Dorothy Garlock - [Wabash River] (30 page)

“I cain’t abide bein’ shut in, Hester. Open the door.”

Mercy jumped up to obey, then went back to the chair, sat down, and leaned toward the bed. “Do you feel like eating something this morning?”

“No. Hod done give me a swig a whuskey.” She closed her eyes.

Mercy leaned back and looked at her. Her eyes seemed to have sunk in since yesterday, and the bones in her face were more prominent. Her skin, which was white yesterday, had a bluish tinge. Mercy rationalized that it could be from the glow of the lamp, but she knew better. Martha was right; she was sinking. She leaned closer when her mother’s lips moved.

“Hester . . . come home, Will. Ya . . . promised me I’d see her . . . someday. She growed to be a . . . sightly woman . . .”

Tears filled Mercy’s eyes, and she tried to not think about how she had dreaded coming to Kentucky, and wouldn’t have if not for Daniel. She thought of William Baxter, the man who sired her. Because her mother had loved him, he must have been a good man. She sat beside her mother, who appeared to be sleeping, until it was fully daylight. When she went out onto the porch, the men had finished eating and had left the table. The younger brothers were gathered around Hod, who was talking and gesturing with his hands. Martha sat at the table, her baby on her lap. There was no sign of Daniel.

Mercy spooned mush into a bowl, poured herself some tea, and sat down at the table across from Martha.

“Ya want meat?” Martha asked.

“No. But I’ll have some sorghum to go on my mush.” Martha pushed the pitcher toward her. While she ladled out a spoonful of the thick, dark syrup, Mercy said, “She’s worse, isn’t she?”

“I’m thinkin’ she is. Hod ’n’ the boys’ll stay by today.”

“She was talking to Will.”

“It’s somethin’ she does more ’n’ more.”

Mercy ate a few bites. “Where’s Daniel?”

“Hod ask him ta go up ’n’ tell Wyatt ta come. He’s thinkin’ they ort ta be here.”

Lenny went past without looking at them and entered his mother’s room. He was still there when Mercy finished her mush and brought a big dishpan to the table and filled it with the soiled dishes. Bernie brought a bucket of water and sat it on the end of the table. His face was so drawn with worry lines that Mercy could almost forgive him for threatening her with the snake.

One by one the men in the family went to sit with their mother. Daniel, and Wyatt, carrying a small child, came through the woods with Dora and her Sister following. Dora had not made good her threat to send her Sister home at sunup. It might be, Mercy decided, that Hod’s summons had come in time to prevent Wyatt from taking her.

Mercy and Martha cleaned up after the morning meal. Lenny and Bernie moved the hogs out from under the house and drove them into a pen attached to a shed. Mercy wondered why they were not kept there in the first place. Dora sat on the end of the porch, worked the dasher up and down in the tall wooden churn, and watched the children playing quietly under the elm tree. Mercy suspected she was keeping her eye on Emmajean, who sat on a quilt with Dora’s child and Martha’s baby. No one talked much. The whiskey jug sat undisturbed, but the big teakettle was filled and refilled as mugs of tea were consumed.

It wasn’t easy for the men to sit idle. Wyatt sought the shade at the side of the house and squatted on his heels to whittle on a stick with a long knife. The others worked on harnesses they brought from the shed. Daniel continued to work at the woodpile. He had cut several cords of wood during the last two days and shaved a good supply of kindling. Now he sat on a stump, sharpening the ax with a whetstone.

Shortly before noon, Hod came out onto the porch. His shoulders were slumped dejectedly, and his craggy face was drawn with lines of worry. The family knew that what he had to say was not something they wanted to hear. He stood for a moment before he spoke.

“C’mon in. Maw wants ta see us—all a ya.”

Each and every one of them knew in their hearts that this was the moment they dreaded. No one spoke. They got slowly to their feet and filed into the room behind Hod.

Mercy was the last to enter her mother’s room. She had waved to Daniel to come to her, waited for him, grasped his hand, and pulled him along with her. Standing with her brothers in a circle around the bed, she felt for the first time the bond of common kinship. Blood tied them all together and bound them to the small, white-haired woman who lay on the bed gasping for breath. A harsh hand began to squeeze Mercy’s throat dry.

What followed was the stillest stillness Mercy had ever known. There was no sound from the children playing beneath the oak tree, or from the dogs under the porch. Not even a squawk came from the chickens in the yard. For a long while there was no sound except for the ticking of the mantel clock, and the song of a mockingbird in the tree outside the window.

