“Go on, Wallis Ann,” she said.
I concentrated on unraveling the rope. There was two blankets. Next come two long-sleeved, heavy woolen dresses what had to have been his wife’s, and inside them was a tin of coffee, a poke of grits, another of cornmeal, and some dried beans. A white square package held more of the jerky I’d eaten. There was some tin pans and tin cups. Spoons even. He’d put a pair of boy’s pants in there too, intended for Seph, apparently a pair Lyle had outgrown. His generosity left me stunned. He’d given a quilt, two blankets, a dress each for me and Laci, and food. The vibrations of Laci against me prompted me to hurry and give her one of the blankets. If I hadn’t felt so numb over Seph’s passing and Papa’s unexpected outburst at Joe, I might have dwelled more on the ever-so-tiny squeeze she give my hand as I set the thick blanket around her shoulders. Her fingers gathered it close around her body.
Momma took the food, and set it aside. I looked at the smaller of the two dresses, a navy blue one with a rusty red collar.Without a word, I left the fire and went behind the barn. I trembled as I pulled off what was essentially a rag now, then tugged on the clean, woolen dress, smelling of cedar, a scent of where the dress had been stored. It had been many, many days since I’d felt decent, since I’d felt like I had on proper clothing. My arms was mostly covered, and the hem of the dress come all the way to my shins. I felt warmer, and appreciated how well it was made, the tiny stitching of navy blue matching the blue material perfectly.
As I left the shadow of the barn, a long, pale-looking object leaned against a tree near the path. I went over to it. The initials JC was carved into the handle. I grabbed the shovel and marched towards Papa.
“He left this too.”
Papa looked at it and then at me in the new dress. He didn’t look none too happy, but he said not a word.
I motioned at Laci, holding out the other dress. “Come on, Laci.”
We went behind the barn again, and once she’d put it on, she touched the soft material. Having all these good and necessary things would have seemed like a sign of better days ahead, but none of this really mattered, not after what happened to Seph.
Chapter 12
Burying Seph turned into a matter of urgency. Momma had asked me to take care of things, and once I was dressed, and Laci was dressed, she’d grabbed Lyle’s pants and shoved them into my hands, repeating her earlier plea.
“Wallis Ann, please. Will you?”
“Sure, Momma. It’s all right.”
Papa took her along the path, as if a bit of distance might lessen her pain. They took Laci, too, and that left me alone. I crept towards the barn, and just inside the door lay Seph. Papa had put him on some boards he must have taken from the inside walls. I drew closer and looked down on his features. He was Seph and yet, he won’t. Illness showed in his tight face, the distress evident by the way his lips had pulled away from his teeth. Like he’d died in pain. It hurt worse than anything I’d ever experienced to see he’d suffered on account of me.
His stillness was foreign and unfamiliar. He’d been nothing but energy, a delicate vessel filled with exuberant life, and his coloring was an unlikely gray when he should have been flushed and pink. Even in the chilly air, the slight odor of sickness clung to him as did a hint of the odor of death. Hurry up. I knelt and shoved a pant leg over each foot. I cringed when I touched his cold skin, no longer soft and pliable. My fault. I clenched my jaw and scraped the pants up over his small, bony hips. I tugged his shirt down, wanting to cover him, to warm him, even though I understood the ridiculousness of this thought. My gut went sour, and I clamped my hand to my mouth, rushing out of the barn, relieved nobody seen me gagging. After a few minutes, the feeling subsided and my breathing smoothed out. Weak-kneed, I retrieved one of the blankets Joe give us. We would sacrifice it for Seph. I went inside the barn, folded it over him, patted him one last time, and then I went to get my family.
We went up the hill behind the barn to the Stamper family graveyard. The storm made what would have been an easy walk more difficult. Papa carried Seph, I carried the shovel, and Laci and Momma followed directly behind me. I reached to help Momma traverse fallen trees several times. In one area, huge lichen-covered boulders sat, a mystery to the landscape what told of ancient mountains from long ago. I could hear her breathing heavy, her stamina waning from grief and the way we’d been living. Her hand quivered as if she had the palsy. As we went along, her face and lips growed ever more pale, her vitality seeping out of her with each step.
