Palmyra

by Susan Evans McCloud

Two hours later Josephine breezed through the door, giggling, bright-eyed, smelling of gaiety and sunshine. I looked up from the table I was scouring, not attempting to soften my expression.

  “Oh, do not be vexed, Esther! I knew you would be.” She flung herself into Mother’s rocker and began it moving with the toe of her small pointed boot. “I didn’t mean to go off and leave you.”

  “Well, that makes it all right then—”

  “Mr. Hall came by, asking for Father. And we got to talking. I had never before realized how good-looking he is, Esther. His eyes are so blue—”

  “And his carriage so fine.”

  “You knew he had a new carriage?” Josephine’s eyes, as golden brown as the skin of a doe in midsummer, blinked back at me. “That is just it, Esther. He said, ‘Since your father is not here and I have time on my hands, it would be a pity to waste it. Would you honor me, Miss Parke, with your presence for half an hour? You would be the first woman to step inside my new buggy.’ ”

  “So you went alone with him? And time simply got away from you.”

  “His manner is so polite and deferring; there was nothing improper, Esther.”

  “I did not imply that there was.”

  I set down my brush and bucket and took a seat facing her. “He is nearly ten years your senior,” I reminded her.

  “Eleven, actually. But he has never been married before.”

  “So he is in the running?”

  “Oh yes!” Josie leaned back and sighed in satisfaction. “He is a gentleman, fine to look upon, good company. And he has property! Did you know the gristmill is his—not to speak of the house and—”

  “Did he show you his house?”

  “We merely drove up to it. I did not go inside with him.”

  I leaned back, prepared to admit defeat, as I always did. Could anything bring her to her senses? I wondered. “Well, perhaps he is a better candidate than the younger lads. He can be depended upon to understand and behave decorously.”

  “Whatever are you talking about?”

  “I am talking about the fact that a lively courtship and marriage are not in the best of tastes now.”

  “Just because Mother is ill again?” The tone in Josie’s voice made me shrink inside. “She is having a baby, Esther. There is nothing uncommon or extraordinary about it.”

  “Yes, there is, and you know it.” I felt myself losing patience, the way one loses hold on a heavy bucket, feeling it slip through your fingers and watching the white milk splatter all over. “Josephine, please. This baby is due in less than two months’ time.”

  “Two months’ time! We will be well into the summer by then, Esther. I must have my courtship and then a proper period of engagement before a wedding can take place.”

  “And a funeral? A funeral requires no such preparations, does it?”

  Her face blanched a little, but she replied evenly. “You exaggerate, Esther. You know you always do. You are trying to frighten me into doing what you want.”

  “Doctor Ensworth confessed that he thinks Mother may be carrying twins. He fears complications.”

  Josephine sighed again. “Well, what am I to do?” Her lower lip came out in the pout that had characterized her since she was a child.

  “Help by not harrowing her mind with further worries and burdens.”

  She considered. I could almost see her mind working, while her foot tapped a little pattern against the floor. “You may be wrong, sister. Weddings are not worries, but occasions for happiness. Why, if I were to make a particularly good match . . .”

  I turned from her, to conceal the distaste I was feeling.

  “It might be just the thing, Esther, to take her mind away from her troubles—divert it into pleasant imaginings!” She was pleased with herself for having thought of this. “I’ll go in to her now.”

  “You’ll do no such thing. She is sleeping soundly and should not be disturbed.”

  “Really, Esther. Anyone would think you were the older, the way you boss me around.”

  Yes, they would, wouldn’t they? I thought. But I did not reply to her. I could not trust what I might say. Truth is, I felt older. To all intents and purposes I was the more mature, the more responsible of the two of us. It seemed I always had been. And Josephine liked it that way. Even now, it gave her an excuse to fancy herself slighted, to be justified in how she was feeling and what she was deciding to do.

  “I’ll change into my work dress and be out to help you in a few minutes,” she said.

