“No, Harry, not at all,” Maude answered. She’d gloried in their loving like a wanton but she felt no shame, just joy. “Let’s go to bed now and sleep.”
A grin split his mouth wide as he nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “I cain’t carry you this time, though. I’m beat.”
“We’ll go together.” They did, arms wrapped around each other. Maude noted he limped more than before and marked it as fatigue. Upstairs, they shucked their clothing and collapsed into bed, still clinging to each other. And they slept, deep and hard until George woke Maude in his efforts to pry her eyelids open.
“Mama,” he called out in a bright, small voice. “Pop! Up!”
Maude roused with slow effort. Beside her Harry chuckled. “You’re right, little man,” he said. “It’s daylight.”
“Is it?” she asked but when she sat up, she saw the sunshine in the hallway.
“I should’ve been out hunting before now,” Harry said as he groped for his discarded clothing. “I think I’ll kill a hog instead. I’ll need your help, though.”
Since she made the move from town to country, first with her aunt and uncle, then on the Whitney farm, Maude helped butcher hogs many times. She knew each step necessary and all the hard work involved. Most times, there’d been more hands to help but she and Harry could do it together. “I’ll help,” she said. Practical-minded Maude put on her dress and apron, then got George ready for the day. Downstairs, she stoked the stove. As soon as she put the coffeepot on the stove to boil, Maude headed out and gathered eggs from her hens. She fried them with the last of the sausage her uncle’d brought and rolled out biscuits. By the time Harry came downstairs dressed in some of his oldest clothing, Maude had breakfast on the table.
Butchering required hard work and effort but they managed. Harry headed out first to get a fire going and took Granny’s largest pot, the one they’d always used at butchering time, with him. He’d add water and get it boiling before he did anything else. Maude dressed in warm garments and bundled George up against the cold. By the time they joined Harry, he’d lured the hog he’d chosen farther up behind the barn. They arrived in time to watch him shoot it in the head. When the pig dropped, Harry approached the animal. Careful to avoid any flailing hooves, he cut the throat with one swift, sure stroke. He angled the head downhill so the blood would drain and once it had, Harry needed her help to heist the pig into the boiling water. Once the hide softened and hair loosened, they scraped the skin as clean as they could and Harry skinned it. With Maude’s help they quartered it. They stacked more than a hundred pounds of meat onto the sled and Harry’s mare pulled it to the back door.
Maude observed George to see if the activities upset him but he appeared interested, not alarmed. She’d never shielded him from sometimes harsh realities. Life and death were the stuff of everyday life on the farm. She set aside both back straps to roast for the funeral guests while Harry hauled away the discarded skin and trimmings to the farthest edge of the property. Otherwise, wolves, bears, or other predators might be drawn too close for comfort. He’d already dumped the water from the pot over the blood puddle to leach away as much as possible.
“I feel kinda bad about tossing the skin,” Harry said when he returned. “But I’m no tanner and don’t have time to cart it to town and have it done. You do want the guts for casings, though?”
“I do,” Maude said. She already had the grinder clamped tight to the table to grind some of the meat for sausage. A bowl held the combined salt, brown sugar, and a few other seasonings she’d use to rub into the hams before Harry took them to the smokehouse. “If you could, would you rinse them good for me?”
By mid-afternoon, between the two of them, they’d managed to slice and salt a good bit of the meat into a couple of wooden kegs reserved for this. Maude had two big bowls of sausage meat ready to force into the natural casings, and Harry’d taken the hams to the smokehouse where he had already built a low, slow fire. She reserved some of the best pork chops, cut thick, to fry for supper with a mess of fried ‘taters and apples. Afterward, although her body ached with the effort of different work, she basked before the fire, content for the moment. Tomorrow she’d face the huge task of cooking for a mob but she’d manage, although Maude admitted she’d be glad when it was over.
Harry dozed beside her and George snoozed upstairs in his own bed. She savored the quiet moments after the busy day. In the midst of all the work, she’d forgotten Harry’s uncle knew they’d been living in one house without any chaperone. A mild alarm tightened her chest for a few moments, then she decided she didn’t care. She wasn’t a town girl to worry over reputation and besides, when she and Harry married, it would quiet any talk. Maude indulged in a few daydreams about a wedding, then laughed at herself. There wouldn’t be any big do, just the vows and a lifetime together. And it would be good enough.