We stopped near an exposed outcrop above the Tuckasegee, where, in the spring and summer, rhododendron bloomed heavy and thick. There was birds calling, and the whispery voices of the trees as they moved agreeably with the cool breeze. The sun played hide-and-seek with the clouds, and we took a moment catching our breath while looking around at the scattering of other gravestones inside the old wrought-iron fencing. Some of the gravestones was knocked over. I helped Papa straighten a few, and then left him to it, and went to huddle with Momma and Laci. It was like nobody was wanting to get on with it, yet we had no choice. Papa found a spot near to Grandpa Stamper’s stone and set about his work.
As time went on, the digging turned into him stabbing violently at the earth over and over, working out his demons. The ferocious way he mutilated the soil was in direct contrast to Momma. She sat on a small rock in the sun, Laci beside her. Her eyes was closed, and she was so still, if it hadn’t been for Papa working like the devil was chasing him, I believe the birds would have landed on her thinking she was a statue. Papa had laid Seph down in the shade, and while Momma wouldn’t look in his direction, all I could do was stare and stare at the small outline shaped under the blanket. After some time, Papa wiped his brow with his shirtsleeve and threw the shovel off to the side.
I wished I could tell myself his burying was beautiful, only there won’t nothing beautiful about it. Nothing pleasing in the songs we whispered, our voices joined together for the first time in a long while. Standing in a small circle over the damp, cold hole, we sang, but there was nothing lovely about the idea of setting a child’s body in the ground. It was plain ugly and I wished it to be over quick. Papa said a memorized verse or two after our quivering voices faded away on a final hymn. As we left, even the woods seemed hushed, with nary a birdcall. I wouldn’t have admitted I was hurrying, only I was. It was too hard knowing the smallest amongst us, the one who’d held our hearts and souls together, was gone. On the hillside when Papa placed the small blanketed form into the earth, something got broke in our family, separating us so that we turned inside ourselves.
Back at the campfire, I sat close for the warmth while the coldest air of the year settled around me. Any sense of comfort I might have gained from its warmth was overshadowed by guilt, like I shouldn’t enjoy warmth at all. Laci tried to stick her hand in mine and I pulled away, tucking it where she couldn’t reach them. She put her head on my shoulder then. It felt like I’d been frozen from the inside out, and fought an urge to shrug my shoulder. I tolerated her touch, while my insides drew tight and unforgiving. Momma sat as still as she had up on the hill while Papa had to keep moving. He took his self on off to the woods, and after a while, noises what sounded like he was hammering on a tree echoed all around. Usually, I would’ve gone to go see if I could help. Today, it won’t in me to work.
* * *
Days after, it was a repeat of the same. In some ways, I was waiting on Momma to break. Waiting on her to accuse me, tell me none of this would have happened if I’d not been so careless. I might would have felt better if she had. Got it out in the open. I felt sure it was like a slow-growing canker within her, or like nibbling on a rotten apple, every bite acidic and nasty.
One evening Papa drifted about with his hands in his pockets until he stopped in front of Momma and said, “Ann.”
I could see her taking a deep breath, and without looking at him, she said, “What?”
She spoke in this new way, an off-kilter tone, a flat note to
her voice.
“First snowfall’s liable to come soon. I mean, even under the best of circumstances, with proper tools, this will take time. Way I see it, we only got one choice here. I need to fix the truck. We can’t stay here, with no food, no way to get out of the weather. We’re going to go to Hardy’s till we get ourselves situated again.”
Momma shielded her eyes from the lowering sun to look at Papa.
“What are you talking about, going to Hardy’s?”
“Only for a while.”
Her look said he’d took leave of his senses.
“You know you and that brother of yours can’t be in the same room hardly at all.”
“No, we don’t see eye to eye, but we got to do something.”
