Child of the Mountains (11 page)

“He’s with God and Gran now,” Mama said, “and they’s all watching over us.”

“I don’t want him up there with God,” I told Mama. “I want him back down here with us.”

“I know, baby. I know,” she said as she wiped my hair back from my face.

“Iffen God loves us so much, why did He take BJ away? He was just a kid, Mama.”

“That’s one of them big questions,” Mama said. “Lydia, lots of people will tell you things to try to make you feel better. They might say that God just needed another angel. They’s going to tell you that it was BJ’s time, or that he had already done all he was meant to on this earth.”

“That’s not true, Mama. BJ was so smart. I just knowed he could have growed up to be the best president these here United States ever had.”

“He probably would have,” Mama said, nodding. Then she looked out the window like she was a-trying to see BJ in Heaven. “He was a mighty fine boy. I think BJ sensed he was going to die soon, Lydia. A couple of months ago when I was tucking him in for the night, he told me that he thought about folks living and dying. I kissed him on the cheek and told him I hoped he felt better real soon. He looked long into my eyes, and then he says to me,

“ ‘Mama, last summer I saw a string of ants, and I put a piece of bread from my sandwich on the ground for them. I plopped down on the ground to watch. They marched back and forth, back and forth, trying to carry that hunk of bread down a hole, tiny piece by tiny piece.

“ ‘Most people is like them ants. They live their whole entire lives dragging bread back and forth. Ain’t no one got a lot of time on this earth. Not even them folks that we think of as real, real old. Life’s not supposed to be about what we do and how long we live to do it. Life is about who we be. We take what we learn here about being, right up to Heaven. We ain’t taking no bread, though.’

“Then he winked at me, Lydia. I told him that must be about the wisest story I ever did hear. BJ told me to be sure and tell you about them ants someday. He hugged me real hard and turned over and went to sleep. I sat there on the side of his bed for a long time, watching him sleep and thinking about what he said.”

“Why didn’t he tell me about them ants hisself, Mama?”

“I think he knowed you wasn’t ready to let go of him.”

Tears started up falling faster down my face. “Mama, how come you was ready to let go?”

“Because iffen you love someone and know they’s not going to get better—only suffer more and more—they’s a point you have to love them enough to tell them it’s okay to go. You gived that gift to your brother, Lydia, when you told me to bring him home.”

Mama smiled at me. Then her face got real serious. “Lydia, I wish we didn’t have to talk about this right now,” she said, “but there’s some things you need to know.”

I sat up and looked at her. My heart beat real fast. Something told me these things was very, very bad. “What is it, Mama?”

“Them doctors will be real angry that I took BJ. I hope they’ll think about why I done it and understand. They ain’t been much for understanding up to now, though.”

“Mama, they’ll be real angry at me, too,” I said. I felt cold all at once and covered myself with the afghan on the back of the couch. “I told you to go get him.”

All of a sudden, there was a knock on the door. Mama put her hands on my shoulders. “Lydia, promise me. No matter what happens, never, ever forget who you be.” She went to answer it.

I wasn’t sure what she meant, but I nodded. Then she went to answer the door. That’s when I started knowing about
solitary
.

W
EDNESDAY
, D
ECEMBER 9, 1953

It rained today. Finally. You’d think it would be snowing this time of year, but it’s still awful warm for December. This here drought has sure made it hard for farmers. I know they’s grateful for this little bit of rain. Aunt Ethel Mae told me she read in the
Gazette
that farmers hope we’ll get lots of snow during the winter so’s they’ll have dark, moist soil for planting in the spring. I been adding that to my prayers.

In geography class, we learned about deserts, where it hardly ever rains. Mr. Hinkle told us some states in this country have deserts. The pictures in my textbook put me to mind of what I always thought Mars would look like. Gran taught me and BJ about the stars and planets when
we sat out on the porch of an evening. Me and BJ liked to make up stories about the folks that live there. I wonder iffen people who live in deserts have green skin like the ad for a movie about Mars I seen in front of a picture show one time. I hope West Virginia don’t turn into a desert. I don’t think I would like having green skin.