We should get to bed—it’ll be another long, hard day tomorrow. Before Maude could act on her thought, Harry stirred. He stretched out his leg and winced. She’d noticed earlier he’d favored it but said nothing because he didn’t like the fuss. He’d told her once he didn’t want to feel like a cripple, not ever. But now, familiar enough to ask, she said, “Does your leg pain you?”
Harry wrinkled his nose. “A little.”
Maude abandoned her chair to kneel on the floor. “There’s still some of Granny’s liniment left if you want me to fetch it.” As she spoke, her hands rubbed up and down his calf in hopes she could work out some of the pain. She could feel the bump of the badly healed break.
He grimaced. “All right, I guess. It’s smarting more than usual.”
She brought the homemade tincture his grandmother made and poured some into her hands. The aroma burned her nose with its’ mixture of alcohol, wintergreen, cayenne pepper, witch hazel, and herbs, including what she’d swear was sage. Maude rubbed into his leg with slow, deliberate movement. Judging by the grunts he made, it must help at least a little. When she finished, she put up the bottle and washed her hands. “Let’s get some sleep,” she said, and he nodded with a yawn before he banked the fire for the night.
Stiff in body, Maude curled up behind Harry once they retired. Little of the heat from the fireplace ever made it up the stairs so she shivered, cold, until their body heat warmed them both. She drifted to sleep making a mental list of all the things she had to do come morning and a time line to have dinner ready to serve by one or so. Once fast asleep, she dreamed…
Her footsteps echoed as she walked through the house, loud and somehow ominous. Maude shivered with cold, too, and she wept, tears trailing down both her cheeks. Loneliness and sadness filled her with a deep ache, and as she wandered she called out for Harry but he didn’t answer. She could scarcely see in the black rooms where dark shadows consumed what little light remained. There wasn’t any fire in the hearth and none of the lamps were lit. Maude climbed the stairs, her tread heavy and her heart weighed down with grief. She couldn’t locate Harry or her son. Her voice rang too loud in the empty rooms.
Then she found herself outside, wandering in circles. Crows squawked in the sky above her, although she didn’t see them. Their caws rang out and reverberated from the hills. Low clouds hung heavy over the countryside and loomed dark, heavy with rain or pregnant with snow. One way or another, a storm approached. Her frantic need to find George and Harry sent her running into the woods. Limbs lashed at her, branches slapped her face, and she lost her footing when she tripped over a rock. Maude impacted the ground hard and her knees stung. She groped to find her footing without success and screamed Harry’s name but no answer came. Far in the distance she thought she heard George crying, the thin high wail of fatigue tempered with fear. Head cocked, Maude tried to determine what direction the sound issued from but she couldn’t tell. Her maternal instinct urged her to find her boy, but she didn’t know where to turn or what way to go.
Confused and afraid, she hesitated. One more time she shouted for Harry, no longer expecting an answer but drive
n by desperation. She called his name three times and she thought she heard him cry out. Maude wasn’t certain, though, and she took several steps forward.
“Harry?” she called. A rustling in the undergrowth to her left encouraged her and Maude walked closer. What emerged from the woods, however, wasn’t Harry but a large, lean gray wolf. The animal approached with sinister step and growled, low and deep. Maude turned to bolt but she tripped, and before she hit the ground, the animal lunged. Teeth, sharper than sewing needles, plunged into her back and she screamed.
Maude woke screeching worse than a startled owl and sat straight up. She tossed away the covers and jumped out of bed. The moment her feet touched the floor she began to run, wild and frenzied. “Maudie,” Harry said as he caught her by the shoulders. “What’s wrong?”
She whirled, relieved to find him in the flesh and threw her arms around him. “Harry,” she sobbed. “Oh, Harry.” He held her close and she began to sob, face buried against his shoulder. “Hush, honey,” he crooned. “You’re safe, I’m here. Did you have a nightmare?”