When their mother opened her eyes, she looked long at each of them. A peaceful look settled on her face, and her eyes were clear. When she began to talk, her voice was barely above a whisper, and every ear strained to catch every word.

“Yore . . . Baxters. Yore what . . . me ’n’ Will made. Ya ain’t ne’er ta shame your paw’s name.”

It was difficult for her to talk, and she paused after each word. Her eyes drifted shut, as if it were too much of an effort to hold them open. Hod knelt down beside the bed and placed his big rough hand over hers.

“Hod,” she said with her eyes still closed. “Ya ’n’ Martha move in here. Lenny can go over ta yore place.” There was a long pause. “Wyatt’s got his land. There’s aplenty left fer Bernie ’n’ Gideon . . . when they’re ready to settle. Ya . . . hear me, Hod?”

“Yes, ma’am. I hear ya. Thin’s will be done jist as ya want.”

They all waited in an agony of suspense. Their mother’s fingers were plucking at the bed covers. Finally she opened her eyes and looked at Martha.

“Ya been as good a daughter as ever a woman had, Martha. I want ya ta have my clock . . .”

“I love ya, Maw. Ya don’t need to be givin’ me nothin’.”

“I want to.” Her eyes met Hod’s steadily. “It ain’t my business ta be sayin’ this, but ya be good ta Martha.”

“Yes, ma’am. I will.”

“Dory, ya brought me sunshine ’n’ foolishness, jist as Wyatt said ya would. I got cash money laid back ta buy ya a store-bought dress ’n’ shoes. Ya’ll be purty in ’em. I wish I could see ya . . .”

“Ah . . . Maw.” Dora turned her face to her husband’s shoulder and sobbed.

“Hush yore caterwaulin’, Dorybelle.” The whispered words were a command. “I got thin’s ta say.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Dora said, and sniffed back the tears.

“Will said Lenny was . . . the best shot of any of ya.” There was a long pause while she regained her breath. “He wanted him to have . . . his rifle. Ya take care of it. Hear?”

“I will, Maw.”

“Bernie, ya ain’t the . . . muddlehead they be sayin’ ya are. Ya got a hand with hogs. I done told Hod ta give ya a good start of them hogs, ’n’ help ya fix up a . . . place fer ’em. Will said any fool could make whuskey, but it took . . . special sense to raise hogs.” She closed her eyes wearily.

It seemed to the waiting group that it was a long time before the frail-looking little woman spoke again. All eyes were on her face. Tears rolled from Wyatt’s eyes. He held his wife to him and cried silently. Hod’s face looked as if it were etched in stone, as did Lenny’s. Bernie bit his lips and gripped his hands together as tears ran down his cheeks. For once Gideon was not preening and smiling. He stood with his arms folded across his chest, his head down. He lifted his head when his mother spoke his name.

“Gideon?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I fear I spoilt ya rotten, son. Ya . . . was purty as any girl baby I ever saw, ’n’ my last youngun. I want . . . ya to be payin’ heed to Wyatt ’n’ Hod. If’n ya ain’t careful, ya’ll fiddle yore life away on fast women ’n’ tomfoolery.”

“I . . . won’t, Maw.”

“Don’t ya be promisin’ what . . . ya can’t keep, son. If’n ya got to see what’s beyond . . . the hills, go.” She drew rasping breaths in through her open mouth. “Come back. These hills be yore home. Ya liked yore paw’s squeeze box when ya was a tad. Ya danced ’n’ sung like a bird when he played. Take it, keep it fer yore younguns.”

“I’ll take care of it.” Tears streamed down Gideon’s cheeks, but he spoke without a trace of them in his voice.

Mercy held tightly to Daniel’s hand when her mother turned her eyes on her. And then Mrs. Baxter’s breath choked her. She gasped, then lay quietly for a long space of time before she spoke.

“I had my heart set on seein’ ya . . . afore I passed on. I owe it ta Lenny ’n’ Bernie fer fetchin’ ya.” She paused and took several shallow breaths. “I ain’t a bit put out with what ya are, Hester. Yore a fine woman ’n’ ya . . . make me plumb proud.”

“I’m not . . . disappointed in you, either, Mamma.”

“Ya ain’t needin’ nothin’ here. Ya got a good man who’s got love for ya like my Will had for me. That’s worth a heap more’n gold. Carry her back ta Illinois, Dan’l. Take care of her ’n’ give her a parcel a younguns ta do fer. A . . . woman ain’t much without . . . younguns.”

