All That Lives (29 page)

Two weeks into the scourge she told me she could no longer devote so many hours to my grooming. The cucumber and okra pickling
was behind schedule, not to mention the cheese making. She bade me braid my hair and tie a silk ribbon on the end, and she
cut near a foot of it off. I tied up the other end and she put it away in her keepsake box, a small consolation to me.

Every moment of our day not absorbed in picking nits, or oiling and combing our hair, we spent boiling pots of water for washing
and disinfecting our living quarters, for they swarmed with the tiny live bugs, especially where the visitors’ pallets lay.
Mother and I scrubbed on our hands and knees alongside Chloe with brushes and rags, until the wood shone with the vinegar
and tea tree oil meant to repel the pests, but the following morning there they would be again, wagging their pincers at us,
as we sopped them into the pails. Like infinitesimal scorpions, they dug into our scalps laying prodigious quantities of eggs,
secured with a glue of life most certainly unequaled in all of nature.

Mother frequently burst into tears, frustrated when her greatest efforts could not produce a cure. The final insult came the
morning she discovered her leather kitchen book infested.

“Chloe, look!” I heard her cry. “These parasites have feasted on the pages where my most prized recipes are recorded!”

“Ah, Miz Lucy, the good Lord put the knowledge in your head and there it is still.” Chloe tried to comfort her as best she
could, but it was awful to see Mother’s face, forced to burn what was left of her precious recipes, as the lice had eaten
them to shreds. The Being did not speak, or give an explanation for the plague it visited on us, preferring to sing songs,
quote passages of Scripture, and make meaningless disparaging remarks, through the long summer. I thought most of its energy
must be used conjuring fresh bugs each day.

It was endless. Pots and cauldrons steamed through the oppressive summer heat, as we boiled the clothes, mixed the oils, scrubbed
and nit picked, day after day, week after week, until nearly the whole summer season had passed. We were prevented from going
to school, or church or even to the store. Messages were carried and provisions dropped at our horse tie, and I began to wonder
if we were the only people left alive on earth, could it feel any different?

Twice I did the washing clad only in my petticoats, I was so certain no one would be about. I stood over the boiling iron
cauldron of hissing cloth and the bare skin of my arms and legs tingled in the hot sun. I could feel the sun burning my skin
to a darker color, but I did not care. I stirred the pot with the long wooden wash paddle and felt my near nakedness in our
yard was in some way truly liberating after so many weeks under the critically watchful eyes of strangers. I found myself
thinking of Josh as the linens boiled. It had been too long since I had seen his handsome face. Without a doubt he had heard
of our lice and had been prevented from calling. As I stirred, my breasts lifted and fell and it seemed to me they had recently
grown a bit larger. Sinful as it was, I amused myself imagining Josh Gardner hiding in the bushes watching me work, admiring
my bare skin and round, lifted bosom.

One afternoon, late in August when I had finished the washing and scouring, Mother took me out on the porch to oil and braid
my hair. It hurt when she plucked the nits and then she pulled it extra tight behind my ears, making a worried clucking sound
with her tongue.

“Listen to the shoals, Betsy. I fear a thunderstorm is brewing.” I sniffed the air for rain, but all I could smell was tea
tree and thyme oil in the soggy humidity, and underneath it the musty smell of blooming tobacco floating over from the fields.

“Hunt down your brothers and fetch them from their fishing hole, for I would have them home.” She patted the tight braid lying
down my back.

“Yes, Mother.” I ducked away from her hand, pleased to be sent on an errand and released from further cleaning.

The day was gray, but hot as the inside of the kettle when it would blow the lid off. I set out slowly, for it was difficult
to move in the thick heat. No one, not even Zeke, was around, not by the stable or the dairy house, and every animal had retreated
to what shade it could find and lay in it, unmoving. All the hogs slept in the shadow of their trough, or in the mud hole
under their tree. The cows were asleep in the pasture, and in the stables even the flies were quiet. The only creature I witnessed
with any energy was a young golden kitten batting at a cobweb on the corner of Father’s tobacco barn.

“Here, kitty, kitty,” I called to her and she came quickly to my hand, allowing me to stroke her soft hot fur. She pulsed
her head against my fingers a moment and her fine whiskers tickled my palm before she darted off, leaving tiny paw prints
in the dust. I turned behind the barn and crossed the field to meet the path down to the stream. Passing under the green canopy
of leaves, I drew a deep breath, and for the first time, I smelled the coming storm. Looking up, I saw the sky had turned
a blackish blue, and I knew I ought to hurry.

I jumped from stone to stone enjoying the cool smoothness of rock hidden in the shade all day. I listened for the boys in
the woods, but heard nothing more than the rush of the water. I knew my brothers would most likely be on the beach where the
stream met the larger river under the cavern. There the water fell over the rocks to make a near thirty-foot pool, perfect
for fishing. It was some distance and I felt as I pushed through the green tangle of leaves the Spirit was with me, helping
the branches to lift and part, but the air gave no bristle, and the Being did not speak. Time seemed melted by the heat of
the day, and though I felt my limbs moving, my destination remained distant. The air did not circulate freely as it usually
did above the rushing river. It hung heavy, viscous and menacing. I trudged on, and on, and then, just as I crested the hill
where I might see the fishing hole spread out beneath, a breathless fear gripped at my throat and a great wind descended so
harsh, the wide green leaves were whipped from the branches and flapped across my eyes. There was a rumble of thunder and
the ground moved beneath my feet as if it were God’s plan to raise me up. I looked above, to the mouth of the cave, set some
seventy-five feet deep into the rock outcrop-ping. Where were my brothers? The rock rose in a sheer cliff near two hundred
feet above the bottom of the riverbed and I felt suddenly dizzy.

