The Shrouding Woman

by Loretta Ellsworth

  Papa had to yank hard to open the cellar door.

  “Evie, you take Mae and Aunt Flo and light the candles down there. I’ll be back as soon as I take care of the animals.”

  “I want to come with you,” I hollered, but Papa shook his head, pushed me toward the stairs, and closed the door above us.

  “Papa!”

  “Everything will be fine, Evie,” I heard a voice say in the darkness. “Help me find the candles.”

  I groped, following the walls, until I found the candles and a match to light them. The candles cast a shadow across the cellar, where Mama’s supply of beans and watermelon pickles and corn was stored. A spider ran across the wall, casting a monstrous shadow in the faint light. Aunt Flo turned two bean pails over to use as chairs.

  I wondered if the twister had followed her here, bringing death in its path to give her more work.

  The howling wind grew louder above us, and Mae hid her face in Aunt Flo’s skirt. We were wet and cold and afraid.

  “Is Papa going to die?” Mae cried.

  Aunt Flo hugged Mae against her wet skirt. “Of course not. We must be brave and help your father.”

  “How can we help? He won’t let us,” I said. Tears trickled down my cheeks.

  “You can still help. You can pray together for his safe return. You girls recite your prayers. Now stop that crying, both of you,” she gently scolded us.

  I wiped away the tears and tried to remember the prayers I had just said that morning, but the door above pounded as though the wind was trying to reach down into the cellar and swallow us up. No words or Scripture came to mind. Mae just stared at the door, too scared to speak.

  Finally Aunt Flo started to recite a prayer. It was my mother’s favorite Scripture passage from St. John about loving one another and keeping the commandments. She spoke softly and covered my shaking hands with hers, and soon I found my voice and prayed with her, nodding at Mae to do the same. Aunt Flo’s low voice blended with ours.

  In a short while the noise above us became a distant sound. Then we heard a loud creak and looked up to see Papa opening the cellar door. The sky above him was light again.

  “Papa!” Mae and I ran up the stairs and grabbed him around the waist.

  “Papa, you didn’t blow away!” Mae yelled. Papa hugged us both, something he hadn’t done much in a while.

  “I saw a cloud dip down into the fields, so I stayed in the barn while it blew by. It’s past us now. Be thankful it didn’t blow down our house or barn.”

  “We prayed for you, Papa. Aunt Flo helped us,” Mae said.

  “And good prayers they were,” Aunt Flo added.

  “Look.” Papa pointed to fallen tree limbs scattered on the ground, one limb barely missing the back of our house. “We were fortunate today.”

  Our house and barn and livestock were intact. The crops were ravaged in one area, but the rest remained unharmed, as though the twister had purposely picked one spot in the middle of the field to destroy. The wooden fence that ran along our property was broken apart, and chunks of wood dotted the prairie grass.

  Then I saw Mama’s garden. I gasped at the sight. It was torn apart, covered in mud. Only a few plants remained, and they looked flattened. The rest of the garden was reduced to rubble.

  “Evie, look!” Mae exclaimed when she saw it.

  “Maybe it can still be saved,” Papa said as he walked around the edge, examining the damage.

  “I’m so sorry about your garden,” Aunt Flo said, putting her hand on my shoulder. “We’ll help you save what’s left.”

  “It’s not my garden,” I replied, my voice cracking. “It’s Mama’s garden. She wanted me to take care of it.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want help? There’s a lot of work here,” Papa said.

  “I’ll do it myself,” I insisted, feeling my throat catch on the last word, turning from Aunt Flo so she wouldn’t see me all choked up. “I’ll start tomorrow.”

  Papa shrugged and looked at Aunt Flo.

  “If that’s what you want. I have some work to do as well,” Papa remarked as he looked at the broken fence, the fallen limbs, and the scattered leaves covering the yard and part of the field. Mae and I went into the house, but Aunt Flo didn’t follow. A short while later she still hadn’t come in, so we set out to look for her.

  “There she is,” Mae yelled, pointing toward the field. Aunt Flo was working next to Papa with a scythe, chopping away at the storm’s messy remains.

  “She’s working on the Lord’s Day,” Mae protested.

