All That Lives (13 page)

“It won’t hurt her, Lucy, and the source of the ailment need not be known before a cure is attempted.” Old Kate was disappointed
and frowned stubbornly, pretending to know the right course of action. “Regardless, a cup of tea would go down well with me,
for I am inclined to spread my skirt. It is a long walk here. Might you have a new donation for my scrap collection?” Her
usual self-interested manner returned and I wished heartily she had not bothered to make the journey.

My head was heavy with mean thoughts and I ran back to renew my position on the swing while Mother led Old Kate inside. Only
moments before, I’d been happy, appreciating God’s good nature, but even as I pushed my legs forward and back again, I could
not regain my previous mood. My mind was darkened by Old Kate’s demon ideas. I heard a single set of boots clopping down the
porch steps and I knew before turning it was Father. He approached me from behind and stroked my still damp hair as though
it were fine silk from China.

“Darling daughter, that Mrs. Batts has come to speak her blasphemy about our house again, and your dear mother has invited
her inside.” It was rare for Father to complain to me, and I took a risk confiding to him.

“She has brought some potion made of African herbs traded off a slave to rid me of my
demons.
Please, Father, don’t let Mother dose me with Old Kate’s mixtures!” I looked up, imploring him to take my side and I saw
his eyes were bright and attentive, holding my own.

“You will not drink of it!” he responded, frowning.

“I am pleased to hear you say so, Father, for I do not
wish
to drink of it.”

“With the likes of Mrs. Batts, the Reverend was correct in his advice; Job must be our teacher. The congregation of hypocrites
shall be desolate, they conceive mischief and bring forth vanity. Their belly prepareth deceit.” Father had been diligent
in his reading of the text. I noticed the skin of his cheek was taut and drawn and the curly dark hairs of his eyebrows were
not brushed into place but stood out wildly. He caressed my cheek with the back of his hand and delicately held my chin, smiling
how very much he loved me. He bent at the waist and whispered in my ear, “Would you like a push, Miss Betsy?” From over my
shoulder I saw the boys and Martha and Jesse clattering down the porch steps.

“Oh, yes please!” I answered, happy again, strengthened by my private moment with him. I wrapped my fingers tight around the
rope. When Father pushed, he generally spared no effort, pushing high as the swing would go. I delighted in the rush of falling
backward, for when I was not being thrown to the floor, it was a wonderful sensation. When John Jr. or Jesse pushed, they
never gave their all, afraid of the trouble they would catch if I were hurt, but Father had no fear of anyone and he pushed
with all his might.

“Higher, Father! Higher!” I cried, thinking of the many carefree times he had pushed me this way, tickling my waist, sending
me out over the hill. Would there be many more? I wished I could return to those happier days, and not face whatever tortures
lay before me, but I was old enough to know wishing could not make it so.

“My turn! My turn! I want a turn, sister!” Joel jumped up and down, impatient, on the large roots of the pear tree, and Father
grasped my waist and slowed me down, so I could give it over.

“Come, Betsy,” Martha reached for my hand. “Mother says we can tailor that dress for you now, if you like. We will spend the
night again here and I brought none of my own sewing, so you must allow me to busy my needle.” Martha was smiling and kind
and I felt as if she were my own elder sister.

We hurried up to my bedroom and I stood near the window with my arms straight out at my sides while Martha began folding and
pinning my hem.

“Did you know, Martha, near the time our troubles began, I became a young woman,” I shyly told her my news.

“Well, Miss Betsy! Now you will fall in love, for now the fig tree putteth forth her green figs, and the vines with the tender
grape give a good smell!” She laughed sweetly, quoting the Scripture.

“Oh no, I know no one,” I objected, but immediately I thought of Josh Gardner’s profile, bent over his lessons, and I felt
my cheeks grow hot.

“Oh yes you do, Betsy Bell! I can see you already have a love in mind.”

“No, honestly,” I protested.

Martha moved around to pin the back side of the dress and I was glad she could no longer see my face. “Oh Betsy, the joys
of womanhood are immensely pleasurable.” She went on to describe aspects of becoming a woman I had never imagined. My thoughts
stayed on Josh Gardner as I recalled the sound of my name on his tongue and I was well distracted from my darker concerns.

At dusk when the Reverend arrived, we discovered he had left Mrs. Johnston at home, but had brought with him the new Methodist
preacher, Calvin Justice, from the growing settlement at Cedar Hill.

“Hello, Betsy Bell.” Calvin Justice smiled and removed his hat to me as I descended the stairs. He had a healthy shock of
chestnut-colored hair without a line of gray and his beard was solid and dark. He seemed much too young to be a man of God,
but then, the Reverend Johnston was my only comparison.

“I’ve heard much about you and your sad troubles.” He reached for my hand and I was embarrassed. I wondered if all Methodists
were so very forward.

“Preacher Justice has come to stand with us this evening to help us pray, for in the eyes of the Lord we must be as one,”
Reverend Johnston said, following Calvin Justice into our parlor.

“Attendance in all houses of the Lord has greatly risen as news of your troubles has traveled the district, Mr. Bell.” Calvin
Justice made a friendly joke, and I saw Reverend Johnston look to Father for his response, but Father was not forthcoming.
He had taken a ride on the land while Kate Batts visited and on returning he’d complained again of something twiglike stuck
in his throat that prevented him from swallowing. He had not joined us at the table during dinner, but stayed in his chair
at his desk reading the good book, then writing in his book of accounts under the light of the lamp. He was there still, his
face grim and his jaw tight. He gave an unenthusiastic nod of welcome to the new preacher.

