by Tony Earley
Cissy runs a few more steps, still flapping the apron, then slows to a stop. Her heart throbs wildly inside her chest; her breath burns in her throat. She stares at the gaunt limbs of the walnut tree, the empty sky. She hears the birds shouting in the dark woods along the river. They sound angry, indignant, accusing. In the morning they would be gone. She wheels and stares down at the boy. He backs up a step. When she steps toward him, he backs up again. She points at the tree.
“There, Mr. Glass,” she says. “It’s winter now.”
BOOK IV
Cold Nights
December 12, 1934
Dear Mr. Whiteside,
I am informed by my brothers that by my refusal to remarry, I am somehow depriving my son Jim of the masculine companionship necessary for the proper forming of young boys. Which perplexes me. I ask you, Mr. Whiteside, how can it be that my son suffers from a lack of male companionship and Love, when each of my brothers would gladly lay down his life in order that Jim might live? What can four men possibly provide for a young boy without a father that three cannot? And were I to marry a man who desired to take Jim and me away from this place, away from his beloved uncles, would Jim then not suffer because one man occupies the space formerly occupied by three? If Jim is to be so immeasurably helped by addition, could he not also be equally harmed by subtraction?
But still, despite my protests, I am told by my brothers that you wish to speak to me formally and make your suit. (Which surprises me somewhat — can it truly be said that we even know each other, Mr. Whiteside? You are a man I recognize as someone with whom my brothers do business, nothing more — and what can I be to you other than a woman, a widow, you have seen sitting on a porch, or perhaps walking to church with her son and brothers?) You should be flattered, Mr. Whiteside, that my brothers have chosen to champion you, for they are fine, honest, Christian men and good into their meddling bones. I am sure that in everything they do and say and suggest they have my best interest, and that of my son, in their hearts and seek only to honor me in their endeavors. Which is the only reason I am writing you today, Mr. Whiteside. They tell me that agreeing to see you is in my best interest and, more importantly, in the best interest of my son Jim. You must understand that I live only for Jim, who walks through my small life, in the footsteps of his father who died just over ten years ago, and brings me joy. Because my brothers — whom I love and honor — suggest that I would be acting in a manner that would bring harm to Jim if I do not see you, I will see you. I will hear what you have to say.
But I must warn you, Mr. Whiteside, I cannot imagine what you might say to me that would make me change my mind. I do not expect you to understand what I am about to say, but the simple truth with which I live every day is that I am a married woman. (Do you not think me insane for saying such a thing?) When I took Jim Glass for my husband, I forsook the possibility that I would ever take another man for my husband. Believe me, Mr. Whiteside, no one understands better than I that my husband is dead. He died alone in a field while hoeing cotton in the sun one week before Jim was born. These are the unadorned facts of my life. But so is this — even though my husband is dead, Mr. Whiteside, I still feel married. How could I possibly take another husband?
Yet my brothers, knowing that I feel this way, have encouraged you. They are wise men, and good, and are perhaps working for Our Lord in ways not yet made manifest by Him. (Although I pray without ceasing and doubt in my deepest heart that this is so!) So I will see you. I will see you once and hear what you have to say. Do not get your hopes up, Mr. Whiteside. I am doing this only because my brothers say it is what I should do, that it is the best thing for Jim, for whom I thank God every day. So I will see you. The next time your travels as a salesman bring you this way, speak to one of my brothers, who will make arrangements, as this is their idea and responsibility, and therefore only fitting.
I am, with all honesty,
Sincerely yours,
Elizabeth McBride Glass
Christmas Eve
JIM WOKE with a start when someone placed a rough hand over his mouth. Above him loomed a dark figure. “Doc,” whispered the figure, “don’t be afraid.”
It was Uncle Zeno. Jim felt the fright that had bloomed inside his chest folding back into itself and growing smaller.
“Do you promise to be quiet?”
Jim nodded.
“Do you promise you won’t say a word until we get outside?”
Jim nodded again.
