Mudbound

by Hillary Jordan

  THE FIVE OF US staggered through the mud to the grave. It was still raining lightly but the wind had picked up, coming in violent gusts that seemed to blow us in every direction but the one we needed to go. Henry and I carried the coffin and the ropes. Laura walked behind with the children, Bella in her arms and Amanda Leigh hanging onto her skirt.

  When we got to the hole we set the coffin down and worked the ropes underneath it, one on each end. Henry moved to the other side of the hole and I threw him the two rope-ends. But when we tried to lift it, the ropes slipped to the center and the coffin teetered, then tumbled to the ground. The wood groaned, and there was a loud crack from inside the box—Pappy’s skull, hitting the wood. One of the boards on the side had pried loose. I bent and pushed the nails back in with my thumb.

  “This isn’t gonna work,” I said. “Not with just the two of us.”

  “It’ll have to work,” Henry said.

  “Maybe if we stood at either end and ran the ropes lengthwise.”

  “No,” he said. “The coffin’s too narrow. If it falls again it could break open.”

  I shrugged —so what?

  “No,” he said again in a low voice, with a glance at the children.

  Laura pointed at the road. “Look. Here come the Jacksons.”

  We watched their wagon approach. Hap and Florence sat up front, and the two younger boys walked behind. The wagon was piled high with furniture. As it got closer I saw they’d strung up a makeshift tarp in back. I knew Ronsel was under there, suffering.

  When they came abreast of us Henry waved them down.

  “Don’t,” Laura said. “Just let them go.”

  He shot her an indignant look. “It’s not my fault, what happened to that boy. I warned him. I warned both of them. And now Hap’s leaving me in the middle of planting season when he knows damn well it’s too late for me to find another tenant. The least he can do is give us a quick hand here.”

  I opened my mouth to agree with Laura, but she gave a slight shake of her head and I swallowed the words.

  “Hap!” Henry shouted over the wind. “Can you help us out here?”

  Hap whoa’d the mule, and he, Florence and the two boys turned and looked at us. Even from thirty yards away, I could feel the force of their hate.

  “We could use some extra hands!” Henry shouted.

  I expected them to refuse—I sure as hell would have. But then Hap handed the reins to Florence and started to get down. She grabbed hold of his arm and said something to him, and he shook his head and said something back.

  “What are they dithering about?” Henry said impatiently.

  Hap and Florence were really going at it now. Their voices weren’t quite loud enough for me to make out what they were saying, but I could guess well enough.

  “No, Hap. Don’t you do it.”

  “It’s the Lord’s doing we passed by here just now, and I ain’t gone argue with Him. Now come on and let’s see it done.”

  “I ain’t helping that devil get nowhere.”

  “You ain’t helping him, he’s already burning in hell. You helping God to do His work.”

  I saw Florence spit over the side of the wagon.

  “That’s for your God. He ain’t getting nothing more from me. He done taken enough already.”

  “All right then. I won’t be long.”

  Hap climbed down. He turned toward the two boys, and Florence spoke again. Her meaning was plain enough: “And don’t you ask the twins to do it neither.”

  Hap trudged to the grave alone, head bent, eyes on the ground. When he reached us, Henry said, “Thank you for stopping, Hap. We were hoping you and one of your boys could help us get the coffin in.”

  “I’ll help you,” Hap said, “but they ain’t coming.”

  Henry frowned and his forehead knitted up.

  “It’s all right,” Laura said quickly. “I can do it.”

  She set Bella down next to Amanda Leigh and took up one of the rope ends. Henry, Hap and I took the other three. Together we maneuvered the coffin over the hole and lowered it down. When it touched bottom we managed to wiggle one of the ropes out from under it, but the other one caught and wouldn’t come loose. Henry cursed under his breath and let the ends fall down into the hole. He looked at Laura.

  “Did you bring a Bible?” he asked.

  “No,” she said, “I didn’t think of it.”

  I saw Hap look up at the sky, head cocked like he was listening to something. Then he bowed it and said, “I’ve got one right here, Mist McAllan.” He pulled a small, tattered Bible from his shirt pocket. “I can send him on if you want. Reckon that’s why I’m here.” I searched his face for irony or spite, but I saw neither.

  “No, Hap,” Henry said. “Thank you, but no.”

