Keep Mama Dead

by S. James Nelson

  “The good Lord knows,” Papa said from his place at the table, “that Charles is a good boy. He’s done sacrificed his days for Mama. Every son should love his mother like that.”

  Thomas started to reply, knives on his tongue, but Mr. Milne cut him off.

  “Three days. That’s all we’ve got. We need to get her to Zion’s. Or it will all have been for naught.”

  Part II: Across the nation

  Next the Lord gave me Clara May, a delightful little girl until the age of ten. Then she became too much like her father. Only with tears.

  Chapter 14: An unexpected proposal

  A conscientious objector, Thomas refused to take part in hitching the mules up to the wagon. Mr. Milne and—for once—Charles did the work while he toured his fields, checking them over as if deciding what work to do that day. He almost succumbed to the temptation to stay behind and simply work on the farm. The time had come to sow; he didn’t have time for trying to stop people from resurrecting his Mama.

  Soon, he found himself in front of the house, looking at the field and wishing he’d gotten more work done the day before. He sat on the open back of the wagon near the porch, his legs dangling over the back, waiting for Clara May to finish gathering her eggs. The mules rolled their eyes and brayed, as if dubious regarding the integrity of the wagon. On the other hand, Thomas clung to some hope that the mules might not manage to pull the wagon. Haggard and thin, they’d certainly seen better days—although they had a point. The open wagon felt unstable and creaked in the slightest breeze.

  Stanley ran circles around the wagon, excited for a trip.

  Charles sat on his precious horse, looking anxious. He would, of course; he had a race to get to the next day. Papa sat on the seat up top the wagon. Franky lay in the back, in a pile of hay next to Mama and his new fishing pole. Before they’d taken Mama from the room, Thomas had removed the bread from her mouth and pocketed the bumblebee. It huddled in his pants with his own trinket.

  Mr. Milne sat atop his horse. Miss Sadie sat next to him, on hers. She hadn’t spoken since the spell.

  “You’ve only got thirty-five miles to go,” Mr. Milne said. “And three days. That should be plenty of time.”

  He was right. It took two days to get to the altar atop Angel’s Landing. They had to go to Hurricane, which would take the rest of the day. The next morning they would meet with the council. If they got permission to resurrect Mama, they would spend the rest of the day traveling east and north, into Gateway. They could then travel up into Zion’s during the morning. By early afternoon that day—not much less than forty-eight hours from that very moment—they could stand at the altar.

  That meant Thomas only had two days to stop his family.

  “You’re not coming with us?” Charles asked.

  “Not at first,” Mr. Milne said. “I need to go down to St. George. I want to send a wire to the Grand Canyon. Warn them that our barrier is down, that the Moabites might try something. I also want to see if they can send someone up to cast the barrier spell.”

  Just like in Hurricane, someone down in the Grand Canyon knew the barrier spell, and used it to protect the area from the Moabites. Thomas didn’t know if, like in Hurricane, it was a secret who cast the spell—but it probably was.

  To his understanding, not just anyone could cast the spell. It required too many second-life days at once. A dozen or more. Most people were only gifted with ten years of second life, and so casting the barrier spell would deplete their second life very quickly. Besides, most people couldn’t build up their body to withstand the rigors of the spell before running out of second-life days. That, too, would require someone with endless second-life days. Those people, to Thomas’s understanding, were indeed rare. They appeared randomly in the population; he’d never met anyone that admitted having endless second-life days.

  Thomas pitied any person that did. They might have been able to cast as many spells as they liked, but like someone who had used all of his second-life days, they would not be naturally resurrected. No one knew why not.

  Mr. Milne looked at Sadie. ”Stay with the Bakers.”

  She started to object, but he raised a hand.

  “My horse is faster than yours. I’ll go down to St. George and come up to Hurricane by morning. You’d slow me by hours.” He looked over the group. “I’ll meet you in the morning. I’ll be there when you ask the council to let you raise her.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Papa said. “We appreciate your help. And that’s mighty generous of you. But I believe that we can take care of things. Take Miss Sadie and go back down to St. George. I don’t want to be beholden to any man.”

