The Sisters from Hardscrabble Bay (4 page)

“Holy Mother of God!” Mrs. Jaegel was standing over her, trying to lift her. “Come, child. Come on out from there.” Idella clung to the bench, her fingers grinding into the rough grain of the wood. “Get her upstairs. Dear God, let’s get the child upstairs.”

“Della, honey, Della, hang on to me now. Let Mrs. Pettigrew get ahold of you.” Mrs. Pettigrew was picking at her, poking at the back of Idella’s neck, grabbing at her wrists.

“What’s going on?” It was the doctor’s voice, dark and low. “Poor child. Let me help. How long has this child been here?”

“We just found her. She’s been hiding.”

Idella felt the doctor’s large hands take hold of her shoulders. He lifted her out and up into his arms with a strength she could not resist. He smelled of something strong and burning. “No!” Idella cried. “No, no, no! Let go of me!” She beat her fists against his shoulders.

“This child is hysterical. Let me give her something to calm her.”

“No!” Idella was wild. She thrashed and tried to escape. “No pills! No pills!”

“I’ll take her.” It was Dad, suddenly standing in front of them. Idella reached for him and grabbed him and pulled herself over into his arms. Dad lifted her chin and looked down at her. His face was tired and loose and strange. “Come, Della, come sit with me.” He carried her over to a kitchen chair and sat with her on his lap. He put his hand on the back of her head and stroked her hair. Idella rubbed her face against his red woolen shirt, feeling its worn softness. She grabbed onto the front with both her hands and pulled it to her. It smelled of the barn, of hay and the horses.

“Now, now,” Dad said, his hand taking up the whole back of her head, gently, like it was a teacup, and pressing her softly up against him. “She’s better off, Della.” He whispered it. “Your mother is better off away from here.”

“I want to go with her,” Idella sobbed.

“Me, too,” Dad whispered. “I want to go with her, too.”

 

All the rest of the day, the girls got put in one place or another, herded upstairs and downstairs, then up again. Different people, Mrs. Pettigrew or Mrs. Doncaster mostly, announced what they thought would be best. The girls obeyed, sitting quietly out of the way, on chairs pushed back against the kitchen wall, allowing neighbors—who started showing up as word got out and spread through the farms—to kiss their cheeks, to take their hands, to pat them on the head and say how sorry they were. They were told to be brave, what their mother would and wouldn’t have wanted them to do. They were told to help their dad.

The girls nodded shyly to everything and kept their eyes on the bedroom door, where Mother was being tended to by a small, dark-dressed man named Mr. Beeny. He’d come out from town in late afternoon, sent on by the doctor. He’d come alone in a black wagon with a long wooden box behind him for a load. Dad had flared up as soon as they’d started to unload it. “Goddamn, I wanted green oak. Take the damned thing back and bring me what I wanted. I won’t have her lying in some plain pine box.” Idella could hear the slow, deliberate voice of the undertaker talking to Dad, and the voices of the other men gathered round. In the end Mr. Beeny had come in, nodding without words to the women, and passed directly into the bedroom.

Uncle Sam took off in Mr. Beeny’s wagon, promising Dad he’d bring him what he wanted, what Emma deserved. Idella watched Dad’s brother riding high up on the seat. He was riding out with that pine box a lot faster than it had arrived with Mr. Beeny.

While the undertaker was in there with Mother, Idella kept wondering what he might be doing, what was in the black bag, and what it could mean to take her under. She kept a watch on the door, in case he set about to take her anywhere.

Toward evening Mrs. Pettigrew came over to where they were sitting. “Such sad little faces, such poor little things. Come, my dears, I’ll help you up to bed. You’ve been watching what no children should ever have to see.” She pulled Idella and Avis to their feet and ushered them up the stairs.

“Idella, you’ve got to eat a little something. You know your mumma would want you girls to eat.” Idella shook her head no and lay down. How did
she
know what Mother would want? She just lived down the road, was all. Idella put the blanket over her head and curled up under it.

“I’m going to put some corn bread Mrs. Adams baked right here on the dresser.” Mrs. Pettigrew was tapping her shoulder, her fingers picking through the blanket like bird’s feet. “Della, honey, you eat something. You’re the oldest. You show your sister what’s best.”

Idella closed her eyes. She had kept inside her the secret—that the doctor gave Mother the wrong pills and then threw them into the fire. The secret was balled up so tight inside her it was like she’d swallowed a stone.

