feel she understands you. You watch a little girl learn to flirt with people, with her daddy, even with strangers. You recognize yourself in the way she smiles and gestures for affection.

  One day when Angela was crying with the colic and I couldn’t get her to stop, I decided to take her outdoors to see if that would help. It was a cool day in late spring. It didn’t seem like I’d hardly been outside for the past year. I put on a jacket and wrapped Angela in a blanket and tied a pink knitted cap on her head. The light was so bright I blinked when I stepped into the backyard.

  When you’ve been inside for a long time it surprises you how close and intimate things outdoor are. The wall of the smokehouse, the dirt of the path, the cedars by the gate, was so familiar, like friends you ain’t seen in a long time. I walked out to the springhouse, then up to the gate and out into the pasture where I could look across the valley. The sway of walking did calm Angela, and I held her close and swung from side to side to rock her.