  “Done this plenty of times for my own people,” Hap said.

  “He wouldn’t want it,” Henry said.

  “I say we let him do it,” I said.

  “He wouldn’t want it,” Henry repeated.

  “I want it,” I said. We glared at each other.

  Laura broke the stalemate. “Yes, Henry,” she said, “if Hap is willing to do it I think we should let him. He is a man of God.”

  “All right, Hap,” Henry said after a moment. “Go on then.”

  Hap leafed through the Bible. He opened his mouth to begin, then something flickered in his eyes, and he turned to an earlier page. I was expecting, “The Lord is my shepherd”; I think we all were. What we got was something else entirely.

  “Call now, if there be any that will answer thee; and to which of the saints wilt thou turn?” Hap’s voice was strong and ringing. I saw Laura’s head lift in surprise. She told me later the passage was from Job—hardly the thing to comfort the bereaved at a burial.

  “Man that is born of a woman is of few days, and full of trouble,” Hap went on. “He cometh forth like a flower, and is cut down: he fleeth also as a shadow, and continueth not. And dost thou open thine eyes upon such a one, and bringest me into judgment with thee? Who can bring a clean thing out of an unclean? Not one.”

  Henry was frowning. I think he would have put a stop to the reading if the clouds hadn’t erupted just then, loosing their contents and drenching us all. While Hap shouted about death and iniquity, Henry and I grabbed the shovels and began filling the hole back up.

  So it was that our father was laid to rest in a slave’s grave, in a hurried, graceless ceremony presided over by an accusatory colored preacher, while the woman who meant to kill him looked on, stiff-backed and full of impotent rage that somebody else had beaten her to it.

  If Pappy had woken up when I came in with the lantern, Florence might have gotten her chance. But he didn’t. He slept on peacefully, his face relaxed, his breathing deep and steady, the way a man sleeps after a long and satisfying day’s work. I stood there watching him for some time, dripping water and blood onto the floor, feeling the fury build inside me. I heard his voice saying, “You’d think I had three daughters and not two.” And, “My son don’t have the balls to kill a man up close.” And, “The nigger’s still got to be punished.” I don’t remember picking up the pillow on my bed, just looking down and seeing it in my hands.

  “Wake up,” I said.

  He jerked awake and squinted up at me. “What are you doing there?” he said.

  “I wanted to look you in the eye,” I said. “I wanted you to know it was by my hand.”

  His eyes widened and his mouth opened. “You—” he said.

  “Shut up,” I said, bringing the pillow down over his face and pressing hard. He thrashed and clawed at my hands, his long nails digging into the skin of my wrist. I cursed and let go for a second, long enough for him to turn his head and gasp in a last breathful of air. I pressed the pillow back down, smashing it against his face. His struggles grew weaker. His hands loosened and let go of mine. I waited another couple of minutes before I lifted the pillow off his face. Then I straightened the covers and closed his mouth. I left h
is eyes open.

  I took the lantern and went to the barn. Laura found me there half an hour later, and Florence found us both not long after that. Laura thought I was asleep by then, but I wasn’t. I saw Florence come in with the knife, saw her rage and knew what she meant to do. I wished there was some way to tell her it was already done, that he didn’t die a peaceful death. I put my guilt in my eyes, hoping she would see it.

  What we can’t speak, we say in silence.

  HENRY

  THIS IS THE LOINS of the land. This lush expanse between two rivers, formed fifteen thousand years ago when the glaciers melted, swelling the Mississippi and its tributaries until they overflowed, drowning half the continent. When the waters receded, settling back into their ancient channels, they brought a rich gift of alluvium stolen from the lands they’d covered. Brought it here, to the Delta, and cast it over the river valleys, layer upon sweet black layer.

  I buried my father in that soil, the soil he hated to touch. Buried him apart from my mother, who’ll lie by herself forever in the Greenville cemetery. She might have forgiven me for that, but I knew better than to think Pappy would. I didn’t mourn his death, not like I’d mourned hers. He wouldn’t have wanted my grief in any case, but he ought to have had somebody’s. That was the thought in my mind as I shoveled the earth on top of his coffin: that not one of us was really grieving for him.