Avis was crying in the corner. Idella could hear her ragged, sniffled breathing. I don’t have the strength to comfort her, she thought. I just don’t. She felt her moist breath push back into her face beneath the blanket. Mother’s breath had stopped. Idella blinked, feeling the soft scrape of her lashes against the blanket, then pressed her eyes closed. Against her will to see and hear everything, she fell into a long and tangled sleep that took her right into the next day.

 

She woke early to the sounds of other people moving about the kitchen. She lay quietly, not knowing how to start up into this terrible day. Mother was going to be buried in the ground. Idella heard footsteps coming up the stairs. Mrs. Pettigrew stuck her head in.

“Why, Della, dear, how long have you been awake? Let’s get you dressed. People will be arriving soon.”

Idella numbly submitted as Mrs. Pettigrew fussed and fiddled, combing her hair into braids. Idella knew to put on her best dress. Her only shoes would have to do. Avis was awake now, watching silently from the bed.

“You should be bathed proper, but there’s no time nor place for it. You go on downstairs now, sweetheart, and have some breakfast. I’ll get your sister ready.”

Slowly, cautiously, Idella went down the stairs. The kitchen felt strange and quiet. Baskets of food covered the table. Neighbor women were in the bedroom with Mother, shuffling and moving about.

Idella stood in front of the closed door and looked through the keyhole. She could see Mother lying on the bed. But her feet were on the wrong end. Her head was at the foot. Her long hair was combed out over the end of the bed and hung all the way to the floor. That’s all she could see, her chestnut-colored hair touching the floor and a little bit of a lacy sleeve from Mother’s blouse. Her arm was hanging down.

Idella knocked softly on the door. Mrs. Doncaster opened it a crack. “Oh, Della, honey, she’s not ready yet. We’ll let you see her when she’s all ready. We’re waiting on your aunt Francie to do up her hair. You get yourself something to eat now. Your dad will bring you to see her when it’s time.” Then the door softly closed.

Alone in the kitchen, Idella chose a chair, pushed it against the wall, and sat, her hands in her lap, waiting. Dad came quietly in. Without seeing Idella, he walked into Mother’s pantry off of the kitchen. Idella watched him slowly run his fingers over surfaces, touching things.

Everything in it was Mother’s doing: the rows of jars and barrels, the special teacups carefully wrapped, the Sunday tablecloth ironed and folded square. Mother’s jar of honey was in there on a high shelf. Dad had bought it for her from a man who kept his own bees. “Wild clover honey,” Dad said when he gave it to her, and she laughed like he’d made a joke and hugged him. Mother would take whole spoonfuls of the honey, lapping them slowly off the spoon, while she sat in her chair under the window and looked out at the field.

Now Dad stood looking out that pantry window for a long time. Then he turned away and saw the laundry basket that had been sitting, untouched, for two days. He looked up and saw Idella watching him. He came over and bent down. “Have you got enough dresses?” He looked so serious and worried. “Do you girls have enough dresses?” Idella nodded. She’d have said yes to whatever he asked of her. “Good.”

Avis came down with Mrs. Pettigrew, dressed, combed, and silent. She sat next to Idella up against the wall.

Dalton came in from outside. He stood in front of the closed bedroom door, his arms pressed straight to his sides. Dad came up behind him, opened the door for him, and spoke to the women. “Let him see her alone for a while.” They nodded and swept from the room. Dalton spent a long time alone in the bedroom with Mother. No one said a word. When the bedroom door opened, he walked straight out with his head bent down. So people can’t see his face, Idella thought. She saw that his fingers were curled tight into his hands. He walked through the kitchen and out the door.

Neighbors arrived all morning, a constant flow, bringing food in covered bundles, like they were coming to a dance. Only they were so sad, so stunned, so shocked. Over and over, Idella heard people whispering how healthy Mother’d been, how strong, how easy that baby’d come.

Horses and wagons were all about the yard. Idella had never seen so many people in their house. Dalton had been sent more than once to the train station to pick up more people.

When each of Mother’s sisters came—Aunt Martha, Aunt Linda, Aunt Ida, Aunt May, and finally Aunt Francie—there was crying and hugging all over again, like a storm passing through the house. Then it’d die down to whispers and women holding on quietly to each other, not saying much.

The whole time the two sisters kept their hands in their laps, staring out at the terrible comings and goings, afraid to speak even to each other.

