The Sound of Gravel: A Memoir

by Ruth Wariner

  I was more hesitant to approach Mom, whose body was laid out on the opposite side of the room. Even from a distance I saw that the burial preparations hadn’t gone well—she wasn’t in the dress I had picked out. Instead she wore white, a color Mom never wore. A woman I barely knew walked into the room, approached me, and explained that my mother’s body had been too swollen to wear the dress I’d chosen. She needed a larger size in death than she’d worn in life.

  The closer I moved to Mom’s body, the more confused I felt. Her hair was combed and curled convincingly, parted down the middle and feathered back, but otherwise, she barely looked like herself. Her face was caked with too much foundation. Her swollen, straight lips were overpainted with pearl-pink lipstick, and her eyelashes too thickly coated with brown mascara. She was no longer wearing her ever-present, ever-slipping eyeglasses. Someone had found and retrieved them from the spot where they’d fallen, but like the dress, her glasses were too small for her swollen face.

  On the plus side, her palms hadn’t been burned during the brief time they’d made contact with the fence. Her fingers looked just as they had before—just like mine, short and chubby with fingernails chewed to the quick. Mom had always told me that I resembled the LeBaron side of the family, but examining her bare legs and feet under her ruffled dress, I saw clearly that I wasn’t just my father’s daughter. Our calves were the same shape; so were our feet and toes.

  The rest of the morning, I busied myself with dressing my sisters for the funeral, as well as preparing a diaper bag with a clean outfit for Holly, diapers, bottles, and formula to make it through the afternoon. People from out of town began to arrive—but for the most part I didn’t have the energy to greet them. Finally I looked out the window and saw a fragile figure walking down the road toward the house where we were staying: my grandmother. I ran out to meet her. She made her way awkwardly, her head down, watching the road and stepping around potholes. The surprise and joy of seeing her, not to mention the man who’d driven her down from the airport in El Paso—Matt—brought fresh tears to my eyes.

  Trailing Grandma, my brother looked exhausted by the trip. He rubbed bloodshot, swollen eyes as I ran and threw my arms around him, and around Grandma, as if they were the last links between me and the life I’d once known.

  “I should have been there,” Matt said, sobbing and embracing me, his entire body shaking. “I’m so sorry. I should have helped with Mom. I should have protected her, protected Micah. What are we gonna do without them?”

  “I don’t know.” I was incapable of any words of consolation. “I don’t know what we’re gonna do.”

  All the while, Grandma just stood there, her head lowered, crying yet speechless. It was the first time I’d ever seen her without Grandpa, and the first time she’d been to the colony in over a decade. We walked inside the house, and for a while the three of us found ourselves in a square living room in a round house surrounded by cement walls with rounded corners, trapped in an uncomfortable, heavy silence. Grandma kept her head bowed and her shoulders hunched forward in a navy-blue polyester suit that looked too big on her. She had become so thin and frail.

  I watched her raise her solemn, stunned face to adjust her wire-framed glasses and massage her temples. Finally she looked at Matt and me and said, “Well, I guess we’ll talk more about the younger kids after the funeral.”

  “Yeah. We should probably get goin’.” Matt wiped his swollen eyes. “Are they all ready to go, Ruthie?”

  I nodded. “They’re in the backyard. I’ll get them and the diaper bag.”

  It was afternoon and the heat was intense by the time we’d all walked a few blocks to the public viewing of the bodies. Grandma moved slowly and unsteadily down the dirt road, but also scornfully, as if each pothole confirmed her assessment of LeBaron as a mistake, a place far too harsh for her daughter and grandchildren to live. I walked with Holly on my hip and Elena and Leah at my side, both in their wrinkled Sunday dresses, both staring wide-eyed at all the strangers. Next came Luke and Aaron and Matt, each wearing his own version of a lost look. All of us, a caravan of wounded souls, were drenched in sweat by the time we’d reached the house.