  “Right,” Thomas said. “Because you aren’t already.”

  Charles snorted. Franky grunted. Papa raised an eyebrow.

  “You’re an ungrateful little runt. The Lord knows that I’ve done my best to raise you good. A man can’t be responsible for the choices his son makes.”

  Thomas ignored the hollow reprimand. Since departing from David’s farm, he’d convinced himself that in order to leave his family, he only had to find a way for Clara May and Franky to be taken care of. He’d thought of something for Franky—he could live and work at the hatchery in Gateway—but hadn’t thought of anything for Clara May. The best would’ve been if she got married and became someone else’s worry. But as far as Thomas knew, she had no prospects on the horizon.

  Stanley, apparently tired of running around, came over to Thomas and looked up as if asking permission to come aboard. Thomas patted the wood next to him. The dog leaped up.

  “No, William,” Mr. Milne said. “I’ll be coming back. I think you’ll need my help to convince the council.”

  Papa lifted his hands from his thighs, and hunched his shoulders. He didn’t have to move them much, since he bore a perpetual slouch.

  “A man can’t make another man do nothing.”

  Mr. Milne nodded at the wagon, where the rifles sat next to Franky. The swords that Mr. Milne had brought from Hurricane sat beneath the guns.

  “Keep those guns handy,” Mr. Milne said. “And the blades. Brady is still out there, and I suspect he could show up to try and retrieve Miss Sadie.”

  “Why is she so important?” Charles asked.

  Eyebrows raised, Mr. Milne looked at Miss Sadie, implying it was her information to share or withhold.

  Somehow, despite her already immaculate posture, Miss Sadie drew herself up in her saddle. She gave Charles a steady look.

  “Is that a question, Charles Baker? Are you asking me something?”

  He smirked. “Why, yes, Miss Sadie. I am.”

  “Well, you can take that question, slather it in butter, cook it over a fire, and eat it, because I fathom that a proper man would ask with a little more politeness. I suppose that isn’t something you’ve ever been taught, though, is it?”

  “I been taught,” Charles said. He nodded at Mama. “She taught me.”

  Miss Sadie shook her head and looked away, mumbling something about pigs and manners.

  Clara May finally came down from the chicken coops. She looked strangely excited as she handed Thomas her two baskets lined with hay and filled with eggs, and climbed atop the seat, next to Papa.

  “Now,” she said. “Our first stop is Eli’s farm.”

  The way she said it struck Thomas as oddly animated. Strangely excited. He looked ahead at her, where she sat atop the wagon with her back straight and looking off to the side, so he could see the side of her face. He’d never seen her look so excited in all his life.

  And he realized with a surge of hope that maybe she did have a marriage prospect. After all, she talked about him plenty, and he’d seen them together in town on more than one occasion.

  He smiled to himself as the horses got going and the mules lurched the wagon into motion, and looked at Franky. He lay next to Mama, his hands behind his head, face skyward, eyes closed.

  “You know, Franky,” Thomas said. “Maybe we can
stop by the hatchery on our way into Zion’s. Try that fishing pole out there.”

  * * *

  A wind blew, which eased some of the heat as the morning progressed. It whistled between the junipers and an occasional yucca, mixing with the creak of the wagon and the plodding footsteps of the mules and horses. Sometimes, as the narrow road passed between fields of sagebrush, the wind would bring dust and the pungent smell of the bushes. The afternoon would no doubt prove unpleasantly hot. It made Thomas grateful for his straw hat to shade his face.

  The road was nothing special: hard-packed red dirt. From the Baker farm, they traveled almost directly south through the desert, with the red rock mountains rising to their right and a brown plateau about a mile to their left. Five miles beyond the plateau, a few pillars of smoke rose from Hurricane, but no buildings were visible. Beyond Hurricane, the red, white, and black cliffs of Zion’s Canyon kissed the sky.

  Before noon they came to the main highway and turned left, east toward Hurricane. Mr. Milne turned right, toward St. George. Miss Sadie stayed at the crossing for a minute as the mules pulled the wagon on. She watched Mr. Milne disappear into a cloud of dust as he ran his horse. It was a fast animal. It was a wonder Charles hadn’t challenged him to a race.