  “So is Papa,” I reminded her. I pulled on Mae’s arm. “Come with me,” I commanded her. Mae and I set to work gathering the broken limbs into a big pile.

  “I guess Aunt Flo’s not an old gooseberry,” I said as I dragged a large branch across the yard.

  “What’s a gooseberry?” Mae asked.

  “Someone who knows evil magic and casts spells.”

  Mae put her hands on her hips. “Of course she’s not. She helped me fix a baby robin’s wing and held me on her shoulders while I put it back in the nest. Not even Mama would do that. Mama always said, ‘Nature has a way of caring for her own.’”

  “Mama was just being practical,” I said as I threw the branch into the pile. “There are things about Aunt Flo you don’t understand. She’s … peculiar,” I said as I searched for a way to explain it to her.

  Mae nodded in agreement. “She’s nice. She gives good hugs.”

  I shook my head. Mae couldn’t possibly understand. Aunt Flo was different. She gathered us into her huge arms and gave us bear hugs every morning when we got up and in the evening before bed. She traipsed around catching butterflies with Mae in the middle of the day. She was outspoken and didn’t care who knew it.

  I wasn’t superstitious like Mrs. Finn, who believed that a white moth inside the house meant death and who said that if a dog howled at night when there’s illness in the house, it was a bad omen.

  But I feared Aunt Flo and her strange profession. Papa and Aunt Flo had talked about shrouding like it was as natural as a sheep giving birth. Mae had no inkling what shrouding was. I didn’t understand it, but I knew that nothing good came from death and nothing good could come from a woman who dealt in death. And I prayed Aunt Flo would never be called upon in the Crooked Creek Valley.

  The Funeral

  It was late on a Thursday evening when we heard the sound of horses pulling a rackety wagon out front. It was a humid night, the kind where damp hair clung to the back of my neck and my clammy feet stuck to the wooden floor. Papa feared another storm might be brewing, and we hadn’t finished cleaning up from the last one. Mama’s garden was still a wreck. The plants I’d saved were mostly the ones that grew underground, like the potatoes and carrots.

  We sat in the parlor, fanning ourselves, protected from the mosquitoes but too hot to sleep. We heard footsteps on the porch and a soft knock. Papa opened the wooden door to find Mr. Severson standing with his son, Edward.

  They lived on the winding creek to the south of our farm. Their family had been one of the first to set up a homestead in the Crooked Creek Valley. Papa said that Mr. Severson had been only a baby when his family left Norway.

  Mr. Severson looked past Papa into the room where Aunt Flo sat with Mae on her lap. Aunt Flo stiffened and looked up.

  “Evening, Hans,” he said softly to Papa, who invited them into the parlor.

  “How is your father doing?” Papa asked. Mr. Severson’s father had been sick for a long time.

  “He passed away a couple of hours ago,” Mr. Severson said, his head down, his hand on his son’s shoulder. “I knew your sister was here, and we wondered if she would mind preparing him for burial. We heard she performs shroudings.”

  Papa looked at Aunt Flo, who nodded. “She’d be honored,” Papa said.

  My mouth flew open, and I shuddered as if a sudden chill had crept upon me. Aunt Flo got up, and I followed her down the hallway. She disappeared into her bedroom. I
peeked around the door, holding my breath so she wouldn’t hear me. She opened her drawer and took out a shawl. Then she went to her bed, knelt down, and pulled out the wooden box from underneath.

  I wondered if it was full of those forked twigs and strange ointments. I moved as I heard Aunt Flo coming out of her room. She stopped short when she saw me.

  “Evie, you gave me a fright.” Then she noticed me staring at the box. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m—I’m fine,” I stuttered, backing away.

  “Take care of your sister this evening,” she said as she wrapped an arm around me and gave me a quick embrace. I flinched as the box rubbed up against my waist.

  “I have my buckboard out front,” Mr. Severson said as Aunt Flo put on her shawl and followed him out the door. We soon heard the sound of horses galloping down the road.

  “Where is Aunt Flo going?” Mae asked Papa, her eyes wide and troubled.

  Papa answered her in a calm voice. “She went to help the Seversons. She’ll be back soon. You both get to bed now.” He picked up Mae and carried her upside down over his shoulder so that she squealed with delight. Then he picked me up and put me over his other shoulder. I giggled, too. I didn’t care if I was too big for such things. It was nice to have Papa close again, even just for a minute.