His quiet voice, thick with sleep, calmed most of her angst. Maude nodded. “Tell me if you want.” She hesitated, afraid if she did it might come true. He coaxed her out of silence, though. “I dreamed I was all alone in the house. I couldn’t find you or George or anyone,” she said. Her voice caught on a sob. “It was so dark and cold. I went outside and thought I heard George crying so I headed into the woods. Then I thought I heard you but it wasn’t you. It was a wolf.” Maude couldn’t say any more. Thinking about it upset her all over and she insisted on checking on George. Her son slept in a tight curl, safe and warm. She petted his curls with a trembling hand and clung to Harry. “It’s just a dream,” he told her. “Sounds like a bad ‘un but it’s over. Don’t fret, Maudie.”
Her body quivered despite his supporting arm around her shoulders. “I don’t know why I’d dream such things,” she told him. “It scares me, though. Maybe it’s an omen.” Maude believed such things. So did Granny Whitley. Hoot owls could be an omen of death, and dreams held power. Harry scoffed. “Ain’t any such thing, honey. You’re just wrought up with all that’s happened, the buryings tomorrow, all the work today. It’s just a dream and no more. It don’t mean a thing, I promise.”
Desire to believe him outweighed her fears. “Cross your heart and hope to die?” she asked, citing an old childhood vow. Harry chuckled and hugged her as he led her out of the small bedroom. “I do,” he said. “Let’s go back to bed and try to get some sleep. It’s closer to morning than night now.”
“Will you hold me?” she asked. Harry kissed her square on the mouth. “Always, honey,” he told her.
Nestled in Harry’s arms Maude relaxed but she didn’t sleep. She thrust the lingering anxiety of the dream out of reach and focused on the cooking she had to do. By the time the first fingers of dawn streaked the eastern sky with rose and gold, visible through the bedroom window, Harry slept deeply enough to snore. Maude savored a few more moments snuggled with him and then untangled. She dressed in the faint milk light and headed downstairs to begin her day.
She stirred up the fire in the stove and added kindling. Once it burned, she put more wood into the box, then put the coffeepot on the stove. Before she could snatch her heavy shawl from the peg by the back door to head out to milk the Jersey, Harry padded into the kitchen in sock feet. “Good morning, Maudie,” he said. “You shoulda woke me. The gravediggers are here.”
Her hand brushed his cheek and caressed it with a soft touch. “I figured you needed the sleep.”
“I’ll catch it up tonight,” he said. “I’ll go say howdy to the gravediggers, then fetch the milk, eggs too if you want.”
His help made her work easier. “Thank you,” she said. “I’ll start cookin’.”
By the old clock on the shelf it wasn’t yet four in the morning, and Maude had a long way to go before she could stop. But by nine, she had a line of pies—two apple, one raisin, one pumpkin—cooling on the wide windowsill above the sink. The back straps, what some might call pork loin, filled the house with a delicious aroma as they roasted. She’d seasoned both with onion, sage, a little salt, black pepper, and thyme. A big pot of peeled and quartered potatoes sat on the stove ready to be boiled and then mashed. Another pan of corn simmered with butter. A platter of fresh-baked biscuits sat on the warming oven of the stove. Four loaves of bread rose and were ready for the oven. Maude had beans cooking too, seasoned with last fall’s ham hocks. She’d made an apple cake too, and several big pans of cornbread. Before anyone ate, she’d also fix gravy. She should have plenty for everyone to eat.
With nothing left to do but mash the ‘taters and stir up the gravy, Maude headed upstairs to change into her good clothing. First, she rounded up George, washed him despite his vocal protests, and dressed him in one of the long dresses small children, even boys, wore until they turned five or so. Maude shook her head. Her baby would grow up sooner than she wanted. Harry put on his best pair of overalls, the ones she’d ironed the day before, with a good shirt, then added his sole suit jacket over it. He combed his hair back and headed downstairs to greet any arrivals while Maude dressed.
She donned her newest and best dress, a simple black broadcloth garment she’d made two years earlier. The skirt ended below her calves but it’d become the fashion. The white collar and cuffs added a neat look Maude liked. She managed to find a pair of black stockings where the darns didn’t show and pulled her button-up shoes out from beneath the bed. After studying her reflection in the wavering glass of the sole mirror, Maude took down her hair, brushed it out, and braided it into two pigtails. She pinned them across the crown of her head and on impulse dug in a bureau drawer for earrings. It required effort to push them through her half-shut pierced earlobes, but she managed to get them inserted. With a dab of rose scent on her wrists and throat, Maude went downstairs as the sound of the first arrivals floated upward.
