All That Lives (43 page)

Forgive me. Forgive me. Forgive me.

I wished desperately I had answered him, all is forgiven, Father, but the opportunity had not arisen and soon he would be
in the grave. To forgive him now meant nothing. I looked to Mother, sitting straight and tall in her chair, her bun balanced
at the nape of her neck, her hands calmly folded in her lap. She was composed, but many fine new lines had grown overnight,
around her eyes and mouth, and a tired sadness hung about her form.

“I believe I shall retire in John Jr.’s room this evening,” she said. I watched her stand and the Reverend, Frank and the
doctor politely rose. “Betsy, help me with the pallets.”

“Go, Lucy, trouble yourself not at all with our arrangements.” Frank took her arm and embraced her and she consented, stiffly.

“Thank you, Frank, I do not believe I shall sleep, but I shall pray and think on my memories of Jack.”

“There will be many,” he reassured her, but Mother pulled away, herding us up the stairs with her skirts.

The next morning dawned gray and cold again and I woke to the sound of Dean’s shovel striking the cobblestones as he tried
to clear the path for our community to pay their last respects. I dressed and went downstairs to find my brothers all awake
and sitting at the dining table with the Reverend, Frank and my Mother, engaged in breakfast conversation.

“Dr. Hopson has departed, and with only bread and tea for his breakfast.” Mother shook her head, but I saw there was not much
else on the table, except a jar of blackberry jam. I moved it closer to my place as I sat down.

“I assume Dr. Hopson was in a hurry to be rid of us,” I sighed, opening the jar, and Mother frowned at my rudeness, but did
not speak.

“He will return for the burial service scheduled two days hence,” the Reverend reminded me, most politely.

“Yes, the burial …” I saw Mother was dressed in her warmest boiled wool and I realized she planned to go with the men and
my brothers to pick the site of Father’s grave. Dean appeared in the doorway, and Mother acknowledged him with a smile.

“Ah, Dean, what of the grave?”

“The ground is froze solid, Miz Lucy. Zeke say he done buried a man in a snowstorm once before, and it may be some help to
build a fire and keep it burning through the day and night. Even so, he say the digging of the grave will be a trial of strength
for many men on account of the weather.” Dean spoke politely to a place somewhere beyond Mother’s right shoulder.

“It will be as it will be.” Mother’s voice broke and she paused and I realized the words she usually spoke for comfort were
difficult for her to utter. She took a deep breath and folded her hands calmly on her lap before she sighed and continued.
“The storm has subsided for the moment. Pray, send a man to fetch Mr. J. Bratton the cobbler. Tell him if he comes at once
we will be eternally indebted and he will be well compensated for his troubles. Tell him all our Negroes need new shoes.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Dean was clearly pleased and the Reverend did not raise his brow at Mother’s generosity.

“Speak freely, Dean,” Mother said, correctly sensing there was something else he wished to say. “Speak to me as you would
to my dear departed husband.”

“Masta Bell done been my master ever since I was a chile, Miz Lucy, and if it please you, I wish to be a help to the man who
do his coffin.” Dean’s eyes filled and he had trouble finishing his speech, but Mother smiled, listening to his curiously
formal request, for most certainly he was the obvious choice as the person most capable of crafting Father’s coffin. Father
had engaged Dean to help him fashion every piece of furniture about our house, and he had said there was no carpenter better
than Dean in the district.

“I had hoped
you would be
the carpenter, dear Dean.” I saw Mother break with convention and try to meet his eye.

“Oh yes, Miz Lucy, I will make it fine.” Dean looked down with emotion but Mother raised her eyebrows at him, hoping he was
thinking along the lines of her own mind. Earlier in the fall Father had taken Dean to Springfield where they had purchased
some lovely and expensive planks of walnut wood. Father had intended to make a dining table for Jesse and Martha but then
they had moved, and the wood had not been used.

“Use the walnut wood, Dean, and know Frank Miles has volunteered to supervise the digging of the grave, so you need not concern
yourself with that.”

“That wood is the finest, ma’am, and Zeke, he say he knows the ins and outs of digging.” Dean nodded his head in vigorous
agreement with Mother, but still kept his eyes to the floor. “Miz Lucy, with the help of the good Lord, this casket will be
worthy of the man.” I wondered if he sheltered tears within his lids.

I watched everyone leave from the front window in the parlor. Frank and Drew walked on one side of Mother, and the Reverend
took her other side, his hand on her elbow, crooked like the bare black branches of the trees they trudged beneath. They traveled
slowly down the path Dean had shoveled, and Richard and Joel followed behind, straying frequently into the snow. I watched
them kicking it, sending tufts up in the air that surely soaked their boots. I wondered where they were headed. Mother had
suggested the plateau on the north end of the property up above the stream, where Father had let the thistles grow after Drewry
stole the jawbone from the Indian graves. It seemed an odd choice to me, but there was a lovely view of the Red River and
the tobacco fields from there, and I trusted Mother to know what Father would have wanted.