  I tried to stay awake, the image of Aunt Flo’s mysterious box floating in my mind. I could see Mama laid out in her coffin in the middle of our parlor. Well-meaning words of comfort faded behind me. “God’s timing is best” and “Heaven is a better place.”

  I had sought Mama’s presence in the garden. I wanted her to live even when I saw the pain in her face, even when Papa said it was best for her to go so she wouldn’t suffer any longer. I had whispered my sins into the cold spring wind ripping through the garden.

  Papa sat up late, waiting for Aunt Flo to return, and the light from the lantern flickered in our room, dancing up the walls to form strange shapes. Mae was next to me, breathing softly, her body curved in a small ball, her back pressing against mine. The light was still there when I finally fell off to sleep.

  When I awoke the next morning, Papa was gone and Aunt Flo was in the kitchen, humming as if nothing had happened. The air felt cool and not as sticky. Mae was already outside, running up and down the slanted cellar door.

  “Where’s Papa?” I asked, rubbing the sleep from my eyes.

  “He left hours ago for the fields. You slept late this morning, Evie. You must have been tired.”

  “I was waiting up for you.” Then I quickly added, “I didn’t want Papa to be worried.”

  Aunt Flo stopped stirring the custard she was making and turned to look at me. I saw a little smile at the corner of her mouth.

  “That was nice of you, Evie.”

  My face grew hot and red. Then I saw the wooden box sitting on the table. I stared, wanting to ask her about it, wondering if I should.

  Aunt Flo spoke before I could ask. “Evie, would you place my box underneath my bed and put on your good dress? We’re going to pay our respects to the Severson family.”

  Ever so slowly I picked up the brown box. Whatever was inside was moving around. I kept it at arm’s length. I felt Aunt Flo’s eyes on me, so I walked quickly to her room and slid the box underneath her bed. Then I ran to the washroom and scrubbed my hands till they were pink.

  Aunt Flo fixed a custard dessert and took a jar of watermelon pickles that Mama had made last year. Papa hitched up the wagon, and we rode to the Severson farm. Mr. Severson was a grumpy old man with a white beard who always wore the same plaid shirt, except in the summer. He didn’t speak English well and usually muttered in Norwegian. Still, Edward often talked about fishing with his grandfather, and he seemed to enjoy him. Old Mr. Severson always had a Bible in one hand and a fishing pole in the other, and I sometimes wondered if he quoted Scripture to the fish to lure them close to shore.

  When we pulled into the Severson farm, Edward was out front, throwing stones at a tree. He had the same blond hair and light complexion as his father. His cheeks were turning pink from the bright sun. Papa put his hand on Edward’s shoulder.

  “How’s the wheat doing?” he asked Edward.

  I gripped Mae’s hand tightly as we entered the house. The air inside smelled of musty garments. Mae and I stayed near the door. An uncomfortable feeling settled in my stomach when I saw the body. Mr. Severson was laid out in a casket in the parlor with a fresh bouquet of daisies at his feet. He was wearing a clean white shirt and a bow tie. His hair was combed neatly for a change, and he had a small Bible in his hands. He looked like he was sleeping, except that his mouth hung slightly open, and he didn’t have his usual grumpy look anymore.

  The Seversons had a small family service with a few neighbors but no pastor since they weren’t very churched in the traditional manner. Everyone gathered around the casket. Mae grabbed Aunt Flo’s hand, and I stood behind Papa. Mae kept peeking around Aunt Flo’s skirt, as if she didn’t quite understand the seriousness of the event. Edward’s father read a psalm from the Bible and talked about how his father brought him over as a boy to America. Edward’s mother dabbed at her puffy eyes every once in a while. I heard her tell Aunt Flo that she stayed up all night to watch over Mr. Severson.

  Why did she stay up all night? I thought. He’s already dead.

