All That Lives (40 page)

“Please, Father, please! Rest quiet!” I could not make sense of his struggle.

Frantic with annoyance, he thrust his arm in spasm toward the parlor and I suddenly understood he wanted his silver flask
and book of accounts. I left to get it, relieved to escape, if only for a moment, Father’s extreme suffering. I ran across
the parlor and grasped the walnut knob of his desk and pulled it, seeing Father’s things carefully arranged inside. I thought
what a sacred place his desk was, as I reached for the leather book, his quill pen and the bottle of ink. Without thought
I lifted the silver flask and unscrewed the top, smelling the sour brew inside. The silky feel of the metal in the palm of
my hand was comforting but I was worried, would he never drink from it again?

He was breathing regularly and his hands lay relaxed on the quilts when I returned. He managed to jerk his head forward in
what I took to be a nod, acknowledging I had done right to fetch the book and flask. He tilted his head back and opened his
mouth, and knowing what he wanted, I poured the whiskey in. I looked over my shoulder anxiously while I did it, for I did
not know what Mother would make of this, but I could hear her still busy in the kitchen. Father jerked his neck forward and
closed his mouth, but the whiskey ran from the sides of it, as if he could not swallow.

“Here, I will wipe it away.” I used the sleeve of my dress and set the silver flask inside the pocket of my smock. He jerked
his head again, this time toward the book of accounts, indicating he desired to write in it. I opened up the book where it
was marked with a red silk ribbon on the last page where he had made an entry. Along the parchment he had drawn many lines,
and columns of numbers stretched across the page. All the running of the farm was documented there, from the number of slaves
and livestock and their cost, to the hogsheads of tobacco harvested and the price they brought at market. There were also
annotations regarding the weather and what-not in the margins. I did not try to read it. Father twisted his neck the other
direction and I understood he desired I should turn the page. I did so, but thought he must be mistaken to want a clean new
sheet,without lines or marks of any kind. Summoning all his strength, Father held the quill and I hurried to open the ink
jar, realizing he meant to write something down. I tried to prevent drops of ink from falling onto his quilts, but he seemed
wholly unconcerned, focused as he was on wielding the pen. His letters slid across the page, much larger than normal and not
easily discernible. When he finished he dropped the quill into the open book and pushed it away, toward me, so I could read
what he’d recorded.

I was about to tell him, yes, of course, I forgive you, only the Spirit spoke before me in a windy hiss.

Unspeakable.

A large stone, near the size of the river rocks that lined the front path, smashed down to the floor by the doorway. I jumped
from the bed and stood with the book clasped to my chest, the bottle of ink balanced in my hand. The Spirit screamed into
the silence.

Unspeakable, Jack Bell! Unspeakable.

“Go away, you wretched Being!” My anger surpassed my fear and Mother hurried into the room to hear it answer.

There will be no more of breathing in this house!

Despite the many instances of terror I had survived, the full hate and malice of the evil creature had never been so frightful
to me. It was as if the Devil himself had spoken. Mother and I sucked in our breath, horrified, and Father too gasped, and
then seemed unable to recover. He choked and coughed and the bones of his brow stood out as if his brain was swelling with
the pain. Bits of white mucuslike material rolled off his tongue, thick and hanging from his tense jaw. Mother rushed to him,
and holding his head back and his mouth open, she dropped Dr. Hopson’s tinctures down his throat. In a moment he seemed to
breathe again.

“Drink this, Jack,” she said as she held the cup of valerian tea she had brought to his lips, and Father managed a sip.

It will be no use. I will kill him.

The Spirit spoke softly and calmly and Father closed his eyes. We watched in silence as he appeared to fall asleep. Mother
sat beside him on the bed and lay her hand across his forehead, smoothing back his hair. He breathed an easy breath and so
did I to see him peaceful. I felt inclined to leave Mother to comfort him, for I needed to return Father’s book to his desk.
Backing out discreetly, so as not to disturb, I forgot about the rock in the entrance, and stumbled, spilling ink directly
down the center of the open book in my hand. I had neglected to shut it, but did so quickly in an attempt to prevent the ink
from spilling to the floor. Mother glanced at me, but did not appear aware of the importance of the book, or my error. Her
only concern was that I not wake Father. I felt suddenly light-headed and dizzy, as if I might faint, and I wondered, did
the Spirit mean to strike my head into that rock?

I turned and walked with great speed to Father’s desk, where I opened the leaf and set everything down in a jumbled pile.
I took the flask out of my pocket and hurried to the kitchen to get a rag to wipe the edges of the ink bottle clean, for my
fingers and the lowest feathers of Father’s quill were already stained to black, and I wished not to spread the mess further.
I opened Father’s book at the desk to inspect what damage I had caused, and I discovered the red ribbon had been shut halfway
in. It wagged at me, half red, half black, like the Devil’s tongue. The words Father had written were completely obliterated
and a black stain spread across the page where they had been, reminding me of the black stain on the snow under Father’s skeleton.
I ripped the page from the book, crumpled it into a ball, and threw it without thought into the fire at the hearth.

Betsy Bell. Unspeakable.

The spirit whispered softly in my ear, making the hissing sound I associated with its departure. My eyes were fixed to the
satin ribbon. Ought I to leave it stained but whole, a horrible reminder of the havoc wreaked by evil, or should I cut it
out completely and hope its absence was no reminder of the same? Before I could decide, the front door opened and I heard
the boys in the hall. “There is another storm brewing in the north,” Drewry said, stamping his boots, “and it looks to be
worse than the last.” I shut the book and the leaf of the desk, and thought I would return to it later when my head had cleared.