  I could hear her humming as she walked back to the room we shared. Is it a gift to be oblivious to life the way Josie is? I wondered. To possess a protective shield that prevents anything from going far enough to sting, to wound, to stir up the deep waters?

  I wished I could answer that question to my satisfaction. But at that moment I did not know how.

  Chapter 3

  Palmyra: June 1827

  I finished the planting in time and my garden thrived, the sweet-smelling herbs especially. Georgie left us to spend a few weeks at her aunt’s house in Albany. Mother drank teas of rosemary and chamomile for digestion, woodruff for her nervous headaches, ragwort for the swelling in her legs and feet, primrose for pain in her joints, and nettle to stimulate her sluggish circulation. I placed cornflower compacts on her eyes and tempted her appetite with the first tart strawberries, the first tender lettuces and peas. I enjoy this kind of nurturing. Mother responded nicely and tried her best to cooperate, though that which Josephine claims is true enough: both of them love to be pampered and served. Father went forward with the planting and cultivating of his fields, and my sister went forward with her unique matrimonial plans.

  There was obviously some truth to her claim; Mother was enjoying planning and conjecturing about what sort of a wedding her eldest daughter would have. Late afternoons she would sit in her rocker, with a comforter over her knees, Josie curled on the settle beside her, face glowing, words tripping over each other. Once she said, “What will I wear, Josephine? Will I be able to fit into a decent frock?” I wondered then if she was steeling herself for disappointment, rejecting that faith I had pressed upon her, knowing only that the pain of loss following hope would be too sharp to bear. Indeed, if the planning, and what stood behind the planning, caused her distress and uncertainty, she kept that to herself.

  Alexander Hall, despite the mature, solid nature of his appeal, did not monopolize the romantic field yet. Josie would have her fun. She would string all her old beaus behind her for as long as they would take it, especially now when she knew she stood on the verge of truly committing and settling down. I watched from a distance, content with my plants and my poetry and the patience of growing seasons, which all real gardeners know.

  June came clothed in yellow daffodils and forsythia, with violets like stars in her hair. Ten days later a gale blew inland from the coast, as cold and blustery as April, spitting brittle rain between spells of harsh pale sunlight. And on this day of gray brooding skies and foreboding, Mother’s babies bestirred themselves and attempted an entry into what appeared to be a disinterested, inhospitable world.

  Father was in the fields, of course, Josie gathering eggs, myself at work in my gardens, when Mother stumbled to the door and cried out as loudly as she was able. My ear, tuned to quiet things, heard the faint, echoing strain, and my flesh turned cold. I called for Josie and ran with long strides toward the kitchen door, which stood open and empty now. I heard no sound from within.

  With a sensation of dread I entered, my eyes darting about for sight of her. From behind me Josie cried out and pointed. Mother was crumpled on the floor like a rag doll—lying so still! her face white as a sheet.

  “Go for Father!” I hissed. “Run as fast as you can, Josie.” Should I attempt to move her at all? I crouched low, rocking back and forth, undecided. “Mother.” I touched her forehead. It was clammy and cold. “Mother!” I shook her raised shoulder gently. She did not move at all.

  I rose and paced
the small, confining room, because I could not hold still. Then at once I realized that I must go for the doctor. Father and Josie were coming across the fields. If I rode Tansy bareback I could be halfway to the village by the time they arrived!

  I raced to the barn, my fingers trembling as I pulled a halter over the mare’s nose and urged her forward. Action! How blessed a thing it is when the mind is pulled outside of itself by a concern that is an agony, helplessness, and fear.

  It was an experience I have not felt like remembering or recounting, even in the daily journal I keep. I was chilled to the bone by the time I arrived back at the house, riding behind Doctor Ensworth. I felt chilled to the bone all day. Chilled at heart, perhaps, more than anything. Somehow the skilled doctor saved the first and larger of the twin boys, though the smaller, shriveled and skinny as a newborn sparrow, seemed to have little chance. Somehow, perhaps by the sheer force of his own will and determination, Doctor Ensworth roused my mother back into life. She was weak from the loss of blood and had sunk into a trance-like state. He stayed with her for the better part of that day, bent over the bed, stirring the dim embers of her essence with his breath, as it were, keeping the pale flame from blinking out.

