Fields Of Gold (18 page)

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Authors: Marie Bostwick

BOOK: Fields Of Gold
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Chapter 13
I
used to believe that if I lived my life a certain way and didn't make mistakes, I could make things come out the way I wanted. If I planted the right seed, it would grow; if I said the right thing, he would love me; if I ate the right food, I could ward off death. It's all foolishness, of course, but you've got to hang hope on something. The older I get the more I see our struggles for what they are, but still I think our efforts have a certain brave, tender optimism that must touch the heart of God. We mean so well and we try so hard, and in the end, we are at the end.
I never asked to know what was coming. No one had ever read my palm or tried to see my future in the bottom of a teacup, and I wouldn't have wanted them to. Yet, oftentimes, I knew more about Slim's life than he did. I could almost smell the trials around the corner, though I was unable to change any of it. What good did it do, for me or for him? I never did understand it. How often I tried to wish away that strange gift, even to the point of closing my eyes and refusing to see. I didn't seem to have the same sensitivity for anyone but Slim. It might have been of some use for someone else, but my sight failed me when it came to those who were near enough that I might actually have helped them. If I had known what was coming, the day and hour, I would have done something differently. Don't ask me what, but something.
When Papa came in from work early that day in September, complaining of the heat and coughing more than usual, I didn't know it was the last day. He said he wanted to lie down and rest awhile. Mama brought him a glass of cool water and dosed him with two tablespoons of amber-colored whiskey before he fell into a fitful, troubled sleep.
During the night his breathing got raspy and irregular. Mama came into my room to wake me, but I was already sitting up in bed, listening to Papa struggle for air. The rattling sound scared me so much I didn't even stop to look at Papa before running out the door, my only thought to call for the doctor. I never said good-bye.
The nearest house with a phone was Thompson's. I drove there as fast as I could and called Dr. Townsend to come right away, but it was too late. Papa died before he arrived.
When I returned Mama was stretched out across the bed, covering Papa's feet like a blanket, screaming, just screaming, as though someone was tearing away parts of her flesh while she was still alive. That was more shocking than anything. I could never have imagined her losing herself that way. Ruby tried to comfort her, but it didn't do any good. Morgan stood holding on to the doorjamb of Mama and Papa's room with both hands, tears running down his face at the sight of the only father he'd ever really known lying so still and white on the bed, a stillness that can't be mistaken for anything but death. I didn't know what to do, so I just waited, paralyzed, until the doctor came and brushed past us all, ordering Ruby to take Mama out. Ruby half-walked, half-carried Mama into the next room, but I could still hear Mama's sobs coming from behind the closed door. Dr. Townsend examined Papa quickly, listening to his chest and lifting up each eyelid perfunctorily before he spoke.
“It's dust-bowl pneumonia,” he said with finality. “This isn't the first time I've seen it, Eva. Your father's swallowed so much dust it gradually clogged up his lungs, probably his stomach, too. One of my own hogs up and died last week. When we butchered it there was over two inches of dirt blocking the stomach.”
I could not put Dr. Townsend's words into a picture that made sense. I wanted him to keep quiet while I figured things out. Talking about butchered hogs and blocked entrails and my papa all in the same breath. I didn't understand what he was saying. What did any of that have to do with Papa lying still, looking pale and small in the big bed and Mama in the next room sobbing like she'd lost her mind. When was he going to shut up and do something?
“Eva ... Miz Eva? Did you hear me?” I looked up to see the doctor's face, tired and patient, peering into mine.
“I'm sorry,” I whispered. “What did you say?”
“Had he been eating well lately?” he said each word slowly, as though talking to a child.
“No. He said he wasn't hungry. Said it made his stomach hurt to eat too much. He put most of his food on Morgan's plate. I thought he was worried about Morgan getting enough to eat.”
“Well, it was likely some of both. Glennon doted on that boy and you.” The doctor patted me on the arm awkwardly. “I'm sorry, Eva. I'm real sorry. He was a good man. Don't go blaming yourself, now. Even if I'd gotten here earlier, I probably couldn't have done anything. He was too far gone. You'd best pull yourself together and help your mama. Be better if you left the room while I finish my examination and fill out the death certificate.” I stood still as a statue, trying to believe what the doctor said.
“G'on now, Eva,” he prompted. “Tend to your mama. She needs you.”
“Yes,” I started as though waking from a bad dream, “I have to take care of Mama now.”
 