“Good,” Uncle Zeno whispered. He removed his hand from Jim’s mouth. “Get dressed. We’ve got places to go.”
When Jim threw off the covers, the cold in the unheated room rushed at him and peeled away whatever warmth was still left from the quilts. He hurriedly put on his socks, his shirt and overalls, then his shoes.
He didn’t really think about where they were going, or think about how strange it was that they would go anywhere during the middle of the night on Christmas Eve. He was simply excited. Uncle Zeno had come for him; it didn’t matter where they were going.
After Jim buttoned his coat, Uncle Zeno pointed at the window, which, Jim noticed for the first time, stood wide open. Jim walked around the bed to the window and looked outside. Uncle Coran and Uncle Al stared up at him from the yard.
“We’re waiting for Jim Glass,” Uncle Coran whispered.
“I’m Jim Glass,” Jim whispered back.
“Oh,” said Uncle Coran. “You better jump out the window, then.”
Jim swung his legs over the windowsill and pushed himself into Uncle Coran’s arms. Uncle Coran took a stumbling step backward and fell down, still holding Jim. Embarrassed, Jim scrambled to his feet. Uncle Al clapped his hand over his mouth and pointed at Uncle Coran. Uncle Coran lay on the ground and silently shook with laughter.
“Shh,” Uncle Zeno hissed from the window. “Daggummit. You’re going to wake up Cissy.”
Uncle Zeno stuck one long leg out the window, then the other, and lowered himself backward, holding on to the sill with his arms. He looked back over his shoulder and tried to see the ground. Finally, he let go and clumped noisily into the yard.
“I can see the star,” Uncle Coran said from the ground, pointing.
Jim looked up, but saw thousands of stars, the dusty, bright streak of the Milky Way wiped across the sky. He didn’t know which star Uncle Coran was talking about.
“O Little Star of Bethlehem,” Uncle Coran sang softly.
“Town,” Uncle Al whispered.
“O Little Town of Bethlehem,” sang Uncle Coran.
Uncle Zeno and Uncle Al grabbed Uncle Coran’s hands and pulled him to his feet.
“You’re going to get all of us skinned alive,” Uncle Zeno said.
The uncles stood and grinned at Jim.
“What’s wrong with y’all?” asked Jim.
Uncle Coran looked offended. “It’s Christmas,” he said.
“We’ve got a surprise for you,” said Uncle Zeno.
“Yep,” said Uncle Al. “A surprise.”
The uncles led Jim around the house and onto the state highway. They stopped in the middle of the road and turned to face the uncles’ three houses.
Jim looked nervously up and down the highway.
“We’re in the road,” he said.
“There ain’t nothing coming,” Uncle Zeno said. “It’s the middle of the night.”
“Above thy deep and dreamless sleep, the silent stars go by,” sang Uncle Coran.
“You’re flat,” said Uncle Al. Uncle Al prided himself on his pitch.
“I am not,” Uncle Coran said. “You’re just listening flat.”
“Are y’all drunk?” asked Jim.
“What?” said Uncle Zeno. “We’re not drunk, are we boys?”
“We’re not drunk,” said Uncle Al.
“Not by a long shot,” said Uncle Coran.
“They why are y’all acting so funny?”
“We’re not acting funny,” Uncle Coran said. “You’re just looki
ng at us funny.”
“We just want you to see something,” said Uncle Zeno.
“In the middle of the road?” Jim asked.
“It’s as good a place as any,” Uncle Al said.
Jim looked up and down the highway again, then up the hill at the school. He looked at the uncles’ dark houses, at the store, the cotton gin, the depot, and the hotel. There was nothing to see. Everything was dark and peaceful and starlit and cold.
“What is it?” Jim asked. “What do you want me to look at?”
“You’ll see in just a minute,” Uncle Zeno said. “Just wait.”
Uncle Al held both arms out to the dark world. “Let there be light,” he said.
“Allie,” chided Uncle Zeno.
Again Uncle Al threw his arms out wide. “Let there be light,” he said, louder.
