Valley So Low

by Patrice Wayne

  His slack face didn’t change so she shifted to the past. Maude chattered about memories, about swimming in the cold waters of Shoal Creek on hot summer evenings, the few square dances they’d attended together, and how they danced to the music he made not long ago. She talked about people they knew, things they’d done, and even about the food she’d cook him when he got well. Maude spoke about Granpa, Granny, and Jamie. She described the way the fields bright with purple coneflowers and golden brown-eyed Susans appeared in sunshine. She talked until she couldn’t think of anything else to say, because it all came down to the simplest things—how much she loved him, needed him, and wanted him to live.

  Maude fell silent, more than a little discouraged at Harry’s lack of response. It wasn’t that she expected him to sit up and join the conversation, but she’d hoped he might open his eyes or say something. When he didn’t, she sighed. By rote, she put balm on his lips, combed his hair, bathed his forehead, and held his hand. Sometime after the bells chimed four o’clock, she began to sing in a soft voice, more to pass the time and keep her mind from dark thoughts than anything else. She hoped Harry heard her at some level, wanted to think he’d heard all she’d said. Even more, she hoped he gained some comfort from it. Music seemed all she could give him now. With no change, no marked improvement in his condition, she struggled against despair.

  The old ballads, the one Jamie complained about, flew from her lips, old songs about lords and ladies, beggars and lovers in disguise. Some of them her mama sang to her, others she learned from Granny who’d sung them to George. Maude learned a few of the tunes at school and others at gatherings. Some were popular tunes, others hymns. Although she’d found it impossible to pray, an old song her mother often crooned to her in childhood came out of her mouth, unbidden but familiar and soothing.

  “Do Lord, oh do Lord, oh do remember me,” Maude sang. She remembered each of the stanzas and repeated the chorus. Maybe the Lord might remember her or Harry or at least take pity on them. Her voice grew weary and strained but there remained one song she wanted to sing, the one she recalled Harry singing to George more than once. The homespun favorite revived her failing voice enough to finish as she sang one last time, “Down in the valley, valley so low, hang your head over, hear the wind blow. Hear the wind, love, hear the wind blow.”

  Those words evoked the valley where the farm lay, cradled by the hills and homesickness so strong it came close to making Maude cry struck. Her mind’s eye saw their home, knew every bit of worn-out furniture and faded wallpaper. She glanced down at Harry, hopeful he might have roused to her voice, but he hadn’t moved. Limbs stiff, Maude came to her feet. As she did, Harry shifted position and he quivered from head to toe within the blankets tucked tight. He thrashed from side to side without opening his eyes and then he stilled. His face slackened and seemed to droop. Harry’s head canted left in an odd position. In the quiet of the room Maude realized she no longer heard the labored struggle of his breath, something she’d become so accustomed to hearing she almost failed to realize it had ceased.

  Try as she might, Maude failed to see his chest move at all and she thought with a terrible wrenching of grief, pain, and anger, that he had gone. In a moment she would confirm it, she thought, and then she’d wake Granny. Together they would begin the last service they could perform for Harry. Tears weighed heavy on Maude’s chest but she didn’t weep. She couldn’t. If she got started, she might never stop until her tears made Noah’s flood look like a puddle. Instead, she stepped to the window, pulled out the curtain and gazed out as she tried to collect her thoughts.

  The small town spread out beneath the moonlight, white and almost pure with the coating of snow. Nothing moved as far as Maude could see, although lights burned in other windows, a certain sign others sat up with someone sick. Her breath frosted the glass as the chill seeped around her but she didn’t care. If it wasn’t for her son, she wouldn’t mind if she froze to death or caught the same fever or died. Without Harry, Maude feared she would float through the remainder of her life, a gray ghost. Nothing would ever be the same. All the vivid colors would lack luster, and the best she might hope would be to feel the awful numbness she did now. Such cold lethargy would be better than the pain lurking to pounce, to seize her body and soul to devour.