  On the other side of the screen door was a living room full of people gathered around the bodies, which had now all been placed in white wooden coffins. Mostly the crowd was quiet, except for Alejandra, whom I’d already heard crying from a distance. She sobbed, “Mi hijo, mi hijo…,” endlessly as we stepped over the threshold and into the room, our noses suddenly overwhelmed by a smell so putrid, a stench so overwhelming, I almost fainted. Just as I’d feared, the bodies were decomposing rapidly. I felt myself retch uncontrollably. Through a noxious fog I watched Junior’s grandmother hold the boy’s head to her bosom and repeatedly kiss his forehead as she stood over his coffin. Maria was crying on the other side of the room, and Matt went to her, sobbing again as he wrapped his arms around her.

  My one wish had been to see my mother and brother one last time, although I regretted it as soon as I laid eyes on Mom’s casket. Over the hours, her head had taken on the cast of a wax figure, one that was melting into her white satin bedding. Her mascara was bleeding, her lipstick caked. The body before me didn’t look at all familiar, and I had to look away.

  I wasn’t sure I wanted to see Micah, but I’d brought along something that I wanted him to have: my most treasured stuffed animal, a Rainbow Brite Care Bear. Just as it had once done for me, I hoped the bear would help Micah get used to the dark. As I made my way to the little coffin, I saw that his arms had sprung up and returned to the position they’d been in on the fence, and from a distance he looked as if he were climbing out of the coffin, his arms reaching toward heaven. I forced myself forward. His head was arched back too, as it had been on the fence. I placed the bear on his chest and quickly walked away.

  My nose burned from the stench, and the crowd of people made me so claustrophobic I began to have trouble breathing. But just as I felt I would pass out, I heard my grandmother’s voice behind me. “Would someone please close the coffins?” she said weakly, shaking her head and turning toward the door. “Do the kids need to see bodies disintegrating?”

  My siblings and I quickly followed her outside, and together we walked the short distance to the church. We took the rickety black bench up front, with Leah and Elena on either side of me and Holly on my lap with a bottle that she was thankfully suckling. Lane sat on the bench behind us. I was furious with him. He had been responsible for the electric wiring on the farm, he was complicit in Mom’s, Micah’s, and Junior’s deaths. I vowed not to look at him that day or, indeed, ever again. Out of the corner of my eye I saw that he was strangely expressionless as the closed coffins were carried into the church and placed on the cement floor in front of us, directly under the pulpit. The large photo of my father brooded heavily over the three caskets.

  As the service began, everyone stood for a prayer that was given first in English and then in Spanish. Still standing, the mourners took out hymnals and sang songs in both languages, songs about going home to our Father in heaven. Everyone but me; I couldn’t hold both Holly and a hymnal and didn’t have the strength to sing along.

  When we finally sat back down, eulogists spoke about Micah and Junior, some in Spanish, some in English. Then one of Lane’s many sisters came up to the pulpit to tell Mom’s story, saying that she had “lived her life by example,” that she continued to bring “God’s souls onto this earth” despite difficult pregnancies and the burden of disabled children. Lane’s sister reminded us that Mom had been widowed young, but had nevertheless remained faithful to the church’s founding principles. As the woman concluded her speech, Elena tapped me on the shoulder and whispered that she needed to go to the bathroom. I handed Holly to Matt and led Elena by hand to the wooden outhouse in front of the church and then for a drink of water from a garden hose.

  We made our way back to our seats as Alma LeBaron, my father’s older brother, stepped up to the pulpit. I had seen
him in town, but we had never spoken. Slender and gray haired, Alma stood tall with proud shoulders as he launched into a story about the colony’s founding, the church at its center, my father the prophet, and the importance of his teachings. I waited and waited for him to move on to an appreciation of the prophet’s wife and her contributions and sacrifices—Mom had been Alma’s sister-in-law, after all—not to mention the young boys who had lost their lives. But his story never evolved; he never mentioned the real reason for our gathering.

