Buried Seeds

by Donna Meredith

  Michael thundered down the staircase at top speed. Just this once I didn’t scold him for risking a fall.

  “Ask Solina to put a kettle of water on to boil,” I called after him.

  Gathering my skirt out of the way, I sat down on the pine floor, shifting my legs to one side. Since I still couldn’t see Thomas, I lay flat on my back and twisted my head until my cheek rested on the floor. There he was, a little mouse nestled into the corner. My view was still limited and awkward, so I scooted sideways until I lay beside him. The bottom bunk practically touched my nose and breasts.

  “What are you doing?” His voice, so small, so surprised, so dear.

  “I thought it might get lonely under here with only the dust bunnies to keep you company.” I wasn’t making up the dust bunnies. I felt a sneeze coming on and pinched my nose to prevent an eruption.

  “Oh.”

  “It feels nice and snug under here, doesn’t it? Safe.”

  “Yeah.”

  I waited, hoping he would open up to me. Seconds ticked by. I still felt like sneezing, my back was starting to ache, and I could hear the screen door slam, which meant Michael had finished the shucking. I feared I would have to hurry Thomas along so I could fix supper, but then—

  “Did that man leave?”

  “He did.” I didn’t have to ask who he meant.

  “Was he here to take me away?”

  I jerked my head from the floor and banged my nose on a slat. “Sch—” I broke off. It wouldn’t do to curse, even with my Grandmother Krause’s Scheisse, but by golly that hurt. “Absolutely not. Why did you think he or anyone would take you away?”

  He didn’t answer. What terrible fears sent him into this corner?

  “Where did you think he’d take you to?” I asked.

  “An orphanage.”

  “Thomas Henderson Helmick, no one is ever taking you away from this family. Ever. Put that right out of your head.”

  “But what if someone does come?”

  I searched for the right words, the best words, to make this child feel secure and safe in an unsafe world. “When that man came to our house this afternoon and your brother and sister thought he might hurt me, they both stood by my side, ready to do battle to protect me. When we thought you were lost today, every one of us searched high and low because you are important to us. That’s what it means to be part of this family. We’ll always stand up for you.”

  “But I don’t know who I am anymore.”

  “What do you mean? You are part of this family, that’s who you are.”

  “I’m a Helmick. The rest of you are Martins.”

  “Oh.” I rolled my head carefully to look him in the eye. I was ready to utter sensitive words of wisdom, I swear I was. Instead I sneezed and my snot blew all over the poor boy’s face. I was horrified.

  Thomas laughed. He laughed and he laughed. Out loud. A glorious, uninhibited, spontaneous belly shaker. One of the most wonderful sounds I’d ever heard. In the ten months he’d lived with us, I had never heard him laugh. It infected me like a virus and I laughed with him.

  “Do you think we could get out from under here now to finish this discussion?”

  After we rolled out, I washed his face off and we pounded the dust from our clothes. I sneezed again, but this time my hands were free to catch it in my handkerchief. We laughed all over again. I caught him up in my arms and whirled around and around.

  “Thomas Henderson Helmick, I love you dearly.” I set him back down and swatted his backside playfully. “Now, hustle on out to the garden and fetch your beans inside. We have a supper to prepare.”

  A good while later, after we said grace and passed around platters of vegetables, I suggested Thomas might like to change his last name to Martin. I thought it would make him happy. Instead, he looked worried.

  I was quick to take it back. “It was only a suggestion. You don’t have to.”

  “If I change my name, it might make me forget my mom and dad.”

  Val hurried to reassure him. “We put their photograph in your bedroom so you will always remember them. We won’t let that happen.”

  I knew it wasn’t true and so did Thomas—and I understood why losing the memories scared him. Already he was forgetting the sparkle of their eyes, the vigor of their walk, the dynamics of their faces in motion. Eventually he would only remember faces frozen in a photograph. When I thought of Ben, my mother, my father, the memories contained less and less life with each passing year. Only in my dreams did I see them again as joyful or sad, stern or loving, their faces and bodies animated by all the hopes, dreams, and activity that made them human. Forgetting was sad, but also a blessing. Forgetting helped us move past grief.