  A few days later I lost Jamie too. He was hell-bent on going to California, even though I’d made it plain I could use his help for a few more weeks now that the Jacksons were gone. That was a terrible business at the sawmill, but nobody could say I didn’t warn the boy. I wondered what he’d done, to make those men punish him like that. Had to been something pretty bad. I think Jamie knew, but when I asked him about it he just shrugged and said, “It’s Mississippi. There doesn’t have to be a reason.”

  In spite of everything that had happened, I would miss him, and I knew Laura would too. I figured she’d take his leaving hard, thought she’d probably end up mad at me over it. But when we finally talked about it—in bed, after the light was out—all she said was, “He needs to leave this place.”

  “And you?” The question just slipped out, but as soon as I said it I felt my mouth go dry. What if she said she wanted to leave too, to take the children and go back to her people in Memphis? I never thought I’d come to fear such a thing, not with Laura, but she’d changed since we moved to the farm, and not in the ways I’d expected she would.

  “What I need,” she began.

  All of a sudden I didn’t want to hear her answer. “We’ll get a house in town after the harvest,” I blurted out. “And if you can’t wait that long I’ll borrow the money from the bank. I know it’s been hard for you here, and I’m sorry. It’ll be better once we’re living in town. You’ll see.”

  “Oh, Henry,” she said.

  What the hell did that mean? It was pitch dark and I couldn’t see her face. I reached for her, my heartbeat loud in my ears. If she turned me away —

  But she didn’t. She rolled toward me, settling her head in the hollow of my shoulder. “What I need, I have right here,” she said.

  I put my arms around her and held on tight.

  LAURA

  JAMIE LEFT US three days after the burial. He was bound for Los Angeles, though he wasn’t sure what he would do when he got there. “Maybe I’ll go to Hollywood and get a screen test,” he said with a laugh. “Give Errol Flynn a run for his money. What do you think?”

  The bruises on his face were starting to fade, but he still looked haggard. I worried about him being all alone out there, with no one to look after him. But then I thought, He won’t be alone for long. Jamie would find someone to love him, some pretty girl to cook his favorite foods and iron his shirts and wait for him to come home to her each day. He would pluck her like a daisy from the side of the road.

  “I think Mr. Flynn’s in real trouble,” I said.

  The front door opened, and Henry joined us on the porch. “We need to head out if you’re going to make your train,” he said.

  “I’m ready,” said Jamie.

  Henry gestured at the fields in front of us. “You wait and see, brother. You’re going to miss all this.”

  “All this” was a sea of churned earth stretching from the house to the river, bereft of crops and the furrows they’d been planted in. A newly hatched mosquito landed on Henry’s outstretched arm, and he swatted at it irritably. I hid a smile, but Jamie’s expression was serious as he answered. “I’m sure I will.”

  He bent and kissed the girls goodbye. Bella cried and clung to him. He gently pried her arms from around his neck and handed her to me. “I left you something,” he said to me. “A present.”

  “What?”

  “It’s not here yet, but it will be soon. You’ll know it when you see it.”

  “We’d better be off,” said Henry.

  Jamie gave me a swift, awkward hug. “Goodbye. Thank you for everything.”

  I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. Hoping he would comprehend all that was contained in that small movement of my head.

  “I’ll be back by suppertime,” said Henry. He kissed me, and then Jamie was gone, down the road to Greenville, and to California.

  In the days that followed, the girls and I looked everywhere for Jamie’s present. Under the beds, in the cupboards, out in the barn. How could he have left me something if it hadn’t yet arrived? And then, a few weeks after he’d gone, I found it. I was weeding the little vegetable patch Jamie had helped me put in when I spied a clump of small tender plants at the edge. There were several dozen of them, too evenly spaced to be weeds. I knew what they were even before I broke off a sprig and smelled it.

  All summer long I slept with Henry on sheets scented with lavender.

  AND NOW HERE we are at the ending of the story—my ending, anyway. It’s early December, and I’m packing for an extended stay in Memphis. Henry and I agreed I should go home for the birth. The baby’s due in six weeks, and at my age it’s too risky to stay here in Tchula, two hours from the nearest hospital.