  Her mind drifted for a few moments and she watched the wind rattle a few dead leaves on the tall oak adjacent to the window. They danced on the breeze and Maude wished she could rip them from the branch. Their existence, dead and brown as they were, offended her, and she tapped her knuckles against the glass in protest. Maude willed them to drop, wanted to see them fall to the ground. A senseless desire to smash the glass and bloody her hands swept over her and she might’ve done so if she hadn’t heard something small.

  At first Maude took it to be the scrape of a small branch against the windowsill, a noise she’d noted before. She dismissed it but it came louder, more of a croak than physical creak. In her mindless grief she searched for explanations. Maybe Granny moaned aloud down the hall or the wind groaned beneath the eaves. An errant, wide-awake squirrel might be scratching for entry into the attic. A mouse might be creeping downstairs in search of a crumb. Her emotional pain smoldered like a hot coal dropped into her chest. Any moment it would flare into full fire and burn her to ash.

  What she heard sounded like her name. Maude refused to yield to imagination, to awaken false hope, so she ignored it. The Episcopal bells rang out five times and she counted each stroke. When the reverberations faded away, she heard her name again and realized it was no mistake, no aberration.

  “Maudie.”

  She whirled around to face the bed and stared. Harry’s eyes were open wide, and even from a few feet distant in the dim room she saw the perspiration beaded across his face. His vulnerable expression speared her heart and as she moved to his side, Maude walked like a woman caught in a dream. “Harry?” she asked as if she feared it wasn’t him but a stranger. “Harry, oh, Harry, how do you feel?”

  She touched his forehead, cooled from the intense fever heat to ordinary warmth. Her fingers stroked his face and without conscious thought she picked up the rag to wipe away his sweat. His mouth moved but nothing came out. Maude thought he must be so weak that speaking was difficult.

  “Are you thirsty? I’ll get you some water.” She poured it and let him drink from the cup, but he could manage no more than a few sips. He lay back against the pillows, pale and weak, but she swore a smile flirted with his lips. She thought he looked terrible, spent and pale, but some of the bluish cast had receded from his face. “I thought you were gone, Harry. You need to rest but the fever’s broken. You’re going to be fine.”

  He smiled then, a quick fleeting expression, nodded in agreement, and shut his eyes. Stunned from the swift change, Maude didn’t react. She straightened the bed covers, applied balm to his lips, tucked back his tousled hair, and sat down on the edge of the bed. Maude lifted his hand and gripped it, pleased when his fingers moved in a faint response. She held his hand in hers for a long time, until after she heard the six o’clock bells ring out. Then, unable to contain all the emotions she’d repressed any longer, Maude untangled her fingers and dropped to her knees. She buried her head into the mattress to muffle the sound and sobbed. As she vented all the worry, the fear, and the grief, her fatigue increased, heavy as a warm blanket.

  Maude had no idea how long she wept. She almost dropped off to sleep and would’ve if someone hadn’t touched the back of her head. When she rose up, she expected to find Granny or even Miss McBride but Harry’s hand plucked at her. “Don’t cry, Maudie,” he croaked, forcing out the three words with apparent effort. His fingers fumbled against her cheek and she cupped a fist around them. Maude pressed them against her mouth. “I won’t cry if you don’t try to talk much,” she told him with a smile. “You need to get your strength back.”

  Daylight turned the shadows into the room into gray ghosts as joy, rich and full, flooded her being. As tired as s
he was, Maude wanted to dance around the room or shout aloud her happiness. Instead, she laughed and as she did, Granny came into the room. The old woman had dressed in a plain mauve day dress. She’d been up long enough to put up her hair and from the fatigue lines cut deeper into her face than usual, Maude doubted she’d slept much.

  Her frown appeared heavy with disapproval. “I thought I heard some commotion in here. Thought you were cryin’ but you’re not. What’s got into you, Maude?”

  Maude stood up but she didn’t let go of Harry’s hand. “Harry’s better. His fever broke.”

  Granny halted. Her eyes widened and then she whooped aloud like a young girl, something Maude had never heard her do before. “I’ll be,” she said. “Well, praise the Lord, and bless you, Maude. You kept the faith. I feared we’d be planning another funeral today but instead we’ll rejoice.”