“Don’t be blasphemous,” Uncle Zeno said.
“Why is that blasphemous?”
“Because God is the one who said, ‘Let there be light,’ and this is Christmas Eve.”
“I know what day it is,” Uncle Al said. “And there ought to be one day a year when I can say whatever it is I want to say without somebody telling me I ought not to say it.”
“Was Jesus born tonight or tomorrow night?” Uncle Coran asked.
“Tonight,” said Uncle Zeno.
Uncle Coran scratched his head. “Then that would make today Christmas Day, not tomorrow.”
“What?” said Uncle Zeno.
“Think about it,” said Uncle Coran. “If Jesus was born before midnight tonight, then that would make all day today Christmas Day and yesterday Christmas Eve. But if he was born after midnight, then that would make Christmas Day tomorrow like it’s supposed to be, and this Christmas Eve.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Uncle Zeno said. “How can yesterday be Christmas Eve when today is Christmas Eve? Everybody knows when Christmas Eve is.”
“Doggone it, Zee,” Uncle Coran said. “You ain’t listening to me. I bet Jim understands. You understand what I’m talking about, don’t you, Jim?”
“No, sir,” said Jim.
“Then you weren’t listening, either.”
Now Jim felt offended.
“I’m cold,” he said.
“Let there be light,” said Uncle Al.
At that moment, miles away in New Carpenter, a man looked at his watch and threw a switch. Electricity blinked through the wires to Aliceville.
And the lights in the uncles’ houses came on.
Jim thought for a heartbeat that the uncles’ houses had exploded into flames, and involuntarily took a step backward. His mouth dropped open.
Uncle Coran let out a long, low whistle. “Do something else, Allie,” he said.
Uncle Al stared at his hands.
“I better not,” he said.
“Look,” Jim said, as soon as he was able to speak.
“We thank thee for thy miracles,” mumbled Uncle Zeno.
All three of the uncles briefly looked at the ground.
“Those are the biggest houses I ever saw,” said Uncle Coran. “I never knew we lived in such big houses.”
The uncles’ houses indeed suddenly seemed magnificent. Jim shivered as he stared at them. Every window blared with fierce yellow light, except for Mama’s, which was dark.
“Why don’t we wake up Mama?” Jim asked.
“Your Mama needs her rest, Doc,” Uncle Zeno said.
“And she wouldn’t like it out here in the cold no way,” said Uncle Al. “She’d make us all go inside.”
“Oh,” said Jim.
“Look,” Uncle Coran said. “Look up there.”
On top of the hill the new school had transformed into a castle filled with light. The ground was lit up all around it.
Jim and the uncles walked up the hill. The bright light streaming out of the empty school made it seem even larger and more imposing than it did during the day. Jim reached out instinctively and hooked his fingers through the hammer loop on the leg of Uncle Zeno’s overalls.
When they reached the school yard, they walked up close to the building, but stopped short of touching it. Uncle Zeno pulled his watch from his pocket and studied it.
“Look at this,” he said. “It’s ten after twelve, and I can see what time it is.”
Uncle Coran and Uncle Al and Jim leaned toward Uncle Zeno and looked at Uncle Zeno’s watch.
“Well, I’ll be,” said Uncle Coran. “It’s ten after twelve.”
Jim climbed up on the steps and looked down into Aliceville as if he were a prince and the town was his kingdom. Soon he felt weighted by a prince’s worries. The brightness of the few lights burning in Aliceville only magnified the darkness that still surrounded the town. The uncles’ electric lights drew fragile boundaries around their houses; around those boundaries a blackness crept that suddenly seemed as big and powerful as God. Jim had never noticed the darkness before. He felt on the verge of knowing something that he didn’t want to know. He jumped off of the steps to be closer to the uncles.
Uncle Zeno dropped a heavy hand onto Jim’s shoulder.
“Home looks different now, huh, Doc?” he said.
Jim forced himself to keep smiling; he willed his eyes to stay wide. He didn’t want to disappoint the uncles.