“I believe tonight our troubles will be less,” Mother told the Reverend, and I wondered if she was thinking back to the quiet
night we’d had the last time Father felt unwell. She was very much concerned with Father’s illness and she stayed near to
him, looking often to see if he had drunk the tea she’d placed by his side. “Certainly with two such dignified men of God
in our home,” she encouraged Calvin Justice to settle in her own chair, “the Lord will favor us.”

“There is much of Heaven and earth too advanced for our simple minds to comprehend. We must pray together,” Calvin Justice
said with great assurance and I felt immediately he was a man born to his calling. “Each chapter and verse in the good book
is one I dearly love to read, so I am honored to take your request, Mrs. Bell.”

“Jack and I had discussed a section of Hebrews eleven, on great heroes of the faith, for here we must emulate such men.” Mother
smoothed her skirt as she spoke. Calvin Justice found the page of her suggestion quickly and began to read in a clear church
voice, commanding everyone’s attention. I was sitting on a pillow of my skirts, on the rug, with the boys and Drewry beside
me, while Martha and Jesse occupied the bench behind us. I leaned back against Martha’s knees cushioned by her skirts and
I closed my eyes as the list of the great heroes went on and on. I must have dozed a short time, for abruptly Martha was gripping
my shoulders with tight fingers.

“Do you hear that, Betsy?” she whispered in my ear.

I listened and heard a soft rattling that turned our parlor into a field of thistles fraught with a winter wind, but there
was a cadence to it like speech, as if inside the wind someone was talking in complicated tongues.

“What is it?” Everyone held their breath to hear it better and it evolved into the whistling we had heard the night before.

“If you can whistle, can you communicate with us?” The Reverend withdrew a piece of parchment from his pocket and we heard
all at once a great knocking on the walls and doors.

“Sit down, Jack.” I saw Father attempting to rise and speak but Mother held restraining arms on his shoulders, and tried to
deliver his message herself.

“What say you, Reverend Johnston, what is your intention here?” She gestured to the piece of parchment unfolding from his
Bible.

“Lucy, I believe this force may be intelligent and I have brought some questions, written down to keep my mind on my purpose.
I have given the matter a great deal of thought and I believe we must try to communicate with this phenomenon if we are ever
to be rid of it.”

Mother was silent, considering.

“There are many mysteries in God’s plan for each of us, Mrs. Bell. Our work is to bear up under what hardships He imposes,”
Calvin Justice said, supporting the Reverend. His lithe form was taut with attention and I felt he must have had a hand in
crafting this approach. The whistling intensified so there was no sound but it, piercing and shrill. I covered my ears and
prayed my head would not burst, for the noise was truly painful. I shut my eyes and huddled against Martha’s knees, expecting
the worst.

“We wish to know your meaning here, for we believe you can communicate!”

As if in answer, a violent shuddering split the air, ending with a thud, then silence. We took our hands away from our heads
and looked about, seeing only ourselves, frightened. The Reverend held his parchment to the lamp and persisted. “If you can
hear us, give us a sign.” I saw Father squirm in his chair. He made a sound as if he meant to speak but could not, the speech
died in his throat and then the clear bell of a
taptap,
like metal on glass, sounded against the parlor window.

“Good, good!”

“With all respect, this appears not so very good, Reverend,” John Jr. voiced what I was certain Father was thinking.

“How many people are here in this room?” The Reverend ignored my brother and gripped his parchment more tightly, for his shaking
hand made the light flicker on the wall.

Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap,
came steadily with clear pauses in between, a rap for each person present. It was plain the phenomenon had answered. Martha
bent and gripped my hand in hers.

“It understands!” she whispered into the shocked silence.

“How is it possible …” Jesse shook his head in disbelief and looked across the room to Father, listening intently.

“If you can understand us, tell us, who are you? Why are you here?” The Reverend was excited with his success and he stepped
to the center of the room, waving his arms, gesturing to the “here” of which he spoke.

“Wait, John …” Calvin Justice rose and meant to speak, but before he could, the sound of the whistling wind commenced again,
voracious in our ears, and above it we heard the sound of numerous slaps and blows. The Reverend Johnston flinched with pain
as he was struck. I dropped Martha’s hand attempting to cover my head. Fingers cold and hard as winter icicles stabbed at
my hair and tore it from my braid. I shielded my face with my elbows and drew my knees up to my chin, protecting myself as
best I could.

“BE GONE from this good home, you evil being!” Calvin Justice crossed the room and laid his strong hands on the Reverend’s
thrashing shoulders, attempting to steady him and perhaps wrestle his invisible foe. His countenance was pure passion for
righteousness and through a crack in my shield of elbows I saw Father attentive to his ways and means.

We heard the
clap
of a hand and the roomful of persons groaned in unison as Calvin Justice did recoil. The red mark of fingers slowly appeared
where his face had been struck and we were all saddened, for Calvin Justice had seemed, however briefly, a possible worthy
opponent for our evil affliction. He did not cry out, but put his hands to his face in disbelief. He reached into the air
as though groping in total darkness and I watched the white cuffs of his shirtsleeves grasping nothing.

“Where are you that would strike me down? Return that I might feel your hand and shake it in peace before the Lord.” I felt
a jerk on my hair and I was thrown to the floor at the preacher’s feet.

“Torture this innocent no longer. Forgive us and return from whence you came!” Mother left Father’s side immediately and came
to me, crying her prayer in earnest. The whistling ceased but the sound of the wind, rattling thistle heads, returned. We
froze to listen and within it heard a dangling metal noise, like the bell of the church being carelessly cleaned,
scrape, screek, scrape, screek.
It was not completely unmusical and I listened carefully, thinking I heard a conversation buried in it. It died away and
the wind went with it slowly, until there was only the Reverend’s hard breathing and our own general sighs of relief and amazement.
For certain whatever it was had gone from us, at least for the moment.