  As if she couldn’t believe it without checking, Granny placed her worn hand across Harry’s brow. His eyes shifted to meet hers and he whispered, “Good mornin’, Granny.”

  “Hush,” the old woman told him. “You need to rest. And so does your wife. Enjoy Maude for a few more minutes, then I’m sending her to bed or I’ll be nursing her. I’ll stay with you and then Miss McBride will be here.”

  “I can doze here with Harry,” Maude said. Granny shook her head. “No you can’t, and you won’t. I’m going down to fix you some hot breakfast. After she gets here, I’ll have her come fetch you down. You need a bite to eat and a lot of sleep. You can’t help Harry if you get down sick yourself.”

  Maude resisted right up until she found herself downstairs in the kitchen. She protested through breakfast with pancakes, sweet with syrup and butter, although she savored each bite. The warm food made her sleepy but she continued to insist she would sit with Harry till she pulled her warm flannel nightgown over her head. With Harry recovering in the bed she normally occupied, Maude crawled between the covers of Granny’s bed. She burrowed into the old-fashioned feather bed and beneath the covers, then slept.

  No dreams punctuated her slumber and when Maude woke, the dim light in the room indicated it must be evening. She sat up, head thick as cotton batting, and listened. She heard nothing out of the ordinary but she climbed out of bed. Without stopping to dress or comb her hair, Maude padded barefooted down the hall. When she entered the small bedroom, she paused.

  Harry sat propped against the pillows, awake and alert. Although his face still bore the ravages of his illness, Maude thought he looked much better. The brown patches had vanished from his cheeks and little of the blue color remained. A little color relieved some of his pallor and when he caught sight of her, Harry grinned. “There she is,” he said, his voice a bit stronger than it’d been.

  “He’s been lookin’ out for you,” Granny said with a chuckle. She lifted her body out of the chair with effort. “I’m about stove up sittin’ here. I imagine you two want to visit so I’ll go down and see if Miss McBride needs any help. She’s making soup and I hope she’s not using too much salt.”

  As she bustled out of the room, Maude sat down. Harry unfolded his hand and she took it. After the angst and drama of his near-fatal experience with the flu, she grew almost bashful for a moment. So many emotions flooded her soul she hardly knew what to say or where to start. “How do you feel?” she asked, then realized he’d be tired of the question soon.

  “Like death warmed over,” Harry said. If he hadn’t smiled, she might not have caught he meant it as a joke. “I’m so tired I can’t keep my eyes open long, and weaker than I ever been, even after I got the snot beat out of me. Otherwise, okay, I guess.”

  Maude noticed how his voice weakened as he spoke. At first, he used a quiet but normal tone, but by the end it faded to a near whisper. “I’m so glad. You scared me, you know.”

  “Didn’t mean to.”

  She sighed. “I know. I thought you’d make me a widow before I had a chance to be a real wife.” His eyes glistened with unshed tears and she worried she’d upset him. Maude reminded herself Harry would be fragile for a while. No one knocked on death’s door or stuck a foot through the crack without any effect. “You’ve already been one,” he said but he sounded so puny, she put one finger across his lips. “Hush and save your strength.”

  Harry responded with a faint nod and closed his eyes for a long moment. Maude noticed he wore a clean pair of long johns and that his hair was combed. She sniffed and caught no whiff of either the onion poultice or the vapor rub so speculated Granny must’ve bathed him. Maude wouldn’t have dared take the risk but since Granny had, she appreciated Harry’s cleanliness. She wanted to make a fuss over Harry, longed to pamper him, but tried to hold back. Too much cosseting might upset him but Maude tucked the covers tighter around him. Her braid, matted after her long sleep, fell over her shoulder and she remembered she hadn’t dressed. She hurried to change and to fix her hair. When she returned, Harry slept, deep enough to snore a little. Although any other time the sound might’ve annoyed her, Maude celebrated it. He couldn’t snore dead.

