by Risner, Fay
“Mercy sakes, Bess, what are ya doen up?”
“I couldn't sleep, Mama. It's jest too hot,” fibbed Bess, gazing at the floor to avoid looking at the coffin in front of her even though she knew Nannie had placed the lid on it after the last of the visitors left.
“Reckon it's time I wet the wash rags on Doak's face again,” Nannie surmised wearily, rubbing the back of her stiff neck. “I reckon it's been a while since I last did it. I must of dozed off, and I don't know fer sure how long. She looked out the window when she set the coffin lid on the floor. Half of the orange, full moon showed as it inched up over the ridge, sending a beam of light through the window strong enough to light up the pallor. The moon filled out, growing larger but paler as it rose higher in the sky behind the dark timber making it seem as though the ridge was crowding in on the hollow.
Nannie removed the dried wash cloth from Doak's face, sank it in the wash pan full of tepid water, wrung it out, then spread it back. Sitting back down, she stated flatly, “Mornen ain't gonen to come any too soon, Bess. That Doak picked a poor time to die in this here heat.”
“I know, Mama. I'll stay here with ya ifen that's okay?”
“Yer a good girl, Bess. Ya may have to wake me up once in a while. I can't seem to keep my eyes open.” The weary sound of her voice matched her sagging body as she leaned back against her chair.
Bess watched her mother nod off. How could she relax enough to sleep with Doak’s coffin so near? There was no way Bess would be able to fall asleep. She glanced briefly at the coffin once in a while. An uneasy feeling serged through her about the way it looked in the dark surrounded by moon beams that bathed the coffin’s backside with an eerie glow. The lit candle on the shelf by the window flickered in the gentle breeze, causing fingers of light to caress back and forth over the coffin and wall. Watching the dancing light along with the glow of the full moon and thinking about Doak lying dead in that coffin so close that she could touch it if she wanted to was enough to keep Bess awake.
The next morning, people began to arrive for the funeral, and soon the pallor was full, wall to wall with humans in no time. Nannie had insisted Elmer nail the lid on the coffin early that morning. Almost everyone had already paid their respects yesterday, and as soon as Preacher Irby finished speaking, the mourners could move outside into the fresh air.
In the meantime, the men shifted from one foot to the other, impatient in the heat. The ladies stood with a handkerchief to their faces, in one hand, as if they were ready to wipe away tears, and in the other hand, they waved a paper fan attached to a flat stick handle in front of their faces to keep away the sweat and to swat at the flies. Flying in through the open window, the blow flies gathered on the coffin and lit on anyone who stood still for a moment.
Finally Preacher Irby said, “Amen.”. He gave the pallbearers a nod. They gathered around the coffin, lifted it from the chairs, then slowly carried it through the cabin and out into the sweltering summer sunlight. Squinting at first to see where they were going, the group filed out of the cabin and waited for the coffin to be placed onto the wagon. Elmer Litwiller climbed up to the seat and clicked softly to the team of horses. As the wagon began to move slowly down the road, people followed close behind, singing In The Garden until they reached the fence of the family cemetery. There were only a few other stones inside the fence, Doak’s parents and three small stones for the babies that didn’t live long.
Continually wiping sweat from his brow, Preacher Irby kept his final prayer short. When the coffin was lowered into the ground, Bess hung back by the cemetery gate. She watched the others file by the open grave. Each person dropped a wild flower or a handful of loose dirt onto Doak's coffin as they bowed their heads and said a quick goodbye.
Bess studied the tiger lily she held in her hand that she picked beside the cabin. She should get in line and toss the lily in the grave, but instead she decided to give that flower a quick toss over the fence into the high grass and weeds. She had already said plenty of good byes to Doak while she sat with Mama through the long, lonely night. She didn't want to look in that open grave right now, and she didn’t want to imagine the way Doak looked, laid out in that coffin. Besides with so many people milling around, the others wouldn’t notice she hadn't been in line. Right now she was too tired to care about what everyone else thought was right. She just wanted to go home as soon as lunch was over.