Chapter Five
By a quarter to twelve, four coffins rested near the open graves, hand-hewn with difficulty from the rocky soil. Close to forty people milled out in the yard between the house and the graveyard but more were on the way, or so they’d heard from the early arrivals. Maude watched from the windows. One more wagon approached along the creek and she saw a familiar gray head beneath a bonnet she knew well. “Granny’s here,” she told Harry and before he could reply, she dashed outside to meet the old woman. Fred assisted his mother-in-law down from the wagon seat and nodded to Maude.
“Child, let me look at you,” Granny said. “You’re a sight for these poor old eyes. You’re lookin’ fine and I’m sorry it took death to get me out here.”
“I should’ve come to town to visit you,” Maude said. “I’ve missed you fierce.”
“You’re better to keep home with all this influenza,” Granny said with a shake of her head. “It’s bad. I had it myself but I’m a tough old woman and death didn’t seem to want me yet. And I’m sorry to hear about your poor mama. Where’s little George at?”
“In the house with Harry,” Maude replied. “Granny…”
Granny cocked her head and fixed her unblinking gaze on Maude. “If you’re fixin’ to tell me you two are sweethearts, it’s no surprise to me or anyone else with eyes in their head. And if you’re worryin’ I’ll fuss ‘cause he moved back down here from the old cabin, I ain’t. You need a man around this place and he needs a woman. Onliest thing I wondered is what took so long and when you’re getting’ hitched.”
Maude threw her arms around Granny and hugged her. “We’re getting married soon as we can,” she said. “I’m glad you’re not mad.”
“Mad?” the old woman repeated. “I’m glad, child, and that’s the truth. Always did figure you’d been better off weddin’ Harry anyhow. But I kept my mouth shut and things have a way of working out. I wish Jamie hadn’t gone to war and got kilt but he did. Take my arm and help me up to the house before I have to go out to the graveyard.”
&nbs
p; Inside, Harry met his grandmother. She whispered something in his ear Maude couldn’t catch, but he flushed with pleasure and kissed Granny on the cheek. George ran to her, crying, “Granny!” and the old woman sat down so she could take the little boy onto her lap. Although she’d been in good spirits, Maude saw the stray tear sliding down Granny’s cheek as she cuddled George. Although she’d known Granny would grieve for her daughter, granddaughter, and two great-granddaughters, three generations of women, Maude hurt to see the physical evidence of grief. She’s tougher than me. She’s buried her husband and a grandson before these four and yet she still manages to live.
At straight-up noon, the sun overhead on a brisk, cold day, they gathered at the burying ground. Brother Johnson read Scripture from both the book of John and Ecclesiastes. His voice almost broke as he read “a time to be born and a time to die”. Maude watched naked grief knife across each face and realized everyone present had lost someone, many more than one to the flu. The preacher spoke a little about how impossible it is to understand God’s ways but how important to accept what comes on faith. He kept it short, however, thanks to the sharp wind whistling up the hollow and a desire not to cause any more believers to fall ill.
After the chill air outdoors, the farmhouse seemed close and overheated as Maude served dinner to the assembled family, friends, and pallbearers. Grief appeared to bring out a ravenous appetite as guests scattered throughout the house with full plates. By the time the last mourner departed around five, they’d eaten almost everything she prepared. Although some of the women helped wash the mountain of dishes and stack of dirty pans, Maude teetered on the verge of collapse by the time they were alone. She sank down into a chair with a sigh. Several of the departing folks wished them “Merry Christmas” under the assumption they wouldn’t meet again before the holiday. Until then, Maude, her mind on other things, hadn’t even thought about Christmas or the New Year. Now she’d have to consider it, make something for Harry and for her boy. No one’d said anything about Harry taking up residence in the farmhouse again but Maude caught a few curious stares. Later, she thought, I’ll think about it later. I’m too tired now.
Valley So Low Page 6