  We moved here in October, just after the harvest. Our house isn’t as nice as the one we lost to the Stokeses in Marietta, and there’s no fig tree in the backyard, but we do have electricity, running water, and an indoor toilet, for which I’m profoundly grateful. Our days here have settled into a pleasant routine. We get up at dawn. I make breakfast for us all, and Henry’s lunch to take with him to the farm. After he leaves I get the girls dressed and we walk Amanda Leigh the eight blocks to school. By the time Bella and I return home our colored maid Viola is here. She only comes half days; there’s not enough work to warrant having her full-time. I spend the morning reading to Bella or running errands. At three we go and fetch Amanda Leigh, and then I cook our supper. We eat half an hour after sunset, when Henry gets home. Then I knit or sew while we listen to the radio.

  Our life here is a world away from Mudbound, though it’s only ten miles on the map. Sometimes it’s hard for me to believe in that other life and that other self—the one capable of range and lust, of recklessness and selfishness and betrayal. But then I’ll feel the baby kicking, and I’ll be forcibly reminded of that other Laura’s existence. Jamie’s baby, I have no doubt of it; I felt the tiny flare of its awakening that night, a few hours after we were together. I won’t ever tell him the child’s his, though he might wonder. It’s a small bit of dignity I can give back to Henry, that he doesn’t know I’ve taken from him. I give him whatever I can these days, and not just out of guilt or duty. That’s what it is to love someone: to give whatever you can while taking what you must.

  Jamie married in September. We weren’t invited to the wedding; he let us know after the fact, in one of his breezy letters. And then, a week later, we got an almost identical letter telling us the news again, as if he hadn’t remembered writing us the first time. Henry and I both knew what it had to mean, but we didn’t say the words out loud. I pray his new wife will help him
stop drinking, but I also know, as she doesn’t, how much he has to forget.

  I won’t be allowed to forget. The baby will see to that. It will be a boy, who will grow into a man, whom I’ll love as fiercely as Florence loves Ronsel. And while I’ll always regret that I got my son at such terrible cost to hers, I won’t regret that I got him. My love for him won’t let me.

  I’ll end with that. With love.

  RONSEL

  IT’S DAYTIME, OR IT’S NIGHT. I’m in a tank wearing a helmet, in the backseat of a moving car with a burlap sack over my head, in the bed of a wagon with a wet rag on my forehead. I’m surrounded by enemies. The stench of their hate is choking me. I’m choking, I’m begging please sir please, I’m pissing myself, I’m drowning in my own blood. I’m hollering at Sam to fire goddamnit, can’t you see they’re all around us, but he doesn’t hear me. I shove him aside and take his position behind the bow gun but when I press the trigger nothing happens, the gun won’t fire. I have a terrible thirst. Water, I say, please give me some water, but Lilly May can’t hear me either, my lips are moving but nothing is coming out, nothing.

  Should my story end there, in the back of that mule-drawn wagon? Silenced, delirious with pain and laudanum, defeated? Nobody would like that ending, least of all me. But to make the story come out differently I’d have to overcome so much: birth and education and oppression, fear and deformity and shame, any one of which is enough to defeat a man.

  It would take an extraordinary man to beat all that, with an extraordinary family behind him. First he’d have to wean himself off laudanum and self-pity. His mama would help him with that, but then he’d have to make himself write his buddies and his former COs and tell them what had been done to him. He’d write it down and tear it up, write it down and tear it up until one day he got up enough courage to send it. And when the answers came back he’d have to read them and accept the help that was offered, the letters that would be written on his behalf to Fisk University and the Tuskegee Institute and Morehouse College. And when Morehouse offered him a full scholarship he’d have to swallow his pride and take it, not knowing whether they wanted him or just felt sorry for him. He’d have to leave his family behind in Greenwood and travel the four hundred miles to Atlanta alone, with a little card in his shirt pocket that said MUTE. He’d have to study hard to learn all the things he should have been taught but wasn’t before he could even begin to learn the things he wanted to. He’d have to listen to his classmates talk about ideas and politics and women, things you can’t fit on a little portable slate. Have to get used to being alone, because he made the others uncomfortable, because he reminded them of what could still happen to any one of them if they said the wrong thing to the wrong white man. After he graduated, he’d have to find a profession where his handicap didn’t matter and an employer who would take a chance on him, at a black newspaper maybe, or a black labor organization. He’d have to prove himself and fight off despair, have to give up drinking three or four times before he finally kicked it.