Chapter 13
A Fishy Story
Dillard had meant to just sit down for a moment in the shade of the mulberry tree and rest. When he leaned back and got comfortable, Dillard dozed off. His head jerked when he nodded, and that woke him up. He rubbed his eyes then stifled a yawn, sheepishly looking around the house yard to see if anyone had been watching him. No one was in the yard, but across the wattle fence, he spotted his older brothers, Lue and Don, with their hands in their overall pockets, sauntering down the lane toward the pasture. Quickly, Dillard jumped up. A broken strap on his faded blue overalls waved out behind him as he hurried to catch up to his brothers.
“Wait up! Where ya goen?” He yelled.
“Jest goen fishen,” answered Lue.
“Can I go, too?”
“Nope,” Don shook his head. “We're goen a fur piece up stream on Little River to fish. Ya couldn't keep up.”
“I could too,” declared Dillard.
“We'll take ya next time we fish closer to home," Lue offered to appease the little boy.
“'All right.” Reluctantly, Dillard gave up, because he knew he wasn't going to change their minds, but he took a long hard look at his brothers while they walked away.
“Where they headed?” Bess inquired from behind Dillard and grinned when he jumped.
“Stop sneaken up on me!” He growled. “I don't know exactly where em two are headed. They say they're goen fishen, but does anything about that story look out of the way to ya?”
“Nope.” Bess took a second look at the backs of her brothers as they disappeared from view over the hill. “They're always goen fishen. So what?”
“If they's goen fishen, where's their fishen poles?”
“Say, that's right. They ain't got poles with em.”
“Besides Lou’s carrying a torch. Why would they need a light in the day?”
“I don’t know. Why didn’t ya ask em?”
“I never thought to. Let’s follow em and see what they're really up to, Bess,” suggested Dillard.
“I don't know - -,” Bess hesitated. “They would be mad as old wet hens if they caught us.”
“We kin stay back far enough that they won't see us. I know we kin. Come on. Please.”
“All right, but if we get caught I'm gonen to tell em it was yer idea, Dillard,” warned Bess.
Bess and Dillard hurried along the pasture cow path until they could peek over the crest of the hill. Lue and Don had picked up their pace, hurrying as they skirted around the bottom of the hill toward the ridge timber and away from Little River. When the boys faded from sight among the dense stand of trees, Bess and Dillard ran down the hill. As they rushed passed the peacefully grazing jersey milk cow, Daisy, jumped aside letting out a dolorous moo to let them know they had startled her.
Reaching the timberline, Bess and Dillard made their way by a patch of may apples, plants with umbrella shape tops and covered with green balls, scattered about in a plum thicket.. The rough, overgrown path for hard walking for the children, hurrying along it to catch up to their brothers. About fifteen minutes later, the path ended at the edge of a clearing. Suddenly, Bess put her arm out to stop Dillard.
“Sh, there they are!” She whispered, jerking Dillard down behind a clump of rhododendron bushes. Parting the pink blooms amid dark green leaves, they watched Lue and Don, crouched low, sneaking toward a small log shed at the back of a homestead.
“Where abouts are we?” Dillard whispered.
“That’s Tutt's place from the backside,” Bess informed him.
“Why did they go in that t
here shed?”
“I don't know. Be quiet now and watch,” hissed Bess.
Soon Lue's head peeked out the crack in the shed door. He looked all around, checking to see if the coast was clear. Thinking there was no one near, he slipped out and crossed the clearing with Don right behind him, headed back toward Bess and Dillard.
Suddenly, Dillard began to squirm. He squeezed his eyes shut and opened his mouth wide. When Bess realized Dillard was going to sneeze, she grabbed his nose and pinched it hard. The sneeze went away when Dillard had to breathe through his mouth, but by the time he'd struggled to release himself from Bess’s grip, his nose was bright red and smarting. His angry glare made Bess put her finger to her lips to warn him to be silent, or Lue and Don would catch them spying from behind the bush.
Lue lead the way down the path past Bess and Dillard’s hiding place still totting the lit pine torch. Don, close behind him, carried a cylindrical shaped red object about eight inches long with a string dangling from one end. He kept it at arm's length as if it might bite him.