He raked his hand through his hair, giving him an even more disheveled look. “Only take a half day or so to drive. That’s the best thing to do, for now.”
Momma worried her thumbs, looping them one over the other while she moved her gaze from him to the setting sun. Papa, hands on his hips, waited. These past few weeks and the effort of simply making do showed. His face was grayish, hair and beard unkempt, coveralls filthy and shabby, the knees going threadbare. His shirt was in tatters. His boots was so worn at the front, I was sure his toes would soon poke through. What bothered me was his scraped knuckles, dirty nails, and thinning frame, all telling a story of effort and desperation. Papa had always been a hard worker, only there’s a difference in the way backbreaking work treats a soul when there’s a payout. When there’s nothing to show for it, all it does is wear you down to a nub. Papa was slap worn down to something less even than that.
Momma shook her head. “I can’t leave. We’ve just laid our boy in the ground and now you want me to leave him behind. I can’t do it. Don’t ask me. I won’t go.”
Papa held his hands out in a fashion what said he’d give in. “Okay, okay.”
He sat down near her and nobody spoke for a long while. After a bit, I started making supper.
Momma made a move as if to help me, and I said, “I’ll get it, Momma. Laci can help me.”
Momma settled down by Papa, both of them silent, watching the fire sputter.
I said, “Here, Laci, stir the beans while I make us some corn pone.”
She did as I asked, squatting by the skillet, spoon in hand, waiting for the beans to boil. The food given us by Joe Calhoun was running out. I won’t about to make that announcement. A strange new level of monotony born of repeated steps with little gain and the lack of energy to affect any change slowly overtook us. Nobody talked about leaving again, and it was only a matter of time before something had to give. The jerky went first, while the grits, cornmeal, beans and coffee was carefully measured by me or Momma, a miserly tending, necessary for survival. The first hard frost come while a fingernail moon hung high in the night sky, like a cruel and crooked grin. I was awake, partly because I was freezing and partly for another reason. It was getting colder, and no matter how high the fire, we was entering into the season where it wouldn’t do much good. I was up because of that, and also because I’d heard something. A rustling, scraping noise, though all was quiet now.
I searched the familiar bumps across the fire. Momma huddled under the blanket, but beside her there was no familiar shape of Papa. I left the warmth of the fire to see what he was about. Just beyond the glowing perimeter, the sparse light showed only cold woods. Soon the freezing temps drove me back to the hot, glowing embers. I pulled my knees under my dress and the material down over my toes. I waited to see if he’d come from the woods.And waited. And waited. The night sky give and a pale gold appeared at low edge of the sky, gradual in coming, as if the sun itself fought the idea of facing an icy morning. A heavy coat of rime covered everything, leaving a white crust on the grasses, weeds and trees so it all glistened and sparkled like the hillsides was strewn with glass. Papa was gone, off to see about the truck. I rose stiffly out of need, arched my back to stretch it out and then had to bend over to put my hands on my knees, waiting for the weak moment to pass.
I walked along the path, hugging myself while staring at a few sticks arranged in a half circle. Papa had made a large, awkward C. I took it to mean he was going towards Cullowhee, where he’d last seen the truck. I went back and set about stoking the fire, and getting water on for coffee and grits. After a while, Laci rose hugging on to the quilt for dear life. I handed her one of the tin mugs filled with hot coffee. Her hands tremored as she took hold of it, grasping it for warmth. The look of her worried me. I studied her thin face, the purplish tone to her skin, and to say we’d all lost weight was true, except Laci had grown as thin as a blade of grass. If I didn’t know her, she might would have scared me as she’d taken on the look of something gone wild. I was by the fire with Laci, sipping hot coffee, the quilt shared over our shoulders when Momma stirred, and sat up. Her eyes met mine over the top of the blazing fire, and without me saying a word, she understood Papa was gone.
I got her a mug of coffee. “Here, Momma. Drink this.”
She took it and sipped slow. When I got done with mine, I sure would have liked more. I considered making another pot, only that would be indulgent. Instead, I served Momma and Laci their portion of grits, and give myself what was left.