  It wouldn’t take long for Mr. Milne to reach St. George. West, in the direction he’d gone, the road soon curved south, and led into St. George. The Mormon splinter groups lived there. Good folks, even though they hated the fact that St. George hadn’t become part of the state of Utah because of the blessing seekers in the area.

  Thomas was ten when the Utah Territory applied for statehood. The Federal government rejected the application because of the Moabites in Moab and Monument Valley, and the blessing seekers in Hurricane. The United States had outlawed blessing seeking in the early 1880s, which explained why so many blessing seekers—Thomas’s parents included—had fled into the western territories. For five years after the denial of statehood, the Utahns debated over what to do about the problem, and eventually determined to change their boundary.

  So in 1901, Utah re-applied for statehood after cutting a large chunk of land out of their proposed state boundaries. That time, they succeeded in joining the Union. So, while the blessing seekers lived in the Utah and Arizona territories, they considered their lands as separate nations. Periodically the Federal government made noise about putting a stop to blessing seeking. Thomas ignored the rumors and just farmed his land.

  As Miss Sadie sat there at the crossroads, with her perfect posture in her dirty white dress, watching Mr. Milne go, Thomas wondered about her relationship with Mr. Milne and why she’d left home. The questions bothered him long after she turned and rejoined the group, but after her rebuke of Charles, he didn’t dare ask.

  When they came to Eli’s farm, the mules stopped with thankful braying. Thomas and Stanley joined Clara May and headed up the lane toward the house. He carried one basket and she carried the other. She could have carried the two baskets alone, but he wanted to see what the family was like, and how Clara May interacted with Eli.

  The house was as squat and small as any other on the nearby farms. Unlike the Baker house, this one was made of dark logs sealed with hardened brown clay. It had a door in the center, but a window on only one side. No logs appeared to need replacing or even repair. None of the wooden tiles on the roof looked curled or cracked. Detritus did not clutter the yard. The plowed fields on both sides of the house had fences around them. The dirt looked dark, soft, and well-turned. In the distance to the left, a few people worked one field, bending and standing, walking, then bending and standing again. Planting. Hopefully one was Eli.

  As Thomas and Clara May neared the house, one of the men in the field—probably Mr. Miller, who had the blessing of a green thumb—noticed them and raised a hand in greeting. He tapped the other person on the shoulder. They set down their bags and headed in toward the house. A dog came out, wagging its tail as it greeted Stanley.

  It would be good if Clara May could become part of this family. They were good folk. Hard working. Eli was a little slow, but he could take care of Clara May.

  Thomas naturally took off his hat in respect as the woman of the house appeared in the doorway. She had a body of medium build, wore a brown skirt and a white shirt with long sleeves, and stood akimbo, frowning at Clara May and Thomas, squinting in afternoon sunlight. Once, Thomas had seen a bull charge a friend who’d foolishly taunted it, goring the friend and almost killing him. This woman’s expression and posture looked much like the bull’s right before he’d charged.

  Seeing her like that gave Thomas the urge to run away. Fast. He didn’t know what blessing she had—or if she had any—but he’d have wagered a goodly sum that she had the Penetrating Gaze.

  He shuddered.

  “Clara May,” the woman said.

  She had an accent—one that Thomas couldn’t place. It didn’t sound foreign—more like she came from a strange part of the United States. Thomas didn’t know where, exactly. Maybe the deep south, or the Midwest.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Miller,” Clara May said.

  She continued forward toward the house, as if to go inside. But Mrs. Miller blocked the doorway.

  “You’re not welcome in my house any longer, Clara May Baker.” She folded her arms across her chest. “And neither are your eggs.”

  Clara May stopped. Her mouth opened in astonishment and her eyebrows turned down.

  “What? What’s wrong with my eggs?”

  “It’s not your eggs. It’s you.”

  Thomas didn’t like her tone. Clara May was virtually worthless, but she was still his sister. Still a person. Generally.