  The vigil continued throughout the night and the next day, and the next, and the day following that. Neighbors brought in food. Someone milked the cow and saw to the livestock. Someone took care of the feeding of the hens and Josephine’s dogs; someone gathered the eggs. Someone watered and weeded my gardens and Father’s fields. I realized later that Josephine actually organized the relief force; she could not bear the dim, stale stillness of the sickroom. The presence of people was a reassurance to her, as also was the mind-saving relief and necessity of something to do.

  My father would not leave the house. He sat beside Mother’s head, stroking her hair, talking old nonsense to her. I sat at her feet. On that first day, while the rain beat like skeleton knuckles rapping at the window panes, I huddled in a corner, all cold drafts and shadows, and held the small, nameless infant as he breathed out his short life in my arms.

  I have seen animals, from mewing kittens to gangly calves, struggle for life—watched them shudder and convulse in the throes of defeat, and accepted the mystery as a sad fact of mortal existence. I have seen old beasts and old people die. I had stood beside the lifeless bodies of my brothers and sisters when death, in the form of disease or accident, had, with a swift, indifferent hand, snuffed out their tender, high-burning flames. I had never before held to my own heart such a new, frail pulse of life—no more than a sigh, a breathing of the eternities, with that glory still clinging to him, still bright and fathomless behind his pale, dim eyes.

  I sang to him, I whispered words I do not remember into his tiny pearled ears. I could feel his patience. I could feel his love, along with the myriad nameless things looking out from his eyes.

  All that day he remained, and into the night. I would let no one else touch him. Phoebe’s mother found a wet nurse for the other twin, who was crying lustily now—reaching out for life with his two little fists curled tight.

  I held the child nestled in my arms, each breath more weak, more frail than the last. I would not allow even Doctor Ensworth to take him from me. He stood above us and shook his head. “They came too early, Esther. Twins have a habit of doing that. This little fellow’s lungs, and I suppose other vital organs, have not developed fully enough to support life.”

  Support life! The flesh had failed this spirit—fine and strong and capable—thus refusing him place here, forcing him to go back—to go where?

  My mind reeled with questions—the need to know like a keen hunger in me, gnawing away at my bones. I sent my agonized cry out into the ether, beyond the walls of the room, beyond the pathetic, finite limits of man’s understanding. I received no reply, save the wisdom and love that could not form itself into palpable expression, which I saw in the small dying eyes.

  I knew when the end came. I sensed it before it happened. The immensity of it gathered around me, and suddenly I felt nothing but light. Light. And a sense of joy, like the very joy of the heavens about which bright angels sing. My whole being lifted, and sorrow mingled with a happiness I could not describe. At the very last, when the weight in my arms seemed to lighten, when the breath in the diminutive body seemed scarcely discernible, a strange thing occurred. The child’s tiny hand, lying against mine, moved and groped, and clasped over my finger—warm and firm. And I felt such a love sent forth in that touch, such a love surging through me, that I knew beyond doubt my dear spirit was saying good-bye—saying all the things that could never be spoken between us, leaving me with this gift.

  I did not realize I was crying until Doctor Ensworth crouched down beside me on his thick, stiffened legs. When I looked at him, I think he saw the wonder in my eyes, and his own filled with tears.

  “Let me take him, Esther, and have the women take care of the body.”

  “No. I want to do it. Tell me what I should do.”

  He was patient. I followed his instructions with sure hands, each ministration a service I was happy to render. I still felt the child’s spirit near. For hours I was encased in that love, for the rest of that long day—which began for me before the pale dawn seeped into the sky. Hallowed. That was the word that came to me. This infant’s birth and death had hallowed my existence, left me changed, left me more than he had found me.

  “What name shall I put on the records?” Doctor Ensworth asked me.