  I set down my fork. “Thomas and I had a chat. He says he isn’t sure who he is anymore. That’s why I thought he might want to change his last name.”

  “You dolt.” Michael shoved Thomas’s shoulder. “You’re my brother, that’s who you are.”

  Leave it to Michael to combine insult with exactly the right assurance Th omas needed.

  “Ignore Michael,” Solina said. “He’s just a pest. You’re my brother, the one who isn’t a pest.”

  Michael stuck his tongue out at her.

  “Solina and Michael, table manners, please,” I said. “You’re supposed to be setting a good example for your little brother.”

  “No one will ever put me in an orphanage?” Thomas asked.

  Michael laughed hysterically. “Thomas, if they’ve kept Solina out of an orphanage all these years, as much trouble as she causes, believe me, your place in this family is safe.”

  He looked from Michael to Solina, addressing her alone, shaking his head. “But you’re a Martin. Why would they put you in an orphanage?”

  “I’m adopted too.” She sounded almost proud of her status.

  Thomas’s eyes widened but he said nothing. He hadn’t known and we hadn’t ever thought to mention it.

  We resumed eating the bounty of our garden.

  As Solina carried plates to the sink, affecting a snooty, nasal tone, she suggested hyphenating Thomas’s last name. “He could be Mr. Thomas Helmick-Martin.”

  “You read too many of those stuffy British novels,” Michael said.

  Val declared her solution pure genius. “Thomas can keep his old identity and yet forge ahead with a new identity as part of this family.”

  “What’s hyphenating mean?” Thomas asked.

  After Solina explained, Thomas nodded his approval.

  I thought the discussion was over, but while Solina and I washed and dried dishes, it took an unexpected twist.

  “He doesn’t realize how lucky he is,” my daughter said. “At least he knows his parents’ real names.”

  Moisture crept to the corners of my eyes. I lowered the plate I had been washing into the sink, fearing I would drop it. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

  “Sometimes I wonder who I really am, you know? Who were they, my parents?”

  I wanted to tell her she was my dearly beloved daughter, but she already knew that.

  She surprised me again by smiling. “Don’t look so sad and worried, Mama. I’ll be all right. I’m a Martin. And I love you and Papa extra special bunches because you gave my birth mother a name. Jane Martin. You didn’t have to do that, but I’m glad you did.”

  We had visited the cemetery in Oakland and she had seen how we’d placed her mother’s gravestone right beside Ben’s. Val and I hadn’t known what else to call Solina’s mother. We had done the best we could to give her an identity and decent burial.

  “I will be eternally grateful to your mother. If not for her, I wouldn’t have a beautiful, intelligent, kind daughter.” Jane had lost her life, and I had gained a daughter. It wasn’t fair, but life rarely was.

  The next morning we woke up to a headline declaring women had finally won the right to vote. Tennessee was the thirty-sixth state to ratify the nineteenth amendment, fourteen months after Congress had passed it. />
  I had to smile when Solina informed Thomas that his adoptive mother had marched on Congress to help make it happen. For once, she actually sounded proud of me.

  Angie

  Clarksburg, West Virginia, 2018

  At four in the morning, I creep into the bathroom to get showered and dressed. Dewey pretends to be asleep. I gather my purse and the keys to Mom’s ancient Olds from the dresser. My car is still in the body shop, and I don’t want to take Dewey’s truck in case he needs it for a job interview or a family emergency. I glance at him, weighted with sorrow over what we’ve lost. My mouth shapes a soundless goodbye, and I turn to leave. His voice stops me.

  “I checked the air in the tires of your Mom’s car. You’re good to go.”

  “Thanks.” I cross the room and stand beside the bed, grateful he’s broken the silence.

  “You and Mac be careful today.”

  “We’ll try.” I lean down and kiss his forehead. It appears we will carry on with daily routines and hope the injuries heal on their own.

  Outside, the pre-dawn sky glows midnight blue, enough light to spot Mom’s daffodils pushing slim green tips through the soil. I am grateful for even this hint of spring because I detest the barren nature of these winter months. I long for green, for growth. Mac scrapes ice off the windshield of Mom’s Olds and drives us to the school parking lot to meet my colleagues. The tee-shirt company fellow is already there, passing out shirts with “55 Strong” emblazoned on the front. I give him a check and hand over the carton with the remainder of the shirts to Becca’s husband Chad.