I went to my room and sat in the rocker Father and John Jr. had made for me. I wished my brother was present to spend the
day in silent meditation and prayer for Father’s recovery. I worried Father might die and never see John Jr. on this earth
again. And what of Jesse and Martha and Frank Miles, who was like Father’s own brother? I refused to believe it was possible.
I looked out my window and saw the flakes of snow fell thick as swirls of eiderdown at a bed making, and the bare black branches
of the fruit trees in the orchard were bent near to breaking with the force of the wind. The whistle of it bore down on my
glass pane so it rattled in its wooden frame, and sharp gusts of cold blew inside, striking at the skin of my hands and face
like tiny pinpricks. I wondered if the tiny stabbings I felt now were wind, or the Spirit. I felt sad I had become so accustomed
to torture I could no longer recognize the difference between it and nature, but in the next minute, I thought it hardly mattered.
Drewry appeared in my doorway.

“Someone ought to call the doctor, or the Reverend.” He was restless and worried.

“Not in this storm.” I shook my head and he followed my gaze out the window, where the view was rapidly diminishing to a few
mere feet of moving flakes, and beyond that, all was white. “Will Heaven be so darkly white?” I asked Drewry, for the heavy
flakes reminded me of angel wings, floating on clouds smooth as the white wall of snow gathering.

“Surely Father will recover, Betsy.”

“God’s will will be done,” was the only reply I could think of, and I recalled Kate saying,
“It will do as it will do.”

“I’m going to find Dean. Father will wish to know the status of the farm. The boys are at their games. Do not allow them out,”
Drewry cautioned me, as if I was unfamiliar with the responsibility of their care.

“Do you believe I’ve lost my mind?” I let my anxiety fly at him.

“Do not be offended. I know not what your thoughts contain. I know only my own are dark with great foreboding and confusion.
Verily, I wish no further misfortune on this house.”

“Go visit Dean, brother.” I could not seem to keep the mean sarcasm from my voice. “Ask him if his wife has a hair-ball for
us to hang near Father’s bed, or an amulet off Old Kate to keep away the witches!” Drewry simply stared at me in silent disappointment
and left my doorway without speaking further. I could not seem to control my words or actions, for I had thrown Dr. Hopson’s
medicine to the floor, and crumpled the page from Father’s book into the fire without a thought, and I had spoken thoughts
I did not know I possessed to my brother. I rocked in anger, drawing my woven shawl ever closer about my shoulders. I wished
to shield myself from the stabbing cold, but it seemed an impossible desire. I felt tremendously sleepy all of a sudden, and
I tilted my head back and must have fallen instantly to sleep, for in the next minute Richard and Joel were pulling at my
dress saying it was time for supper.

Mother and Drewry were at the table, silent, listening to the wind wailing outside the thick log walls of our home. Was it
the Spirit singing dirges, or was it just nature, crying her strength? Mother had every lamp lit, so the rooms glowed warm
and bright, and the fires were stoked high in the kitchen and the parlor. Chloe served us cornbread and sweet potato pancakes
with blackberry jam, a comforting supper dish, but she tarried not long at the table, for Dean was stopping in the kitchen
for his supper and she wished to join him there.

Mother said grace in Father’s absence and immediately after the Amen, Joel asked the question on all our minds.

“How fares Father?”

“He is resting comfortably now and I believe the worst must be behind him.” Mother smiled, but I could not believe she told
the truth. I was surprised by her mood and her information, as Father had not looked to be recovering at all when last I saw
him. Still, Mother continued to try and reassure us. “The good doctor’s medicines seem remarkably effective, for all afternoon
your Father has made steady improvement. The color is returning to his cheeks and most likely he will be on his feet again
so we might enjoy our Christmas.” I saw Joel and Richard exchange a glance and smile, attacking their potato pancakes with
significantly more vigor.

“Perhaps after supper we might begin to plan our holiday, as it is scarcely a week away,” Joel suggested, and around the table
I saw a gentle easement in the tension of my family’s faces. I allowed into my heart the small hope that Mother spoke the
truth and my own evil feelings of foreboding were based on too many bad experiences. It was uncanny how my heart and mind
worked together to create this future I very much wanted, though I knew it was entirely unlikely it would come to pass. I
believed, at that moment, as the rest of the family believed, that Father’s condition was much improved and I imagined in
the morning he would rise as he had done every day for all my life, fully restored to himself. The shriek of wind against
the glass panes and the flaring of the fire as it gusted down the chimney turned our table conversation away from his illness
to the most pressing matters of concern regarding the farm.

“The pump at the well is frozen solid,” Drewry reported, “and Dean fears the water at the garden pump may not outlast the
storm.”

“Was he able to dig the path to the necessary house?” Mother sliced her pancake delicately with the edge of her fork.

“He was, but related the snow falls so thick and so fast, before he was to the end of the path, the beginning was buried as
deep as when he started. At the necessary house itself, the water is iced over and he mentioned tomorrow may be spent boiling
kettles and churning the pit below.”

“Yuk!” Joel wrinkled his nose with disgust.

“Our chamber pots will suffice,” Mother said, clearly not wishing to dwell on the subject over our meal. “ ’Tis too cold and
blowing to use the necessary house, frozen or not.”

“Zeke says the Negroes at the cabins haven’t enough pairs of solid shoes to work in this much snow without losing their feet
and being no ’count come spring planting.” Drewry held his fork unconsciously aloft, awaiting Mother’s reaction. She pulled
a face, and I looked down, for I remembered how she had been most upset in the summer about the possibility of this very thing.

“What does Dean advise?” Mother asked Drewry, pausing in her meal, wiping her hands with the cloth on her lap.

“Dean says Zeke’s brethren are worse off than the rest, and as he and his folk are necessary to any task, Dean is most concerned.
All the Negroes do agree, this winter is unreasonably harsh.”