When the boys disappeared from sight, Bess motioned for Dillard to get up, and they followed off to the side of the path through the underbrush. After listening to the crunch -- crunch of dried leaves coming from behind her as Dillard shuffled along, Bess turned and stopped him. “Dillard, pick up your feet,” she scolded in a hushed voice. “Member how Pap told us to pick the spots we put our feet when we're hunten? Ya best do that, or Lue and Don are goen to hear us followen em fer sure.”
“All right,” grumbled Dillard.
Hearing the sounds of muffled voices, Bess edged on, realizing that they might be getting too close to her slow moving older brothers. Suddenly behind her, she heard a loud snap and the rustle of dry leaves mixed with a softly expelled oof. The noise was loud enough to still all the birds along the trail and a chattering squirrel, too. Bess flattened beside Dillard, putting her arm over him to hold him down in the dried leaves, stirring up a whiff of humus underneath them.
“Holy Moses, Dillard! The whole ridge will know that we’re out here now with all the noise yer maken,” she hissed as she peeked around a tree in the direction of Lue and Don.
“What was that?” Asked Lue. The boys stopped to look back down the path.
“I don't know. I can't see anything. Should we go back and look?”
“Nope, it's probably a deer we spooked. I seed some fresh tracks a ways back,” Lue said, shaking his head. “We better get goen before someone sees us, besides we want to get those fish home and cleaned afore supper.”
“Listen! They still talk like they's goen fishen, but they still don't have poles. How they goen fishen without poles, Bess?”
“I don't know,” grumped Bess, getting tired of the whole situation.
“And what's that red thing that Don's carryen so careful like?”
“I don't know that either,” Bess hissed. “But the way yer doen, they're gonen to catch us, and we'll never find out cause they'll send us home.”
Suddenly, Dillard began to scratch first one place then another, writhing around on the ground. “Ouch! Ouch!”
“Now what's wrong with ya, Dillard?”
“I'm layen on an ant hill. They’s biten me all over. Ouch!”
“Sh! Get up then and get yer shirt and pants off. Shake em out of yer clothes quick. Quit foolen around. The boys are getten away.”
When Bess and Dillard finally reached the timber edge, they saw the white ripples of Little River's swift currant below them. Lue and Don stood in the weeds along the river bank under a large burr oak tree. They seemed deeply engrossed in conversation. Bess and Dillard eased along the edge of the clearing and flattened out behind a clump of tall ferns to listen.
“Let me have it, Don.”
“Oh no. I had to carry it this far so I want to throw it.”
“Don, I'm older than you,” Lue argued. “I should get to throw the dynamite.”
“Dynamite! Oh Lordy, they've got dynamite,” Bess whispered hoarsely.
“What's die - a - mite?”
“It explodes. Makes big holes. Tutt Jones used some to hep Pap take out some tree stumps once. It's dangerous!”
“Ouch! Ouch!” Dillard moaned as he began to rub his arms.
“What's the matter now? More ants?” Bess questioned crossly.
“Nope, but I hurt all over like someone's poken needles in me. Look at all these red bumps poppen up on my arms. Ouch!”
“Lordy. Look where ya picked to lay,” Bess snapped impatiently. “That's stingen weeds yer layen in. Don't ya know anything, Dillard? I wished I had never come with ya. We better move back from here anyway. I don't want to be close when that stick goes off. Don't rub those spots. It'll jest make em hurt worse, and they'll go way on their own after a while.”
Crawling further away, Bess and Dillard settled down to watch in a clump of tall grass. Lue finally gave in to Don. Shakily, Don held the dynamite out, and Lou lowered the torch so the flame made contact with the fuse. A thin trail of smoke wafted up from the hissing stick. Lue shouted, “Now!” Don drew his arm back, gave a hard throw, and the boys ran for cover of a boulder near the clearing edge.
Bess and Dillard watched the red stick sail into the burr oak tree, catch on one of the limbs and twirl around and around just before they folded their arms over their heads and hugged the ground. Boom! Leaves, green acorns, slivers of twigs and fragments of larger limbs showered down on them from above while the ground vibrated beneath their bodies, then came complete silence. Bess and Dillard peeked out from underneath their folded arms and saw the large splintered snag of what was once an ancient, burr oak tree, jetting above the debris piled around its base. They watched the older boys walk down to inspect the splintered tree snag left standing. The younger children crawled closer through the weeds to listen to Lue and Don’s conversation.