“I am going now, Miss Betsy, to fetch my girls for the preparations.” Chloe stood in the hall, and I could feel her shrinking
back from the bedroom off the parlor where Father’s corpse lay. “Little Bright wants me to tell you, she sure is sorry at
your father’s passing.”

“Thank her kindly,” I said, thinking the last time I saw Little Bright she was in line to have her head shaved of lice, while
her mother was busy oiling my hair. I thought of the time Father had made her eat tobacco worms, and I found it hard to believe
she was truly sorry at his passing. We were silent for a moment and from the cabins I heard the wailing of the slaves. Their
deep voices howled in mourning for Father’s soul, or perhaps they cried with joy that they might soon have shoes. It was difficult
to tell, as the melody of their grief did not have words I could understand; it rose and fell, rhythmic and distant.

“Check the fire keeps lively, Miss Betsy, and I will soon return.” Chloe hurried back through the house, leaving from the
kitchen. I realized I was alone and I grew cold, as if a large hand of ice lay across my back. Frightened, I thought it was
my father’s hand and I expected he had risen from his bed to tap me on the shoulder. I could not turn around to see if it
were so, and I endured my fear, repeating to myself, Father’s body lying in his bed was nothing but the shell of him. His
body was like the barn, emptied of its harvest crops. I stared at the white expanse of our lawn, and thought of Ignatius Batts
sitting all the days at his front window, the same unseeing expression on the features of his face. I wondered if he saw as
I did, nothing but shapes and colors without meaning. The cold air carried the uncomfortable sensation of waiting, waiting
for some unpredictable evil, and the hand of ice on my back did not move.

On the road I saw a horse and rider of familiar stature taking the turn onto our path. He rode quickly and though he wore
a cloak with a hood around his head I recognized Josh Gardner dismounting at our horse tie. My heart quickened as he looked
up to the house and I wondered if he could see me at the window, for he hastened in the tying of his horse. I wished to rise
and open the door, but the cold air in the parlor was so intense I felt frozen in my spot. I wanted to tell him of Father’s
last breath and how I knew in my soul the importance of deep love. I wanted to feel Josh’s warm arms circling me and holding
me safe, but though he had more distance to cover than I, it took me until he was knocking to move my frightened body to open
our door. I saw instantly so much kindness and concern in his gray eyes, I did not know how to say what had happened, and
I was grateful he spoke first.

“Say it is not so, the evil Being has dealt a fatal blow unto your father?”

“ ’Tis true! He lies cold as stone in his bed, poisoned by the menace.” Sudden tears filled my eyes and Josh pulled me to
him in embrace without a thought of who might see. Only I knew we were alone. The one other person in the house who might
have cared lay dead.

Betsy Bell, do not have Josh Gardner.

The Spirit filled the hallway with its warning, and a sudden wind whisked eddies of snow inside the door.

“Be gone, you evil demon! Your horrors are accomplished here!” Josh held my face in his two hands, still gloved and cold.
He covered my ears so I might not hear the fiend’s command.

Betsy Bell, do not have Josh Gardner.

It repeated itself without a change in tone.

“Please, go!” I pushed Josh back away, onto the porch, for I did not want to die, and I knew the Being was capable of many
tortures.

“But, Betsy.” Josh grasped my arm and firmly held it. “I must pay my respects,” he insisted. “Are you alone with that foul
creature?” He stepped back inside.

“Go, Josh! If ever you had a care in your heart for me, please, go, now!” It was most painful to make that loathsome request,
for I knew he would not stay if I so entreated him. I wanted more than anything to be transported to some other house where
I might live another life and associate with him, yet I did not want to fight the Spirit.

Betsy Bell, do not have Josh Gardner.

“Quiet, you horror, leave her be!” Josh shouted as I managed to turn him around and, using the heavy cedar door to my advantage,
I pushed him out. He did not physically fight my requests, and I was glad, for my resolve to be rid of him was weak indeed.
A sudden wind blew under the door and up my skirt, pushing snow into a tidy line before my feet. I heard a crack, like a gunshot,
and I ran to the window in time to see Josh jump nimbly away from a branch falling with great velocity off the pear tree.
It smashed into the snow, and Josh was not struck. He stood on the lawn, shouting, but his words were unintelligible to me
against the wind. He faced the house, apparently determined not to leave. The pear trees swayed above him, dropping sheets
of snow onto the ground, freeing the mighty armlike branches. I feared they would come alive with the Spirit’s mischief and
harm him with their black and pointed ends.

“Go, Josh!” I shouted through the window, then turned away, unable to watch him remain. I fled up to my room and from the
stairs shouted loud into the house, empty of all except Father’s corpse and the ugly Spirit, “I am still alive!” I yelled,
“I am alive!” I threw myself down on my bed on my back and closed my eyes. If I lay still long enough would it kill me? Would
my heart be frozen into silence, and would I lie in my position forevermore, never rising from the bed, but descending in
a box into the ground? Dear Lord, I will fear no evil … I made an attempt at prayer, but found I could not encompass the thought
of the Lord in my fear. I felt the cold stone in my belly and I knew suddenly what it was, a grave marker. The Spirit had
placed the stone inside me, so to mark where I already was dead.