  Clara May’s face fell further. She diverted her gaze.

  “Why? Where’s Eli?”

  The woman scowled and turned her head back into the house.

  “Eli, get out here. You’ve got something to do, remember.”

  Thomas fought the urge to leave. With the woman standing like that, using such words, something was about to go very wrong, but he couldn’t imagine what. The men from the field grew closer. They walked fast, with purpose—not like they wanted to have a casual chat.

  A barefooted Eli appeared in the doorway behind his mother, his head just over her shoulder. He bore a sheepish expression. His tan shirt was not tucked into his brown pants, and his curly dark hair looked like he hadn't combed it in quite a while. He had a boyish face, like a twelve-year-old.

  Clara May’s face brightened and she took a step forward.

  “Eli!” she said.

  Mrs. Miller stepped aside and shoved Eli out of the house. He stumbled, nearly fell.

  “Say what you’ve got to say to her,” Mrs. Miller said.

  Eli stopped about six feet from Clara May and looked at her with a mixture of adoration and worry. It almost looked ridiculous on such a young-looking face. He glanced back at his mother, then out at the field. The two men only had a hundred feet to come. They both wore wide hats and suspenders. Clara May held the basket out to Eli.

  “I brought eggs.”

  “We don’t want your eggs,” Mrs. Miller said. “Eli, go ahead and do it. You want to do some of the things a man does, then you’re going to do all of them. You’re going to be responsible like a man.”

  One of the men from the field called out. He had the same unplacable accent as Mrs. Miller.

  “Eli! You do as your mother says.”

  The men had come close enough now that Thomas could see them clearly. One was Mr. Miller, and the other was Bradley, Eli’s younger brother, a sixteen-year-old with more muscles on him than ten racehorses combined.

  “Eli, what’s going on?” Clara May said.

  Tears gathered in her eyes.

  Eli’s eyes softened and he rushed to her, taking her free hand in both of his. He looked for the entire world like cupid had just shot him clean through the heart with an arrow. No, not through the heart. Through the brain. His eyes looked as vacant as any dead pers
on’s.

  “Clara May,” he said. “By the delicate stars in the night sky above—will you be my bride?”

  * * *

  Clara May sucked in a sharp breath and dropped her basket of eggs. It was a testament to her shock. She cared for those eggs like they were her own children. Thomas had seen her cry hysterically over a single broken egg. In fact, Charles broke eggs on a semi-regular basis, just to torment her.

  But this time, she didn’t cry at all. Instead, she just stared at Eli, eyes and mouth wide. He gazed at her with an unsure smile.

  The dogs leaped to the broken eggs, and began to lick them up from the midst of the basket, hay, and dirt.

  Thomas stood there, stunned, trying not to smile. It was like his dreams were coming true. Eli and Clara May would get married, move out to their own little spot, and free him of the responsibility to care for Clara May.

  But something wasn’t right. Mrs. Miller looked angrier every second. Mr. Miller and Bradley came up to the house, stood just to the side of Eli and Clara May. It seemed Bradley suppressed a smile, while Mr. Miller bore a solemn expression. He looked over the group, and addressed his wife.

  “Did he do it?”

  Mrs. Miller nodded.

  With her initial shock passed, Clara May leaped forward and embraced Eli. He caught her in his arms and they laughed.

  “Yes!” she said. “Yes, yes, yes!”

  Despite himself—and the rising sense of dread—Thomas smiled so see his sister exuding such joy.

  “Not that you have any choice in the matter,” Mrs. Miller said. She again had her fists on her hips. “Any son of mine gets a girl pregnant, he marries her.”

  This time, Thomas dropped his basket of eggs. They broke as the basket hit the ground, and Stanley darted to the slimy remnants for a taste. Thomas looked from Mrs. Miller to Clara May and Eli, then to Mr. Miller.

  The Miller’s dog joined Stanley at Thomas’s feet. Their tails wagged so fast they blurred. Their tongues moved nearly as fast.

  “Get your things, Eli,” Mr. Miller said. “Pack them up and get out. You can go live with the Bakers.”