had to be cursed by his father's sins.
Poor little thing, I kept thinking as I washed
away all the blood and froth of birth from the pitiful
tiny body that lay so limp and still. I didn't even have
to be careful to keep its half-head above water, but I
did just the same. I dressed it in clothes that both Our
Jane and Keith had worn, maybe Fanny, Tom, and me
as well.
Sarah finally fell flat on her face on the soiled
bed, gripping the mattress in her clawing fingers,
crying as I'd never known her to cry before.
I didn't even notice Granny until I was finished
with the dead baby. Not until I looked at her two or
three times did I realize that she wasn't knitting,
crocheting, darning, braiding, weaving, or even
rocking. She was just sitting very still with her eyes
half closed. On her thin white lips was a faint smile. It
scared me, that funny happy smile; she should be
looking sad and mournful.
"Granny . . ." I whispered fearfully, laying
down the stillborn child all dressed and clean, "are
you all right?"
I touched her. She fell to one side. I felt her
face, and she was already turning cold, her flesh
hardening.
Granny was dead!
Shocked info-death by the birth of a monster
baby, or by years and years of struggling to endure a
life of hardships! I cried out, and felt an awful blow to
my own heart. I knelt by her rocking chair to hold her
close. "Granny, when you get to heaven, please tell
my mother I'm really trying hard to be like her. Tell
her that, will you, please?"
A scraping sound moved our way, drifting in
from the porch. "What ya doing with my Annie?"
asked Grandpa, coming back from the river where he'd gone to avoid knowing what men never wanted to know--only fitting for men to disappear until birthing was over. The way of the men of the hills, to flee from women's screams of suffering, and pretend
to themselves they never suffered at all.
I looked up, my face streaked with tears, not
knowing how to tell him. "Grandpa . . ."
His faded blue eyes widened as he stared at
Grandma. "Annie . . . yer all right, ain't ya? Git up,
Annie . . . why don't ya git up?" And of course he had
to know when her eyes were staring backward into her
head. He stumbled forward, all his agility fleeing as if
his life had flown the moment he knew his better half
was dead.
On his knees he took Granny from my arms and
cuddled her against his heart. "Oh, Annie, Annie," he
sobbed, "been so long since I said I loved ya . . . kin
ya hear me, Annie, kin ya? Meant t'do betta by ya.
Had me t'best intentions. Neva knew it'd turn out this
way . . . Annie."
It was awful to see his suffering, his terrible
grief to lose a good and faithful wife who'd been with
him since he was fourteen years old. How strange to
know I'd never see him and Grandma cuddled up
together on their bed pallet, with her long white hair
spread out to pillow his face.
It took both Torn and me to pry Granny's body
from Grandpa's arms, and all the time Sarah just lay
on her back, tears gone now as she stared blankly at a
wall.
We all cried at the funeral, even Fanny, all but
Sarah, who stood frozen as stiff and empty-eyed as
any cigar-store Indian.
Pa wasn't even there.
Dead drunk down at Shirley's Place, 1 had to
presume, when his last child and his only mother were
buried. Reverend Wayland Wise was there with his
poker-faced wife, Rosalynn, to say the words for an
old woman whom everybody had liked, if not
respected.
Not one of ours would go into the ground
without a proper funeral, with all the right words said
to see this old woman and this stillborn child into
heaven.
"And the Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh
away," intoned the Reverend. He tilted his face
toward the sun. "Lord God, hear my prayer. Accept
this beloved wife, mother, grandmother and true
believer, along with this tiny new soul, into heaven--
ffing WIDE your pearly gates, THROW EM OPEN! Gather in this Christian woman, Lord, this child, Lord, for she was honest, plain, true to her faith, and
the child is innocent, pure, and blameless!"
We trudged home in single file, still crying. The people of the mountains were there to
grieve with us, to suffer the departure of Annie
Brandywine Casteel, one of their own, and with us
they trooped back to the house, and sat with us, and
sang with us, and prayed with us for hours on end.
And when it was done, they brought out the
moonshine, the guitars and banjos and fiddles, and
they struck up a lively tune as the hill women brought
out the treats to serve.
The next day, when the sun was shining, I went
again to the graveyard to stand with Tom and stare
down at Granny's raw grave, and that tiny one barely
a foot long. My heart was broken to see "Child
Casteel" buried near my own mother. There wasn't a
date put on her tombstone.
"Don't look at it," whispered Tom. "Your
mother's been dead so long, and it's Granny we're
going to miss most. Didn't know until her chair was
empty just how much she added t'our lives--did ya
know?"
"No," I whispered, shamefaced. "I just accepted her presence like she'd live forever. We're going to have to do more for Grandpa, he's so lost and alone
looking."
"Yeah," agreed Tom, catching my hand and
leading me away from a sorrowful place that did little
to communicate love to us. "We gotta appreciate
Grandpa while he's still with us, an not save our
caring for his funeral day."
A week later Pa came home looking sober and
very grim. He pushed Sarah into a chair, pulled up a
second one, and spoke in a strained voice while Tom
and I paused outside the window to spy and
eavesdrop. "Went t'see a doctor in the city, Sarah.