  I answered without thinking. “His name shall be Nathaniel, which means ‘gift of the Lord.’ ” Nathaniel had also been one of my great-grandfather’s names. It seemed fitting. And worthy of the small wayfarer, wherever he might be now.

  I did not want to put this child in the ground before my mother could even look upon him. Yet no choice was given us, and Doctor Ensworth thought it might actually be better that way.

  The weather was unrelenting, as though our whole tragedy must be enacted before summer would again show her face. We walked, a small group of us, chilled and silent, to the hill above Church Street, which is the oldest burial ground in Palmyra. The coffin we lowered into the deep hole was so small; I had forgotten how thin, deflated, and empty my Nathaniel’s abandoned body would be. The Presbyterian minister, Jonathan Porter, conducted a short ceremony at the site of the grave. My father and I attended his church, which sits on one of the corners of Church and Main Streets, flanked by the Methodist, Baptist, and Episcopalian places of worship—one sitting square on each corner in quiet defiance of each other. Mother and Josephine had never been churchgoers. In truth, Father and I enjoyed being alone together on quiet Sabbath mornings. It was a nice way to begin a new week.

  “Nathaniel Parke, son of Jonah and Rachel Parke,” read the rounded stone Mr. Jackway had carved. I paid for the carving myself and knew the kind man had stayed up most of the night before in order to finish it. “Born June 11th—Died June 12th.” The dismal dates haunted me. I asked Mr. Jackway to carve: “Purity requireth no testing. The spirit has gone home.” Home to God. I knew that was what the words meant. But they were no more than words to me.

  We sang “Abide with Me” and “Rock of Ages.” The words trembled in my throat.

  While I draw this fleeting breath,

  When mine eyes shall close in death,

  When I rise to worlds unknown

  And behold thee on thy throne . . .

  I could not picture a heaven, nor a God within it! No image would come to my mind. Those infant eyes, large and calm as the heavens, spoke of what they had known—what seemed dark and mocking, entirely impenetrable to me.

  While the others filed off I stayed behind to say my own last good-byes. Prolonging the moment, I walked around a bit to see what neighbors fate had afforded my brother; what souls, laid here long ago and lately, he rested beside.

  Three or four were unknown to me; then I noticed Gideon Durfee, one of the first founders of the village, and the names Hopkins, Harris, and Osborne, re
presenting other early families. It was then that I saw, not far distant, the grave of Alvin, eldest brother of the Smith clan, who had died tragically nearly four years ago. I remembered the time and the general sadness at his loss; he had been a most promising youth. Twenty-five years old. I wondered what he had thought of his younger brother and the strange experiences he claimed.

  At length I knelt beside the freshly disturbed earth, drinking in the damp fragrance of soil, which I find pleasant, and alluring even in its own way. “I am sorry you did not live to draw the scent of black soil into your nostrils, Nathaniel, to feel the sun on your face. To see flowers and hear birds sing.” I spoke in a low voice, out loud. “I am sorry you did not live to laugh, to know what love is—to kiss a girl, and make plans for a home of your own.”

  My voice choked and I could not say more. I buried my face in my hands and cried openly for the first time since that delicate life had expired in my arms.

  We buried Nathaniel on Thursday. Early Friday morning Mother opened her eyes.

  At first they did not seem to focus. Indeed, as comprehension came slowly, I felt a shrinking, as new plants shrink before an intense sun as it begins to wither them. Doctor Ensworth had strongly advised us not to tell her of the death of the child.

  “She has one live, healthy baby to put her arms around, to nurture. That will be the best tonic to help her get well.”

  “And who decides the best moment to inform her of the loss of the other?” I asked.

  “Let natural circumstances determine that,” was his answer. “Perhaps you will sense the right moment.”

  “Perhaps we will not,” I replied.

  “Do not worry overmuch, Esther,” he soothed. “You take too much upon your own shoulders. When your mother is stronger she will be able to bear the grief more easily than she could now.”

  So we sent for the wet nurse, Maggie Wells, to bring the child over. My father had not yet named his son. “That is Rachel’s province,” he replied whenever anyone asked him.