  “She feels well enough to picket in front of the school for a while today,” he says. She will sell shirts to whoever wants one and get the word out to AFT members that they are available.

  That settled, our crew of four—plus Mac—are set to make the two-hour drive to Charleston in Emily Harris’s compact car. The front seat is roomy; the back seat has plenty of legroom if you are eight years old. One of the youngest teachers in our school, Seth is quite a bit older than eight, and at six foot two, his knees will be folded into his chest the whole ride. Mrs. Carstairs has the front seat, due to her bad knees, and I share the back seat with my sister and Seth. My ankle bootie makes it awkward to get situated inside. We’re nervous and excited. It’s the first protest at the capital for all but Mrs. Carstairs, who had driven down in 1990.

  I press my face near the car’s window and watch the pale light of dawn spread across the sky. Silhouetted treetops are black lace against peach silk. Gradually the sky turns rose, blending to gold. Finally the hills become visible. I have a sudden urge to sing, “Oh those West Virginia hills, how majestic and how grand.” The others join in.

  Afterward, Mrs. Carstairs leads off with John Denver’s “Country Roads.”

  “I know that’s an iconic West Virginia song,” Emily says, “but the only place in the state it could apply to is Harper’s Ferry.”

  Mrs. Carstairs says, “I still love it.”

  Finally traffic becomes thick and I know we have reached the outskirts of Charleston.

  Fifty years old—and I’ve only been to the capital one time. That was in junior high when I won the Golden Horseshoe award for knowing a lot about West Virginia history. I can’t remember a darn thing about that trip except the capitol building sits on a bank above the Kanawha River and the dome is gold. Is it ever gold! The whole shebang is covered in twenty-three-and-one-half karat gold leaf, one of those dubiously useful facts I learned for the Golden Horseshoe exam.

  We park the car and head toward the crowd noise, with Mrs. Carstairs, Mac and me bringing up the rear. The ankle boot makes jogging along at Seth- and Emily-speed impossible. My sister makes sure I don’t fall. As we near the big dome, we hear “We’re not going to take it!” The crowd is ginormous—a scientific term, meaning, who the heck knows how big—maybe 5,000, maybe 10,000 teachers out there already.

  It is about forty-eight degrees, maybe fifty, I judge; nevertheless, I keep on my gloves. My hands and feet are always cold these days, while the rest of my body bakes. My internal thermostat is broken.

  We encounter a sea of red at the capitol lawn and join a red wave flowing across the grounds. Everywhere there are signs. I have to laugh when I spot a young teacher standing on one of the huge decorative posts in front of the building. I bet she teaches biology, like me, because she is holding a sign about seeds, too. I am proud of us, proud to be part of this moment. Our numbers are growing, and so is our strength and vocal power. Those weaselly legislators have to take notice now.

  My sister takes a photo of my crew of four with a teacher decked out in an Uncle Sam outfit. He says the costume is symbolic of justice and unity and our fight for our country’s children, for their education. I wander through the crowd, and am suddenly confronted by another symbol of justice. A statue of Lincoln towers over us.

  I seize Mac’s hand, staring up at the craggy face. “I feel crushed by the weight of history here,” I say.

  Her brow crinkles as if she is amused. “Well, it is impressive.”

  Guess if you live in Charleston you take all the grandeur for granted.

  We cheer along with another teacher who mounts the capitol steps to lead us in chants. Almost every car driving by honks support.

  Mac and I chat with a woman in a knitted cap who is passing out cups of coffee. “I recognize you,” she says to my sister. “You’re in the newspaper all the time. I just live up the street from here.”

  My sister accepts a cup of coffee, beaming at the recognition. “I’m here today with my sister.” She nods at me. “She’s a teacher.”

  When the woman nods, the funny knitted braids dangling from the sides of her cap nod with her. “My mother was a teacher, so I know how hard your job is.”

  The heat from the coffee warms my hands. I have to blow on it before I take a sip. It’s really hot. “Thanks for coming out here this morning, and you aren’t lying about how hard it is.”