  Soon after, I took Mae outside and we walked over to a brook near their farm to watch the crawdads splash back and forth. Mae clapped and giggled at their movements, but I kept her from catching them so her dress would stay clean. A slow procession carried the casket up a steep hill to the Seversons’ burial plot. We saw the people gathered at the top of the hill as they lowered Mr. Severson’s covered casket into the ground. It was next to a cross, where his wife was buried. Then Mrs. Severson led the people in singing “Blest Be the Tie That Binds” before going back inside.

  Later I saw Edward outside again, throwing rocks at the tree. I didn’t know what to say, so I joined him and threw rocks alongside him. Mae picked up some and threw them, too, missing the tree completely.

  “Are you going to be a shrouding woman?” Edward suddenly asked me.

  I stopped my throw, my hand suspended in midair. “Why do you ask that?”

  He kept throwing rocks as he talked. “Well, your aunt told my pa that she came from a long line of shrouding women. I figured you might be one, too.”

  “You must be mistaken,” I replied.

  “Maybe when you grow up …”

  I stuck my chin in the air and folded my arms. “I don’t know anything about shrouding, but I’m sure I would know if a custom was being passed down to me or not,” I replied more primly than I had intended.

  He shrugged and continued pitching stones at the tree while Mae imitated him. I stopped throwing rocks and sat on the porch. Edward acted as though he didn’t believe me. I had known Edward my whole life. We’d studied geography together, and feelings ran high between us during spelling competitions. We’d even suffered together with a terrible bout of dysentery after swimming in the old creek. How could Edward mistake me as taking part in the strange tradition of my aunt?

  But what if Edward was right? Was I destined to grow up to be like Aunt Flo, bringing out my wooden box in the middle of the night? Was I doomed to follow in her footsteps?

  I walked over to the corner of the house, where Mrs. Severson had stored several ginseng plants in the shade of a maple tree after making a medicinal tea for Edward’s grandfather. I examined the whitish yellow root, remembering all I’d learned from Mama. Ginseng is a perennial, dying down in the fall and reviving in the spring. A scar is left just above the root each time the plant dies off.

  If the Crooked Creek Valley was a ginseng plant and each time a person died it added a scar, then our part of the country would have seen enough loss to make a twenty-foot-long ginseng root.

  There would always be customers for Aunt Flo’s business. But tradition or not, I couldn’t bear the thought of hanging around death’
s door for the rest of my life.

  It was time to talk to Papa.

  The Fox

  I tried to find Papa alone, but when I approached him in the barn, our mare Daisy picked the same moment to deliver her foal.

  “Run and get the goose grease,” Papa ordered. When Mae and Aunt Flo found out what I needed, they came following to watch the birthing.

  “I don’t think Mama would like Mae watching this,” I told Aunt Flo, hoping she’d take Mae back inside so I could talk to Papa alone.

  “Mama let me see a lamb born last year,” Mae protested.

  “Don’t see how this will harm her,” Aunt Flo said. “I’ll keep her out of the way.”

  Less than an hour later a beautiful brown foal was born in the barn. Mae named her Clover because Daisy loved the clover Mae fed her often.

  I tried to talk to Papa the next day after he’d put up a load of wheat and hitched the horse to the wagon, but Aunt Flo showed up to bring Papa a drink of water and a sandwich.

  “Thank you, Flo. You saved me a trip inside,” Papa replied as he guzzled down the water. Then he climbed into the wagon. “I’ll be back as soon as I take this wheat to the mill.”

  “Can I come with you, Papa?” I asked.

  Papa shook his head. “Flo needs you to lend a hand making soap. I’ll help when I get back. Maybe we’ll make enough soap to last through the winter.”

  Then he yelled, “Giddyap,” and was gone.

  I groaned. I hated making soap in the summer because it was a hot task and it took such a long time.

  Aunt Flo linked her arm through mine. “Evie, if you find some fragrant flower petals, I’ll add oatmeal and make a perfumed soap. We can save it for special occasions.”

  The quest for fragrant flower petals was an opportunity to get away from Aunt Flo and soap making for a while. I wandered off into the prairie, searching for goldenrod or purple coneflower. The tall grass encircled the knee-high corn, bordering it like a picture frame. I stayed near the edge, aware of how easily a person could get lost in the thick, green-and-gold brush strokes of the prairie grass. I meandered as if I had the entire day, looking for just the right flowers, skipping over the common milkweed and steering clear of badger holes.