  After enduring forty minutes of this, Grandma got up and walked outside, once more the sole protester. My uncle spoke for over an hour before finally exiting the pulpit, and while I sat through the entire speech, I was so shocked by his omissions I could feel the skin on my face turning red. I whipped around to glare at Lane, breaking my promise to myself. Do something, I pleaded with my eyes. Redeem yourself in some small way by stopping this spectacle and demanding that he recognize my mother. But Lane just stared back at me, as impassive as ever, his arms folded over his big belly, not a single tear having been shed. As much respect in death as he had for her in life, I thought as I turned back around, scanning the congregation with contempt.

  When the service was finally over, trucks carried the coffins to the graveyard, and Grandma, my siblings, and I rode behind them in a big van. I sat in the back with my sisters, while my brothers occupied the gray vinyl bench seat in front of us, along with Lane’s sister Lisa.

  “Why didn’t Alma talk about my mom or my brother?” I asked her.

  She looked over her shoulder. “Well, he was here to speak at our conferences today, and we had to cancel all our meetings for this. We always welcome anyone to speak the truth in church, even when it’s a funeral.”

  I took a deep breath and sank heavily into my seat. A long line of vehicles trailed behind us as we slowly made our way toward the graveyard. While waiting for all the mourners to assemble, Matt and I passed the time by looking for Meri’s grave, but to no avail. No one had ever marked it.

  I stared at the mounds of gravel next to the coffins as prayers were said, more songs were sung, and people took pictures of our families next to the caskets. Eventually, the bodies were lowered into the ground just as the sun sank behind the horizon and the heat finally began to break. People lined up to throw handfuls of earth onto the coffins. I stepped forward to do the same, and as I did, someone took Holly from my hip. The tears came almost immediately, as did a shaking from deep inside me. It rumbled out of my stomach and to the tips of my fingers and toes.

  I slowly walked toward my mother’s grave. I picked up a large handful of gravel and rolled the hot pieces of stone and sand in my hand, thinking about this place: the dry, dusty Mexican countryside, our small, dilapidated home, the dangers buried underground, my family’s violent past, and the tragedy that had just fatefully made its power and presence known. Despite it all, Mom had loved this place, but without her, did I belong here? I stared at her coffin. I could have said so many things to her at that moment, but the only words that came to mind were I want you to know that I always loved you. Always, Mom. I was transfixed by the idea that she was contained in that white box. I’m not mad anymore, Mom. I looked at the fistful of gravel. I promise you, I will take care of the girls, Mom. I promise. I said the words quietly, but I meant them. Then I opened my hand and released the warm earth and rock, the sound of gravel, empty and hollow, echoing up from the hole as it struck my mother’s wooden coffin.

  40

  At eleven o’clock the next morning, the family met to talk about what should happen next. Four-year-old Elena and two-year old Leah sat with their little legs crossed Indian-style, parked neatly on the floor of yet another relative’s living room. Aaron sat on one end of a couch biting his fingernails; Luke was beside him staring off into the distance, his head tilted slightly to one side, sticking out his tongue. Matt and Grandma looked as if they hadn’t slept, and the morning heat only added to everyone’s discomfort. Lane joined us, which only made the situation more tense.

  Before we could think about the future, we yearned for some kind of explanation. We were all wondering, How the did this happen? What was Lane thinking when he wired that fence? His pose—dark, tan arms folded over his paunch, his legs in a wide stance—made it clear he had anticipated our questions.

  “Now, I had a reason for burying those electrical wires,” he began, completely unprompted, as if continuing a discussion he’d been having in his head. “I had to take electricity to Alejandra’s house.” He rested his arm against a wooden pillar as he tried to gauge who might be receptive to this explanation, his disposition completely casual. “I pulled wires through this black plastic tubing, about an inch in diameter.” He made an okay sign with his thumb and forefinger to show the approximate size of the tube. “I knew the tubing would keep the wires covered, but for protection I buried the tubing. I buried it along the fence.”

  I looked over at Matt, who was rolling his eyes in frustration.