  Another lady offers a donut, but Mac and I decline. I can’t afford to gain more weight. Mrs. Carstairs and Emily accept a donut. Seth scarfs down two and then burns his mouth by gulping the coffee.

  “Serves you right,” I tell him.

  A couple of police officers stop their cruiser and get out. I grab my sister’s arm, adrenaline flowing. If they arrest us, Dewey will never forgive me. I am ready to run. But then they smile and drop off a few more boxes of pastries to the ladies distributing food. I relax. Police officers and state workers aren’t allowed to strike with us or they will lose their jobs, but they will benefit from better insurance if our efforts succeed.

  “Look at those kids.” Mac points at a pair of grade-schoolers carrying their own signs: This is my Homework! and We Stand with Our Teachers! “Aren’t they cute?”

  “This is like a civics field trip for them,” Seth says. “Look over there.” He motions toward United Mine Workers wearing their union jackets.

  A teamster shakes my hand; in his other hand he carries a sign declaring solidarity with us.

  “These union workers know strikes like penguins know ice and whales know water,” Seth says.

  Not everyone approves. A passenger in one passing car rolls down the window and screeches, “If you cared about the children, you’d be in the classroom.”

  “Wrong!” Mrs. Carstairs yells, not caring that the passenger can’t hear her. “We care that teachers are leaving the state because they can’t live on their paychecks or afford their medical insurance.”

  She’s right. More than seven hundred teaching positions sit vacant and over a third of the state’s math teachers are uncertified. We care that every child receives quality instruction from qualified teachers in well-funded public schools. I am doing this for Bella and every other child deserving of a chance at a good life.

  Near lunch time, more locals show up with kettles of hot soup, bags of pepperoni rolls, and boxes of pizza. I was good in the morning, turning down those donuts, but I’m starved and I never
can resist pepperoni rolls and pizza. I take a little of each. The afternoon drags on endlessly. I keep pushing up my jacket sleeve to check my watch.

  Mac nudges my arm. “That isn’t going to make time go by any faster.”

  “I know.” The excitement is wearing off. “I worry we aren’t accomplishing much.”

  “We’re in it for the long haul,” Seth reminds us. “The longer we’re out, the more pressure it puts on the legislature to act.”

  Mrs. Carstairs stamps her feet to stay warm. “You can bet parents will pressure them. It’s a major inconvenience when those kid-dies are their responsibility all day instead of ours.”

  I am exhausted by the time I reach home around eight that night. Dewey isn’t there. Around eleven he stumbles in, so drunk his friend Phil had to drive him home.

  ~~~

  The next morning my crew pickets in front of our school and Mac delivers coffee and hot chocolate to us throughout the day. Other squads of protesters take our place at the capitol. My crew makes the Charleston run two more times over the week-long strike in Emily’s car. Mac stays home to meet with a top-notch lawyer. She promises to tweet out strike news periodically. Dewey says very little to me, but the air in our bedroom vibrates with the tension of everything we aren’t saying to each other.

  On my next trip to the big city, my cell rings. The governor’s staff says he’s willing to meet with us. I am chosen to attend along with several others. I can hardly breathe as I climb the steps from the Rotunda. I enter a room that smells of furniture polish and power. Here I am, seated around a conference table with the governor and his staff. Me. A genuine Mover and Shaker.

  Heart racing, I listen as other AFT leaders lay out our issues. One of the governor’s staff members begins to tread quietly across the carpet, and when I sense he’s preparing to end the meeting, I panic. We haven’t pushed hard enough on healthcare.

  I stand, my fingers resting on the conference table so they won’t tremble. I can do this. “Governor, every family has its own reasons to need strong health insurance. I want to share mine. My daughter is a public employee and recently my granddaughter Bella was born with impaired hearing. She will need expensive hearing aids the rest of her life. Without them, her ability to learn and interact with others would be seriously curtailed. Our insurance doesn’t cover medically necessary devices like these. Twenty-two other states do. Over twenty thousand teachers and their families are covered by PEIA. They all face different health issues. Each one is as important as your own family members are to you, as Bella is to me. We are counting on you to fix the problems with our health insurance.”