That's where I been. He told me I was sick, real sick.
Told me I was spreading my disease all over, and I'd
have to stop what I was doing or I'd go insane before I
die too young. Told me I can't have sexual
relationships with any woman, not even my wife.
Told me I needed shots to cure what I got, but we
don't have that kind of money."
"What ya got?" demanded Sarah in a cold, hard
voice, not at all sympathetic.
"Got syphilis in its first stages," Pa confessed in
a hollow voice. "Wasn't yer fault ya lost that baby,
was mine. An so I'll say this one time, and that's all.
I'm sorry."
"T'LAIE T'BE SORRY!" yelled Sarah. "T'late
t'save my baby! Ya killed yer ma when ya killed my
last little one! Hear that! YER MA IS DEAD" Even I, who hated him, was shocked at how
Sarah yelled that out, for if Pa loved anyone but
himself, it had been Granny. I heard him suck in his
&nbs
p; breath, kind of groan, and then he sat down heavily
enough to make the chair crack. . and Sarah hadn't
even finished punishing him.
"Ya had t'play around, when I were here all
t'time, jus yearnin fer ya t'need me. I HATE YA,
LUKE CASTEEL! Hate ya even more fer neva lettin
go a dead woman ya should have let alone anyway!" "Yer turning against me?" he said bitterly.
"Now--when my ma is gone an I'm sick?"
"YER DAMNED RIGHT!" she screamed,
jumping up and beginning to throw his clothes into a
cardboard carton. "Here's all yer rotten, stinkin
clothes--NOW GIT! Git before ya make all of us as
rotten sick as ya are! Neva want t'see ya agin! Not
eva!"
He stood up, seeming humbled, glancing
around the cabin as if he'd never see it again, and I
was scared, so darn scared. I trembled as Pa stopped by Grandpa's chair and laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Sorry, Pa. Really sorry I wasn't here on her
funeral day."
Grandpa said nothing, only bowed his head
lower, and the tears from his eyes fell slowly, slowly,
to wet his knees.
I watched silently as Pa again got into his old
truck and sped off, kicking up dry dirt and scattering
dead leaves, creating a whirl of dust and litter. He was
gone, and he'd taken his dogs with him. Now we had
only cats who hunted just for themselves.
When I ran to tell Sarah that Pa had really gone
and this time he'd taken his dogs, she cried out and
sank slowly to the floor. I knelt beside her. "Ma, it's
what you wanted, isn't it? Ya drove him out. You said
you hated him . . . why are you crying when it's too
late?"
"SHUT UP!" she roared in Pa's own ugly way.
"Don't kerr! It's betta so, betta so!"
Better so? Then why did she cry even more? Whom did I have to talk to now but Tom? Not
Grandpa, whom I'd never loved as much as Granny,
mainly because he was so content in his locked-in
small world, and he didn't seem to need anyone but
his wife, and she was gone.
Still, I helped him to the table each morning
when Sarah stayed in bed, and each evening, and said
what I could to ease him along until he grew
accustomed to being without a wife. "Your Annie has
gone to heaven, Grandpa. She told me many a time to
look out for you after she was gone, and I will. And
think of this, Grandpa. Now she doesn't ache and pain
anymore, and in paradise she can eat anything she
wants, and not feel sick after every meal. I guess that's
her reward . . isn't it, Grandpa?"
Poor Grandpa . he couldn't speak. Tears
streaked from his pale, tired eyes. When he had eaten
a little, I helped him back to the rocker Granny had
used, the one with the best cushions to make it more
bearable for painful hips and joints. "Ain't nobody to
call me Toby no more," he said in the saddest way. "I'll call you Toby," I said quickly.
"So will I," volunteered Tom.
Grandpa said more after Granny died than I'd
heard him say since I was born.
"Oh, God, life's gettin dreary!" cried Fanny. "If
somebody else dies, I'm takin off!"
Sarah looked up, stared at Fanny for the longest
time before she disappeared into the second room,
where I heard the bedsprings squeal in protest as she
threw herself down and cried again.
For when Granny's spirit left our cabin, all the
love that held us together seemed to go with her.
six The End Of Road
. FOR THE FIRST TIME SINCE GRANNY HAD GIVEN IT TO ME, when everyone was fast asleep I tiptoed to that secret place where I had hidden my mother's suitcase. I pulled it out from under all the old boxes full of junk and carefully, while sitting behind Ole Smokey so Fanny couldn't wake up and see, I took out the doll.
The magical-beautiful bride doll that
represented to me my mother.
I held that long, hard bundle for a long time, thinking back to the winter's night when Granny had given it to me. I'd been in and out of the suitcase a dozen times to fondle this or that, but I'd not unwrapped the doll since. Many a time I'd wanted to stare at the pretty face surrounded by all that lovely pale hair, but I'd feared doing so would make me feel sick inside for a mother who must have deserved better than she got. Granny's frail voice came as a whispery ghost to echo in my ears:
"Go on, chile. Ain't it time ya looked good t'see what's inside? Been awonderin many a year why ya don't want t'play with it, an wear t'fancy clothes."