As quick as saying the words, I was head of the family. I'd never thought about Papa dying. He was young, years from sixty. If I had thought about a time when he wouldn't be there, I would have supposed that Mama would rise up, strong and straight-necked, practical as always, and taken over, pushing me and Morgan, getting us through it all somehow. I never realized, until Papa was gone, that any strength Mama had she drew from him. It was like she had said, death changes the balance of things somehow, the weak become strong and the strong become weak. Maybe they were never all that strong to begin with. Whatever the reason, Mama was overcome by grief, and the funeral arrangements were left up to me. It was just as well—having something to do saved me from thinking too much.
Pastor Wilder, who had spent thirty years in the pulpit, had retired only the month before, so I called the new minister, the Reverend Paul Van Dyver, to say the service. I had never even met him until the morning of the funeral. His face was serious and not especially handsome, though it had some interesting angles, as if it were composed entirely of triangles. He was well over six feet tall and very, very thin, reminding me of an illustration of Ichabod Crane I'd seen as a child. He wasn't quite thirty at the time, but the expression of a much older man was written upon his face. His manner was sincere; even in my grief, I felt there was something about him I liked. Maybe it was the way he looked at me straight on, in a manner that was so frank and plain it might have been mistaken for rudeness if his blue eyes had not been so kind. He spoke with an accent, enunciating each word carefully to make sure he was understood properly.
“I did not know your father, Miss Glennon. Normally, as his pastor, I would want to say a few words about him. However, in this case, I feel it would be improper and, coming from a stranger, insincere. It is clear that your father was very much loved by his family. It would do him more honor and be more meaningful if one of you would speak of him.”
I appreciated him stepping aside. Many a new minister trying to make an impression on the community wouldn't have wanted to miss the opportunity to give a sermon. On the other hand, maybe he wasn't much of a speaker and was merely afraid he'd embarrass himself. Either way, Pastor Van Dyver was right. It wouldn't do to have a stranger eulogizing Papa. But who would speak? Mama certainly was in no condition to do so, and I wasn't sure I could carry it off without dissolving into tears.
“I can do it.” Morgan stepped into the conversation. “I'd like to,” he told the young minister. “That is, if it's all right with you, Mama.”
“Oh, Morgan. It's going to be such a hard day for all of us. Are you sure you want to? I could ask Mr. Dwyer. He liked Papa, and he's a good speaker. “
“He's too good,” Morgan said seriously. “You've heard him give the announcements at church, haven't you, Mama? Hooks his thumbs in his vest and booms on and on as though he were giving the Gettysburg Address instead of letting people know the time of the deacons' meeting had been changed.” The minister's eyes twinkled, and he suppressed a chuckle by suddenly needing to clear his throat.
“I'm sorry, Pastor,” Morgan apologized sheepishly. “Guess I shouldn't say something like that about one of the deacons. Don't get me wrong. I like Mr. Dwyer; he's a nice man and a real good deacon; it's just that ... Well, I think someone from the family should talk about Grandpa. That's all.”
Van Dyver nodded to Morgan and assured him he understood entirely, then he turned to me with a trace of a smile still on his lips. “Miss Glennon, I hope you will forgive me for interjecting myself into family business, but I think young Morgan is right. For a boy his age he shows not only intelligence, but remarkable insight.” He smiled at Morgan and then turned to me again. “Though I did not have the privilege of knowing your father personally, I am sure he would be honored to have Morgan say his eulogy.”
I had to agree. Papa would have been proud to have Morgan speak of him and pleased that doing so obviously meant so much to the boy.
“It's decided then,” the minister said. “I will return at one o'clock tomorrow, an hour before the service.” He said good-bye and shook my hand, locking my eyes again with his compassionate, concerned gaze. “If there is anything I can do to help you, I want you to feel certain you may call on me at any time.”
As many times and as many people as had said those exact words in the previous forty-eight hours, it was the first time I felt that they were spoken with utter sincerity.
 