  “The first piece of wire wasn’t long enough to reach all the way from one house to the other, so I cut the tubing and put another piece of wire through that and attached the wires with electrical tape, and the tubes with electrical tape too.” The quality of his craftsmanship might have been suspect, but the voice in which he spoke of it was confident, almost arrogant. “But when we had that thunderstorm the other night, the rain washed away the dirt from the wire and the electrical tape too. Micah’s foot just came in contact with that end of the wire.”

  Matt leaned forward on the sofa, squinted at his stepfather, and said with a short, condescending laugh, “Doesn’t it seem like you should have maybe buried the wires deeper?”

  “No.” Lane shrugged. “It was just a freaky thing, the way it happened. That’s all.” He leaned back against the pillar.

  Grandma raised her eyebrows, as if she wasn’t in the least surprised by my stepfather’s faulty wiring. For a moment it looked as if she might say as much out loud. Instead, she closed her eyes, shrugged her narrow shoulders, and shook her head. When she opened her eyes, she looked disgusted, as if pleading for Lane to just stop talking. But he wasn’t ready to give up the floor.

  “Micah’s foot touched one of the exposed wires while he was crawling through the fence. He was wet from swimming, so two hundred and twenty volts just shot right through him, and that made the electricity run through the whole fence.”

  The casual tone in which he described endangering his family by leaving live wires all over his property was almost too much to stomach. I watched Matt’s face turn from white to crimson and the pimples on his chin flush a deep violet. He inched his body closer to the edge of the couch.

  “It seems like if you had done something about those wires sooner, buried them deeper into the ground, this could have been avoided, don’t ya think?”

  “Wait a minute, now.” Lane straightened his back and cocked his head forward. “I don’t think it’s right to start pointin’ fingers at anybody here. You’ve been makin’ lots of money in the States, and you coulda done somethin’ to fix that place up.”

  “Lane,” Matt shot back, “I didn’t even know the wires were under the damn fence. And I sure as hell didn’t know they were taped together.”

  “Hey”—Lane raised his palms as if to indicate the subject was closed—“did you ever think that maybe our Heavenly Father knows what He’s doin’? He’s the one who chose this time to take your mom and your brothers, not me. Now, do I understand why He did that?” Lane shrugged again. “Well, of course I don’t.”

  God didn’t put those wires there. You did, you miserable son of a bitch. I felt the words form in my mouth, but the air necessary to speak them caught in my throat when I remembered that a more pressing issue needed resolution—one that Lane’s anger would only further complicate.

  “I think the children should come stay with me for the rest of the summer,” Grandma said. “It would give them a break and it’s perfect timing. They’re on summe
r vacation.” Lane gave her a smug look and snorted. “They can come back when school starts.” He stared at the floor, indulging her. “Besides, I don’t think it would be a good idea for anyone to move back into that old house. Do you?”

  Lane ran his dirt-filled fingernails through his greasy hair and pretended to think hard about her proposal. “Well, it seems to me like there are plenty of people here in LeBaron to take care of Kathy’s kids. They can stay with one of my wives for now.”

  “Lane, I have a three-bedroom house all to myself. There’s plenty of room for everyone, and the kids can keep me company.”

  He rested his chin in his palm and wrapped the other arm around his stomach. “Look, thanks for the offer, but there’s no way I’m letting all of these kids go back to the States with you.” He looked her straight in the eye. “I don’t trust you to bring them back to LeBaron, and I don’t want my kids being raised there, away from all my beliefs and what I want them to learn in life.” He moved his hand onto his hip. “And I know Kathy wouldn’t have wanted that for the kids either.”

  Grandma gave him a look of anger such as I’d never seen. It was as if all the big and small stupidities she’d put up with over the years in the name of my father’s religion, all the injustices that she’d seen perpetrated against innocent children, all the starvation and suffering and now death—all of it was boiling over in her head. But she held her tongue.

  Elena got up from the floor and crawled into Grandma’s lap, rested her head against the old woman’s neck, and wrapped her arms around her. Grandma ran her fingers through the strands of the child’s long hair, their lengthy fingernails getting stuck in Elena’s tangles. “Do you think my mommy will ever come back home?” Elena asked.