  Soon after Harry woke around seven in the evening, Granny brought up a cup of chicken broth for Harry along with a bowl of soup for Maude. She enjoyed her portion first, having eaten little more than Harry had over the days he’d been sick. The tasty broth, the rich noodles, the colorful carrots and celery were delicious. Harry’s broth cooled so when she spooned it into his mouth it wasn’t too hot or cold but just right. He took it with eagerness at first but managed no more than half the cup. Maude offered him a few sips of water afterward and a pair of aspirins. His eyes drooped with fatigue and she asked if he’d like to be lowered down from the supporting pillows. Harry nodded. “Thanks, Maudie.”

  Maude nodded. She craved touching him and did. The solid reassurance of his flesh eased her lingering tension, and she wondered if Harry truly grasped how close to death he’d come. “Go to sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

  She thought he’d protest but he didn’t. He might too drowsy to bother but Maude knew she’d be there through the night.

  Over the next few days, Harry grew stronger. Four days after his fever broke, he insisted on sitting up for a short time in a chair but he wearied sooner than he expected. A week after, he ate his first solid food—his favorite chicken and dumplings—and by the smile on his face, Maude thought he liked them very much. Fred returned home and did his best to ignore the intruders in his household. Three weeks after he fell ill, Harry came downstairs. He moved with a slow, cautious tread and spent most of his time on the parlor sofa for the first few days. His recovery took time and effort. Although she tried not to hover, Maude did and she thought her efforts often frustrated him, although he didn’t complain.

  On the third day he’d been downstairs and dressed, Maude’s Uncle Tommy arrived without advance notice. Maude had just brought Harry a hot cup of tea, oolong and not herbal, when someone rapped at the door. She opened it to find her uncle and her son. Maude squealed as the little boy catapulted into her arms and she cradled George tight against her. She’d never missed anyone as much as she did George over the weeks they’d been apart and she thought they would be separated much longer. With George in her arms, she could tell how much he’d grown. “Hello, little man,” she said as she kissed his hair and cheeks.

  “Mama!” he announced. “My mama!”

  Maude smiled at Uncle Tommy through her tears of joy. “Thank you. I wanted to see him more than anything.”

  He grinned back. “You may not thank me just yet, Maude, but I thought you and Harry could use the company. I hear he made it through the flu.”

  “He did.” Maude stepped back so her uncle could come inside. “Come say hello.”

  Before Tommy could enter, George wiggled out of her arms. When he spied Harry, the boy made a beeline across the room and pushed his body onto Harry’s lap. Maude rescued the cup before it fell to the floor and would’ve reached for George but Harry held him fast. The child buried his face against Harry’s shirt and bab
bled. All Maude could make out was “Pop,” but Harry appeared to understand all of it. She turned to Uncle Tommy with a grin. “That’s the best medicine you could’ve brought him.”

  Her uncle’s face blushed pink. “I figured you might need the kid around. He’s a good one. We ain’t had a bit of trouble from him. Your farm’s fine too. Ain’t lost any stock and the old woman even come to take down your Christmas tree so it wouldn’t shed needles any more. Soon as your man’s up to it and you’re ready, you can come home.”

  Home. Maude took the word and wrapped it with her mind. She conjured up images of the old farmhouse, the valley, and the vista stretching down to the river. Her imagination filled in the spaces between memories and she envisioned their life there, the three of them, together. As soon as Harry grew strong enough, they could return, she thought, and then a notion struck her. Behind her, the babble of voices indicated Granny had joined the celebration. Fred’s deeper voice added to the conversations and Harry quizzed Uncle Tommy about the stock. Maude hadn’t bothered to shut the door in all the excitement, and she noticed the air drifting through it wasn’t chill but almost balmy. She peered outside at the sunshine, the unseasonable day, and although everything remained winter-drab, she swore she smelled a faint hint of spring.

  Before she lost her nerve, Maude shut the door and walked into the parlor. She stood and waited, hands tucked into her apron pockets. Harry saw her first, then the rest, and the noise diminished as all went silent. “Maudie, what is it?”