I felt her thin white hair whispering across my face, felt the cold winter winds blowing as I took out the fancy bride doll and unwrapped her. In the glow of the fire I stared at her face. How lovely she was in her marvelous white lace gown and veil, with tiny buttons that fastened right up to the chin, with white filmy stockings, white satin-and-lace shoes that could be taken off and put back on. She wore a blue satin garter, for something blue, and held a tiny white-andgold Bible with silk orange blossoms and white satin ribbons dangling, for something new.
Even her underwear was exquisitely made, a tiny bra to cup small hard breasts, and defiantly there was a cleft where most dolls remained neutered between the thighs.
Why was this doll made differently, more realistically?
It was part of the mystery of my mother, the doll and what it had to signify in her life. Someday I'd find out. I kissed her small face and saw the cornflower-blue eyes up so close there were faint specks of green and gray and violet--like my own eyes! My very own eyes!
In the morning, while Fanny was visiting a friend, and Tom was out showing Keith and Our Jane how to fish with more skill, I remembered when Granny told me how Pa had wanted to chop up everything my mother had left behind, so she'd taken the suitcase and its contents and hidden them away. Now I'd lost Granny. My best connection to the past. Pa would never talk to me the way she had. Grandpa no doubt hadn't even taken notice of the girl his son called angel.
"Oh," I sighed as Tom came in. "Look, Tom, here is a doll that Granny said belonged to my real mother. A bride doll made to look like her when she was only a girl the same as me. See what's written on her bare foot." I held it so he could see, once I had her decently dressed again, but for stockings and shoes.
A Tatterton Original Portrait Doll
Issue, One.
"Put her stockins an shoes on, an hide her quick," whispered Tom. "Fanny's comin with Our Jane and Keith, an that's your face if ever I saw it. No good lettin Fanny ruin somethin so beautiful."
"You're not surprised?"
"Sure, but I found it long ago, and put it back like Granny told me to do. . . . Now quick, before Fanny comes in."
As fast as I could I pulled on the stockings, stuffed on the shoes, and rewrapped the suitcase in the filthy old quilt, and in the nick of time hid it again, only then brushing away the tears from my cheeks.
"Still cryin fer Granny?" asked Fanny, who could display grieving emotions one second and be laughing the next. "She's betta off, she is, than sittin in here all day an doin nothin but hurtin an complainin. Anywhere but here is a betta place."
My doll made up for so much. Made up, I thought at the time, for Sarah's meanness, for Pa's illness, for the fact that I hadn't seen Logan for a week. Where was he? Why didn't he wait to walk me home anymore? Why hadn't he come to say he was sorry about Granny? Why didn't he and his parents go to church anymore? What kind of devotion was he showing now that he'd kissed me?
Then I guessed. His parents had to know
about Pa's disease, and they didn't want their one and only son coming to see hill scum like me. I wasn't good enough, even if I didn't have syphilis.
Putaway thoughts. Better to think about the doll, and the secret of why my mother, at such a late age, would want a doll made to look like herself.
Nothing short of death would keep us from church, and proudly we trudged onward, wearing our old rags, the best we had, with Sarah leading the way now that Pa had the truck and didn't come to drive us there. I held Grandpa's large, bony hand in mine, and actually pulled him along, just as I had to tug on Our Jane, who held with her other hand to Keith.
Every head in the church turned to stare our way, as if one family with so much trouble had to be unworthy sinners.
They were singing as we entered, singing in their glorious voices that had so much practice when they attended church three times a week, and we only went on Sundays.
"Rock of Ages, cleft for me,
Let me hide myself in thee . ."
Hide, how appropriate that word was. We should all run away and hide until Pa was well again, and Sarah could laugh once more, and Our Jane stopped crying for a granny who'd gone away and didn't give her hugs anymore. But there was no place to hide.
Then, the next day, Logan showed up by my locker, smiling at me with his eyes even when his lips stayed in a straight line. "Did you miss me the week I was gone? I wanted to tell you my grandmother was sick and we'd be flying to see her, but there wasn't time before the plane left."
I stared at him with huge wistful eyes. "How is your grandmother now?"
"Fine. She had a small stroke, but seemed to feel much better when we left."
"That's nice," I said in a choked way.
"What did I say wrong? Something, I can tell! Heaven, haven't we sworn to always be honest with one another? Why are you crying?"
My head bowed and then I was telling him about Granny, and he said all the right words to console me. I cried awhile on his shoulder, and with his arm still about my shoulder we headed up the trail toward home. "And what about the baby your stepmother was expecting?" asked Logan, appearing happy that Tom and Fanny stayed out of sight with Our Jane and Keith.
"It was stillborn," I answered stiffly. "Granny died the same day . . . guess all of us went kind of numb, losing two, and on the same day."
"Oh, Heaven, no wonder you looked so funny when I said my grandmother recovered. I'm sorry, so damned sorry. Someday, I hope, someone will tell me the right words to say at moments like this. Right now I feel inadequate . . except I know I'd have loved your granny just as much as you did."