“Dang it, Don! I told ya to let me throw it. Ya've got rotten aim. Look what ya did to that pretty, old tree.”
“I'm sorry, Lue. I didn't know the dynamite would get stuck in the tree.”
Furtively, Lou looked around them. “I reckon we better get fer home quick afore someone comes to see what happened. Somebody was bound to hear that racket.”
After Lue and Don disappeared from view, Bess and Dillard scrambled down the river bank to get an up close look at what was left of the tree. Looking puzzled, Dillard walked around the snag, stopped to scratch his head, and walked down to glance over the river bank, scratched his head again and returned to study the tree.
“What's ya got now, Dillard? A bait of ticks crawlen on ya?” Asked Bess, watching him.
“Nope, Bess. I jest can't figure this out. How did Lue and Don think blowen up this ole tree was goen to get em any fish for supper?”
“Oh, Lordy. Will ya never mind, Dillard,” Bess groaned. “Let's get fer home afore someone notices that we're missen, and ya best keep yer mouth shut about what we saw. Lue and Don wouldn’t like knowen we was watchen em.”
Chapter 14
Apple Butter Party
Nannie came from the cold, clear spring that bubbled out of the base of the ridge behind the cabin. She tucked a stray wisp of graying brown hair back into the bun on top of her head with one hand. She walked across her rock strewn, sparsely grassed yard, balancing a tin dish pan full of water on her hip with the other hand. Uncovering her high top shoes when she pulled her long skirt up, Nannie stepped from the plank sidewalk onto the porch. She paused at the kitchen door, and turned to survey the laughing, shouting children playing Ante Over around the smokehouse. A good portion of those children were hers, and she searched for one in particular.
“Sarah Elizabeth!”
Wiping her straight, brown bangs from her eyes, Bess, waiting for the ball to sail over the smokehouse, studied a barn swallow' s vacant dried mud, bowl shaped nest attached to the underside of the roof. A few weeks ago to protect her babies, the sassy barn swallow would dive down on the children when the ball came too close to her n
est. Now the nest was empty.
At the sound of her mother's voice, Bess turned. “What, Mama?” When Mama didn't call her Bess, she knew she was in trouble for something.
“Ya and Jimmy Bob Parkins quit playen and take yer turn stirren the apple butter kettle. Alma and Jacky Tyler told me ya been shirken yer turn, and they’s getten tired of stirren.”
“All right, Mama. Come on Jimmy Bob. We've got to go stir now.”
As they turned to leave the game, a big red ball sailed over the tin smokehouse roof, and Bess heard a thud, then a loud, “Ow!” She looked back into Jimmy Bob's pained face. He was gingerly rubbing the unruly shock of black hair on the top of his head.
“Ouch. Bess, the ball hit me square on top the head. That hurt!”
“Surely not, Jimmy Bob. There's nothen up there to hurt, is there?” Bess giggled then darted off to the corner of the yard with Jimmy Bob chasing after her.
That corner of the yard was bare of greenery due to the frequent fires under the large, black kettle. The kettle was used for soap making, lard rendering, heating water for wash day, and apple butter making. The only living plant within that corner of the yard's wattle fence was the mulberry tree. Now with the very sweet, blackberry like fruit long gone, the tree showed the fall coloring of mid September.
Right away Bess noticed the grouchy look on Alma's flushed face. She was tired of standing over the steamy, bubbling apple butter mixture while it simmered. Handing over a long stick with the T- paddle board tied to the end of it, Alma grumbled, “About time ya two took over. Yer late. Jimmy Bob, get some more wood from off that rick yonder. The fire's getten low,” ordered Alma.
“I'm sorry, Alma. I hated to miss out on the fun,” Bess confided. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Besides why do I always get stuck with Jimmy Bob? It’s not fair that he never wants to stir. Makes me do most of it while he sits and talks.”