After I got home from school today and changed into dry clothes, I pulled back the curtain of the little window beside my bed and watched the rain come down—not raining cats and dogs, as Gran used to say, but soft and gentle, like God let go of the rain from eye droppers. The ground was a thirsty baby, sucking it deep inside as soon as the water touched its lips.

Feeling all alone is like being that thirsty ground. I would drink up the sound of Mama’s voice iffen I could only hear it again. I ain’t heard her soft, gentle voice speaking to me since the day BJ left us. Doc Smythson knocked on the door that day. He was out of breath after running up the hill from where he parked his jeep. When Mama answered the door, he said, “The hospital called me. They’ve been trying to reach me for several hours, but I was out on an emergency case. Is BJ with you?”

“Yes, David. He’s with us,” Mama said. “In his home. With his family. He’s in his room.”

Dr. Smythson ran into BJ’s bedroom. Mama and I followed him. Dr. Smythson sat on the bed beside my brother. “I’m so, so sorry, BJ,” he said. Doc rubbed his hand across BJ’s forehead and smoothed back his hair, just like I had seen Mama do so many times. I can’t remember
ever seeing a growed-up man cry afore, but that day I did.

I also can’t remember Mama ever calling Doc Smythson by his first name afore, but that day, she did it three times. Mama touched his arm and said, “David, I need your help.”

Doc Smythson wiped his eyes and nose with his handkerchief. Then he looked at Mama real gentle-like. “Anything, Sarah, anything at all. The hospital told me they had called the sheriff. Then I called right after. Bob’s a good friend of mine. I’ve told him lots of stories about BJ. Seems the hospital called to inform him that you had taken BJ without permission. The hospital let him know they were trying to get hold of me. Bob decided that this time, the law wasn’t going to be something that he was in a hurry to enforce. He’s giving me some time with you before he comes.”

“The sheriff?” I asked. My heart beat so loud and fast that I was sure they could hear it, too. But they didn’t even look at me.

“I understand. Thank you,” Mama told him. “I need you to take Lydia to William’s house and tell them what’s happened. I don’t want Lydia to be here when the sheriff arrives. Can you do that for me?”

“Are you sure you’ll be okay by yourself?”

“I won’t be alone,” Mama said. Then she turned to me. “Lydia, I need you to stay with Uncle William and Aunt Ethel Mae for a while.”

My eyes got wide. I just lost my brother and now my
mama was sending me away? “Why, Mama? I want to stay here with you,” I pleaded. “Please!” I was sobbing so hard I couldn’t hardly catch my breath.

Mama put her arms around me and held me tight. I circled my arms around her waist like a rope that held her to me. “Lydia, this is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to ask you to do,” she said. “I’m afeared you’re going to have to grow up fast now. Just know that my thoughts will always be touching yours, no matter how much space we have between us. I love you. Don’t never forget that.” She kissed my forehead. Then she pulled my arms from around her waist, and I moved away from her.

Doc Smythson put a hand on my shoulder. “Come on, Lydia. We need to go now,” he said real soft to me. He turned to Mama. “Sarah, I’ll be back as soon as I can. My wife’s sister is visiting, and I’ll bring the two of them with me. We’ll make sure everything’s done to take good care of BJ. I’ll call the sheriff from my house.”

“Thank you, David. I’ll be here waiting with BJ.”

I can’t recollect much about those next couple of days. I think Doc Smythson tried to talk to me about Mama and BJ. I don’t know iffen I ate or slept. I know I cried until my eyes dried up and swelled almost shut. I can still feel how they stung. Uncle William fixed up their little spare room for me. Aunt Ethel Mae put away the clothes Uncle William must have picked up for me. It was like I woke up on the day of BJ’s funeral and an evil magician had waved a wand and set me down in a different place with some furniture and clothes from my old house.