Momma scraped the white mush around on her tin plate, and she finally spoke. “He went off without a word. Stubborn as the day is long. I can’t eat this. You girls want it?”
I said, “I guess. Are you sure, Momma? You ought to eat something.”
She leaned over and handed me the pan. I watched as she went off towards the woods, to tend to her needs. I turned to Laci and give her most of the grits. She ate fast, putting the food in her mouth, barely taking the time to swallow between each spoonful. I took it as a good sign, her still eating. When Momma come back, she walked stiff, like all her old energy had been sucked out of her. Her hair hung down around her face, unkempt, and she didn’t act like she much cared about anything.
I said, “Momma. How about when the sun gets up a little more, I wash your dress for you, and your hair. You can wrap the blanket around you while it dries.”
Momma said in a flat voice, “I don’t care. It don’t matter.”
I said, “Okay,” and let it go.
When the sun rose over the top of the tree line, I filled the pail with water from the boiling kettle and let it cool some. I stripped off my dress and underthings, and dumped them into it. Laci’s eyes growed big as I stood buck-naked out in broad daylight, while Momma only lay down as if to go to sleep. I had no soap, but I went to rubbing on my face good and hard, trying to remove the grime. Then I did the same for my arms and legs and everywhere in between. I dunked my head into the bucket and soaked my hair. I shivered and shook, but I was determined. I rubbed and scratched at my scalp, and didn’t stop until my head went all tingly. I wet my hair again one final time to remove any grit I might have loosened.
I retrieved the quilt and wrapped it around myself while I got a stick and lifted my wet clothes out and hung them on a nearby branch. During this whole process, Laci silently watched me. I could feel her eyes on me and when I turned towards her again, I seen she’d shucked off her own clothes and was in the process of dumping clean, hot water into the pail. She went to washing her face, standing without regard, naked as I’d been. I studied on her, the shape of her breasts, her legs. She conveyed an air of mystery, because of her ways. Laci fascinated most everyone, even me. Momma always said coveting what someone else has was a sin, so I worked on never allowing my thoughts to go further than seeing, and noting our differences. I turned away as she began to wash her private parts.
I’d heard folks say a time or two, God holds her tongue. She’s been struck mute, but she’s got God’s hand on her.
What intrigued me about her, and maybe them who made such observations, was the appearance at times that Laci knowed more than we figured. I could see her face change, a comprehension as subtle as the turning of leaves in the fall, yet I know
ed her well enough to see it. I’d often thought, What if she’s as smart as any of us? Plus, I’d always knowed Laci was right comely to folks. There had been a day, when I’d been about nine and I’d come to understand this without a doubt. We’d gone to a church to sing, and I’d seen how folks’ eyes passed over me, nodding, polite an all, until they seen Laci. Their gaze never returned back to me unless I spoke. Even then, it was like they only spared me a quick glance afore their attention settled back on her. They was as interested in me as looking over a dried old ham.
Who could blame them? Laci looked like one a them porcelain dolls I’d once seen propped on a shelf down to Dewey’s one Christmas, an expensive gift for some lucky little girl. I think mostly it was her eyes, what snapped with color similar to a young grasshopper, ensnaring them while shining with a cleverness such that folks expected her to break free of whatever it was held her quiet. They hung on to her expression as if at any moment she was going to break her years of silence and speak.
She never did.
I never spoke about how I felt passed over when such as that happened, how it was like being set aside for something what seemed more special, more interesting. It had always been like that, even with my own family. I was loved, of that I had no doubt, but I won’t dumb enough not to see how Momma and Papa not only loved Laci, their sense of obligation to give her more in the way of attention required they do so, mostly because she’d come close to not being here. Any thoughts about how I felt disregarded would sound selfish, and would make no sense to anyone, when they’d only tell me how lucky I was to have my full faculties about me. If I had to say what it was about that what bothered me, it was most likely having to always hold them thoughts inside and how that sometimes made me feel I might as well be mute as my sister.
The Road to Bittersweet Page 12