“Yes, sir,” he said. “It sure does.”
On the way home the uncles did not seem as merry. Nobody talked as they headed down the hill. Suddenly the night seemed even colder. Jim felt as if they were marching into a strange town — a kind of town different than the one he had always known. Such a town would require a different kind of boy to live in it — a boy smarter and stronger and braver than Jim knew he was. He didn’t know how to live in such a place. The world had changed in an instant, but he was still the same. He looked at Mama’s dark window and shivered. When he looked up at the stars, they did not seem as bright.
December 26
My dearest, dearest Husband,
If you are looking down on me — as I have believed for the last ten years, as I must believe if I am to continue to rise each morning and live without you — what must you think of me? If you are looking down on me from your high place and know my thoughts and my heart, you already know that I have agreed to see another man and consider his suit. Did this break your heart and make you turn your back on me? Or do you really wish — as I have heard over and over until I am sick of hearing it — that I should marry another? Would it really please you — as everyone says — if I “got on with my life?” Is it possible that you could really look down on me from heaven and watch me speak to another man in the ways of women and men and not feel pain?
My brothers tell me that I am hurting Jim, our son, by not taking a new husband to be his father. And I cannot countenance the idea of hurting Jim any more than I can entertain the idea of causing you even another moment’s pain, which leaves me torn and bewildered. If I do not marry again, I harm your son; if I do marry, I harm you. What my brothers do not understand is that even though you died, I swore in my heart that it did not matter, that we were still married, that your death was only a momentary separation. I told myself that you had gone away to prepare a home in a better place and that you would send for me when it was ready. I swore that this was how I would live my life, that I would be faithful to you and married to you until such time we could be reunited. This was my secret oath. And now I have betrayed that oath. Does this not make me the vilest kind of low woman? Did Jesus not tell us that the thought of sin is as bad as the sin itself? How can you possibly forgive me for what I have done?
I know that God left me on this earth to insure that our son grow up to be the kind of man you would have raised him to be, and therefore see that your death was not in vain, but what do I do when my brothers tell me that God’s will is different than I perceive it to be? Does God speak to them and not to me? Am I really as alone as I feel in my heart? By insisting that I speak to this man, my brothers force me to act in a manner
I find despicable. I want to shout out at them, I AM A MARRIED WOMAN! Can they not honor my marriage? Can I not choose to be married to you even if you are dead? Is this not my sacred right?
I just don’t know what
At the Tenant House
AFTER SUPPER, Mama told Jim he could go sit with the uncles in the store. Jim leapt up from the table. The store was where the uncles retreated evenings when they wanted to be by themselves. Most of the time they didn’t let Jim go with them.
The moon shone brightly on the snow. Jim watched his shadow slide thinly in front of him as he crunched down Depot Street. The snow had been on the ground almost a week; it lay frozen and pitted and muddy where people had walked or driven, but the moonlight made it look fresh and new. The uncles said that when snow stayed around for more than a few days it was waiting for its mate. Jim hoped that it would snow again soon. The frigid air made his chest burn pleasantly; he tried to feel warmth on his face as he passed through the clouds made by his breath.
At the store, Jim crouched and sneaked toward the window. He crept through the white square the electric light drew on the snow. He rose up slowly and peeked inside. Uncle Zeno and Uncle Coran hunkered over a game of checkers. Uncle Al stood above them and studied the board with a frown. Nobody moved and nobody spoke. Jim decided that he would rather stay outside.
He headed toward the hotel, thinking that maybe he would throw a snowball at Whitey Whiteside’s window. Whitey was passing through town on his regular run. Jim had no idea what he would say if he got Whitey to come outside, and tried without much luck to think of something. As he approached the hotel, the front door swung open and Whitey stepped onto the porch. Jim froze where he stood. Whitey wore a suit — but no overcoat — and one of his snappy hats. He held on to a porch post and leaned out and looked up at the moon; he removed his watch from his vest pocket and tilted it toward the light. When he walked down into the yard and started toward the fields, Jim decided to follow him.