“Drewry!” I called out when I saw him, down by the water’s edge, near the giant elm shading the fishing hole under the cavern.

“Betsy!” He turned, but only briefly, and I saw he was struggling with something in the water.

“Sister!” Joel jumped up and down behind Drew and I could not make out what excited him. Thunder cracked the air and I ran
down the path, fighting a gale force that sent branches twirling from the trees.

“Help me! He’s stuck and sinking!” Drewry held Richard’s arms, at the elbows, and the rest of him was disappeared in the red
mud.

Fools! There is not time for this!

The Spirit arrived, along with drops of rain pelting from the sky.

“Help us!” I cried, and Joel joined me begging, “You must help us! Please!”

We had all heard tales of slaves and Indians sucked into whirlpools of quicksand by the Red River, but I had not believed
them until now.

“I’m losing him!” Drewry lost his slippery grip on our brother and Richard’s arms flailed wildly before he was sucked completely
under the mud. I screamed and threw my body down, thrusting my arms into the mud to try and fish him out, as it seemed impossible
he might die before our eyes. Drewry fell beside me, and Joel shrieked in hysterics on the bank.

“Hold to me! See if you can grasp him!” Drew anchored himself to the elm tree on the bank and fastened his fingers to my dress.
I plunged my arms into the mud, but felt no reassuring limbs.

Tell your brother next time, keep his toes from muddy whirlpools.

Again I heard the roar of thunder and lightning flashed about us. To our profound amazement Richard’s body shot out of the
quicksand like a lead ball from a gun. It was clear the Invisible had pulled him out, for there was no other explanation.
He landed roughly at the foot of the elm tree, sputtering and choking with mud in his mouth.

Quick, children, get away!

“Richard, Richard, are you sound?” I scooped lumps of muddy sand from his eyes so he might open them, and his solemn face
reminded me of when he was small. He nodded, clearly too exhausted to speak.

Quick, go now!

The Spirit slapped us with sharp fingers, and pricked our skin with pins, and the rain fell so hard I could not tell if it
was needles or drops of water striking my cheeks.

Move at once!

“We must fetch him home to Mother.” Joel ran to the path and Drewry took up one of Richard’s arms, while I grasped the other.
We carried him between us, stumbling through the hot rain and wind toward the path above the fishing hole.

All at once, there was a CRACK, much louder than any thunder, and we turned to see a flash of white light and the giant elm
struck by a bolt of lightning. It split the tree in two and a plume of black smoke rose into the rain as the trunk smashed
down across the river, solidly covering the quicksand whirlpool forevermore.

“Sister! The Being has saved our lives for certain.” Drewry’s posture froze, looking back at the scene of misadventure. I
adjusted the thin body of Richard against my hip.

“Thank you!” I could not have been more grateful, for Richard’s life spared and all of ours. My heart raced with confusion,
for all had happened more quickly than I could conceive it. Beneath the fast beating in my chest, I felt the real power of
the Spirit, as it demonstrated sway in matters of life and death. I wondered, why did it curse us one day and spare us from
natural disaster on the next? The dark part of my heart supposed we were perpetuated as play toys for the Being. If we were
gone, who would it torture?

“You are not so evil today, mysterious Spirit!” Drewry called into the air, and seeing his face full of relief gave me cause
to think more positively on the subject. Drewry smiled at Richard, muddy, but in one piece, alive. That the Being was capable
of great acts of kindness was a thought I struggled to apprehend. The lightning bolt that caused the tree to fall had left
a putrid sizzle and stink in the air and the smoke filled my eyes, choking my throat, as we struggled through the wind and
hot rain toward home.

That night at dinner we told the story of our rescue to Father and John Jr., while Mother heard it for the second time.

“We’ll have to fetch Polk’s giant tree saw,” was Father’s only remark on the subject.

I suppose you would prefer I let the little darlings die?

The Spirit joined us with this caustic insult to my Father, who threw his spoon down on the table, and stopped eating, though
Chloe had served his favorite mint and summer squash soup.

Why do you not praise me, Jack Bell? It is you who are evil, ignoring me, day after day.

The Spirit took a coy feminine tone with Father and he did not much like it. Without speaking, he withdrew from the table
and I heard him pass through the parlor, removing his flask from his desk, retiring early into his bedroom.

“Pray, we will be eternally grateful for the good deed you have done for us today.” Mother soothed the Spirit and we heard
it sigh, contented.

“Drewry, did you pass your brother Jesse on the road this morning?” Mother’s query was an abrupt change of subject. I knew
Jesse had traveled to Springfield to ascertain the price Father’s tobacco would bring in the coming harvest, but I did not
know Mother was worrying over his welfare, as the journey was not a difficult one and Jesse often made it.

What, Luce? Are you concerned for Jesse?

“Yes, for he has never liked a storm,” Mother answered affirmatively, smoothing her dress on her lap. I saw she still fretted
over her firstborn, though he was a man on his own.