I do recollect the day we buried BJ. I figured it would be like the day Gran died. Just like the sunshine quilt she made for BJ, her day was golden and bright, even iffen it was chilly and dotted with patches of shining snow. I just knowed with the drought that was going on even back last April that God would let it be sunny that day. But that for sure ain’t what happened. It was like God and the whole world cried. The rain remembered me of a sheet blowing on a clothesline that finally broke free from its clothespins, whipped back and forth, and then covered the ground.

I couldn’t understand why the weather had to be so awful. The day was awful enough without all that rain. Instead of having BJ’s funeral in Paradise, we had to have it at Uncle William’s church, with that mean Reverend Sanders. Pastor John came, though. He sat in the back. Him and Doc Smythson.

Gran’s casket had been open and me and BJ each wrote a note to Gran that we put in beside her. We told her how much we loved her and missed her already. Pastor John told funny and wonderful stories about Gran that made us laugh and cry to think about her. Me and Mama and BJ talked about how good the service was and how it made us feel that Gran was right there with us in our hearts.

But Aunt Ethel Mae said no one should ought to have to look at a child in a casket, so the casket was closed afore people walked into the church. I begged Uncle William to let me see BJ one more time so’s I could put his magic train and a letter I wrote next to him.

“Please, Uncle William, you got to let me say good-bye to him. Mama ain’t here to do it.” I felt like crying again, but my tears was all dried up. Aunt Ethel Mae kept harping at him not to take me, but he told me to get into the car. I ran to get the train and my letter, and then we went to the funeral home in Poca. They was getting ready to take BJ to the church, but Uncle William asked them to let me see my brother.

After making us wait a bit, the funeral director led us to a little room. I walked over to the casket and got a shock. BJ looked like a doll instead of a boy. They had put makeup on him. It was okay for Gran to have makeup on for her burying day. She always wore powder, lipstick, and a little bit of rouge to church. But it sure didn’t look right on BJ.

It wasn’t my brother lying there. I thought about him laughing up in Heaven about them making him look like a girl. This was just his remembering place. So I put the magic train and letter in with him. To remember. But I knowed his magic train had already carried him away to Heaven.

We walked inside the church later that day, and people kept coming up and saying how sorry they was. I didn’t even know most of them. I’m real glad they at least had enough sense not to say nothing about Mama, even though they was probably thinking bad things about her.

Reverend Sanders read the obituary from the paper, and then he started ranting and raving about how people
sin and should ought to get theirselves right with the Lord. He never talked none about BJ. He never said how smart and funny he was. He never said how BJ knowed more about God and the Bible and being a Christian than he ever would. To him, my brother was just some words on a piece of paper. To me, he was sunshine and rain all wrapped up in one package. He was my brother, and now he was in a place far away where I could never ever touch him or hear him laugh again.

After Reverend Sanders got done yelling at people, they took my brother out of the church and into a hearse. Uncle William was a pallbearer with some of his friends from work.

Aunt Ethel Mae and me followed the casket down the aisle. When we got to the back of the church, Pastor John stood up and put his arm around my shoulders. “You and your mama are in my thoughts and prayers, Lydia,” he said. I looked up at him and tried to smile my thanks.

I could tell he wanted to say more, but Aunt Ethel Mae real quick said, “Lydia, we need to get to the car.” She grabbed my arm and pulled me away. She sure had enough time to get hugs and gushy words from some of her friends when we got outside, though. Some people told us they was real sorry they couldn’t come to the cemetery, but they didn’t think their cars would make it up the hill in the rain.

As it turned out, it was just the hearse, Uncle William’s car, and Doc Smythson’s jeep that made it up the steep
cemetery hill with that curvy dirt road that had turned to mud. Reverend Sanders rode in the front seat of the hearse. Pastor John rode wth Doc Smythson.