Mama cried and cried, but not at the funeral. Just before the service she pulled me and Morgan aside and said, “If you have any crying to do, do it now. I won't have us shame your papa by blubbering in front of the neighbors, do you hear?”
For one wonderful moment, I thought the old Mama was back, ordering us around like always, but guarding her grief from outsiders was as far as it went. That was the last reserve of her force. She took my arm as we walked out to the front porch to greet the arriving mourners, leaning on me for balance, suddenly becoming ancient.
The day was hot. The house was filled to bursting with sweating, sober-faced neighbors. Farmers and merchants Papa knew from town twisted their hat brims nervously in their hands and looked pitifully at their shoes as they told me of a hundred little kindnesses Papa had done them, secret loans of money or tools, and well remembered words of encouragement given in moments of despair.
Women who would not have spoken to me on the street before suddenly called me by my first name, all my past sins apparently paid for by my loss, at least for this one day. They wrung my hand and told me how sorry they were and asked me to tell Mama to let them know if there was anything they could do, though she was standing right next to me and they could easily have told her themselves. Somehow they sensed that I was in charge now, the conveyor of condolences and maker of plans.
Mr. Ashton, from the bank, tipped his hat to Mama as he came in and shook my hand more firmly than I expected. He murmured his sympathies and asked in a soft, discreet voice, “Miss Glennon, would it be convenient for you to meet me at the bank tomorrow afternoon? If you're feeling up to it, that is.” I just had time to answer yes before Morgan came up and whispered in my ear that it was time to start.
Everyone filed into the parlor where Papa was laid out in his best suit in front of rows of straight-backed chairs, some ours, some borrowed from neighbors. If I had not known it really was Papa, had not helped wash him and dress him with my own hands, I would not have recognized him, so small, so shrunken, so still he was. Strangely, that was a comfort to me. It seemed the part of him that I knew, the part that was truly Papa, was simply gone, leaving behind a shell that had nothing to do with him or where he was now. I squeezed Mama's hand as she sat next to me, a black veil shading eyes that seemed to see but not understand what was happening around her.
Pastor Van Dyver gave a short, simple sermon about hope and eternal life. There was nothing fancy to it, but I liked it because it affirmed my belief that Papa was in heaven and past his pain. At the same time, I couldn't help but wonder and worry about our pain and how we were going to manage without him—and what Mr. Ashton wanted to see me about.
After the hymn was sung, Morgan stepped up to the front of the room. He stood tall and gangly in last year's suit, his wrists showing a good two inches of white shirt cuff. I had not noticed how tall he had become, almost overnight. His voice was firm and steady, stronger and more grown up than that of the little boy he'd been just three days before.
Morgan had chosen to read from Psalm 112, “A good man sheweth favor and lendeth; he will guide his affairs with discretion. Surely he shall not be moved for ever: the righteous shall be in everlasting remembrance.” He stood a long moment before he spoke again, looking into the eyes of everyone present, his face at once innocent and wise.
“Just about every Saturday, my grandpa gave me a nickel for the picture show. I like the serials best. When I'd get home, I'd always tell Grandpa about what happened, how the hero had saved the day, and the girl, and how I couldn't wait to see what happened next week. Grandpa always sat and listened to whatever I had to say, like it was something important. Then when I'd finished he'd whistle and wink his eye and say something like, ‘That Tarzan, he's a brave fellow, all right.' Then we'd go back to feeding the chickens or cleaning the barn just like we did every day.

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