Idella watched Mrs. Pettigrew pulling women into the corner of the kitchen and whispering. Idella knew it was about those pills.

“Nothing on this God’s earth can change it.”

“Not a thing.”

“And what help would it be to Bill? What help to send him tearing off into town after the doctor?”

“None.”

“And then what would become of his girls?”

“Lord knows as it is.”

Idella could feel the eyes of the women on both of them as she stared down at the tangle her hands made in her lap.

Dad wandered about the house. People let him be. He’d sit, then stand, then go into the bedroom to be alone with mother, causing the women who were tending her to come rushing out like spooked chickens. Finally he walked out of the house and headed for the barn. Everyone watched him go. Mrs. Pettigrew said she hoped he wasn’t doing anything foolish, anything he’d regret, anything to do with whiskey. Idella hoped that, too.

 

When Aunt Francie came out of the bedroom and gave a nod, Dad hadn’t returned. Idella watched as people started to file quietly into the bedroom. The men held their hats in their hands; the women clutched their shawls around them as if they were going into a cold place. Idella was afraid to get up. Mrs. Doncaster said Dad would take them in, but he wasn’t back yet. She could see Avis looking over at her. She really wanted for all the people to leave. She wanted Mother to be alone with her girls, even the baby, like they’d been that one time.

Suddenly Dad was standing in the middle of the kitchen wearing his suit. His hair was slicked and combed, and he was freshly shaved. He was handsome. He beckoned to Idella. She could smell the soap still on his cheeks when he bent down to whisper. “You look pretty, Della. You do.” She could tell by his way that he wasn’t drunk. Crouching, he reached open his arms. “Where’s my girl?” Avis came running up to him. Dad’s arms closed around her, and Avis pressed her head against his shoulder. She was like a puppy, Idella thought, while she herself felt stiff and awkward standing in the crook of his arm. She was too tall to fit right against him.

“It’s time to say good-bye to your mother.” Dad’s voice was serious and low. “I don’t want you girls at the cemetery. You see her here in her home, where she looks so beautiful. You remember her that way.”

None of the adults said a word. The men that weren’t already out there stepped onto the porch. Idella could hear them clumping their boots on the steps, waiting. She could feel their discomfort. The women seemed to push back against the walls like pillows, soft and quiet as goose down in their church dresses.

Dad stood, Avis still clinging to him, and turned. “Francie, we’ll each take a girl in, one by one. Della, you’re older. You wait and come with me.”

“Come, Avis, sweetheart, come with Francie.”

Idella stood and waited beside Dad. Her hands were wet. She rubbed them in the folds of her dress. Aunt Francie was saying something to Avis; she could hear through the bedroom door. There was no other talking.

Idella knew that as long as she was waiting, as long as the door was closed, it was
before.
There was still time for her to be with Mother. But once the box was shut, there would be no more time to see her mouth or her hair or even her hands. Idella wanted it to be
before
forever. But the door finally opened, and Avis came out with Aunt Francie. Her face was red and splotched. She went right up to Dad. “I want to go to the cemetery. I want to go, too.”

“No, Avis.” Dad’s voice was firm. “You stay here with your sister.”

“I won’t!” Avis cried. “I won’t stay stuffed in the house!” She yanked her hand from Aunt Francie’s grasp and ran to the front door. “She’s not sleeping!” She raced out into the yard, past all the horses and people waiting for the procession to the cemetery. “She’s not sleeping!” she yelled, heading out toward the pastures. “She’s dead!”

Everyone stood silent. Then Dad took a step toward the door. “Leave her be, Bill.” Mrs. Doncaster put a hand on his shoulder. “She’s been cooped up with all of this for too long. Let her run off now by herself.”

Dad nodded. “She’s a Hillock, that one.” He turned to Idella. “Come now, Della. Come with me.” He reached down and took her hand. They stepped cautiously into the bedroom.

There was Mother, in the box. Idella stepped close, feeling the edge of the bed against her legs. Mother’s eyes were closed. Her head was on a little pillow all rimmed with lace. Aunt Francie had done her hair up beautifully. She’d put a black velvet twist of ribbon in it and let it fall soft and shiny beside her pale face. All around the edges of her hair, like an angel’s halo, there were tiny white mayflowers. Someone had found some, maybe the same ones as for the May basket, and Francie’d placed them carefully.