“I’ll do that, ma’am.”

“Hod? Where’s Hod?”

“I’m here, Maw.”

“I want Hester ta . . . have yore paw’s death crown, Hod.”

“All right, Maw.”

“Ya carry it home with ya, Hester. It’s somethin’ yore paw left behind when he was took.” Her eyes had closed, her voice fading until the last word came out on a breath.

The family stood around the bed, their eyes on their mother’s face. She rolled her head on the pillow ever so slightly, and her mouth worked. She seemed to be talking, but no words came out. After what seemed an awfully long time she opened her eyes again. They went to the door, as if she could see beyond and, seeing, nodded her head slowly. Her lips curved in a slight smile. She looked back at her children

“I ain’t wantin’ ya ta be cryin’ ’n’ carryin’ on. Hear me now?”

Even lying on her deathbed, she was still in charge. Mercy wondered if in facing death she could be so strong. Her mother was worn and weary, but she was not defeated. She had married her man and borne him as many children as God had seen fit to give them. She had buried some of them and commanded obedience from those who lived. Her life must have been hard, but she had had the love of her husband and the love and respect of her children to sustain her through years of toil and grief.

“Give yore maw a last kiss,” she commanded in a voice that was somewhat stronger.

No protest and no sounds of weeping came from the big men. With tears streaming down their weathered cheeks they filed past the bed, bent, and placed a kiss on their mother’s brow. After the men, Mercy went to the head of the bed and kissed her mother, then back to take Daniel’s hand and follow the Baxter brothers to the porch.

*   *   *

The day wore on. It seemed to Mercy an awfully long time since morning. She helped Martha put food on the table. The family, worn out with grief and worry, didn’t eat much, but everyone made a show of swallowing a few bites. They conversed in low voices when it was necessary to speak. First one, and then another, sat in the hickory rocker beside the bed and watched as their mother’s head moved restlessly on the pillow and the slow, gasping breaths went in and out of her open mouth.

The sun was almost at the crest of the hills to the west. The day’s last ray of sunshine came through the doorway and made a path across the floor. Mercy, alone with her mother, suddenly realized that her eyes had opened and she was looking at her. She leaned close to the bed.

“Mamma? Do you want something?”

“Take my hand, Will.”

The words were clearly spoken, and then her lids fluttered closed. Mercy watched and waited anxiously. After a moment one side of her mother’s face pulled down, as if drawn by an invisible hand. The thin hand on the bed at her side twitched, then stopped. Panic, sudden and acute, knifed through Mercy. She hurried to the door.

“Martha! Hod! Everyone!”

The family filed in quickly and stood around the bed. Hod knelt on the floor beside his mother and held her hand. Her labored breathing sounded like sobbing grief. The rest of the family stood helplessly, quietly, and waited for it to stop. Gideon started for the door, as if the waiting were more than he could bear. Wyatt’s hand, on his arm, stopped him and held him at his side. The sun passed beyond the hills, and the streak of sunlight vanished from the floor.

And then it stopped. The sobbing, gasping, dragging sound stopped. No one moved. The tall, rough men and the three white-faced women stood as still as stones, waiting for the hand on the bed to move, or an eyelid to flicker. Time went by. Slowly they accepted the fact that what had happened would not be altered or undone. The hand that had wiped their noses and soothed their fevered brows had moved for the last time. The eyelids over the blue, laughing, all-knowing eyes were closed forever. Their hurt was real, their grief deep, and it pressed down upon them.

It occurred to Mercy that this was the way death comes. You are breathing air into your body, pushing it out again. You are real, warm, and living. You eat, sleep, laugh, love, and feel pain. Then, when the breathing stops, you are nothing. The world still turns. The sun comes up in the morning, the moon at night. The stars are still bright, the rain falls, the flowers grow, and the seasons change. But you, who have been living, producing the next generation, are nothing.

Daniel’s hands slipped from her shoulders and went around her, pulling her back against him. Gratefully she leaned on his strength. This was the closest she had been to death, and the awful finality of it was like a tight hand at her throat.

*   *   *

Quietly the family went about doing what had to be done as if it had all been rehearsed. Hod took charge as was expected. Lenny would go to the still to tend to the mash they had neglected for several days. Hod sent Gideon in one direction and Bernie in another, to notify the neighbors. Wyatt would go to Coon Hollow to fetch the minister. Daniel saddled his big buckskin and brought it to the front of the house when Wyatt was ready to leave. Wyatt pressed his shoulder gratefully and rode away from the homestead.