At last the day began shedding its light and heat. The sun was dropping. Mary sat by the window holding little motherless, fatherless Emma asleep in her lap.
Andrew touched her on the shoulder and cleared his throat.
“I reckon we better be gettin ready, Si May-e.” He sniffed and fumbled the hat in his hands.
Big Boy stood wiping his red eyes.
“Si May-e,” Maum Hannah hobbled up, “gi Emma to me. You got to go now. De sun’ll soon set.”
The new pine box stood waiting on two chairs, its cover leaning against the table’s legs, waiting to be nailed on. Andrew began turning back the sheet.
“Please, Cun Andrew, don’ put Unex on de naked boards. ’E’s so thin—dey is so hard.”
She got a quilt which Andrew folded into a long narrow length and laid smooth in the box; then he put a pillow at the head. She stood watching all that was done in silence until Andrew took up the board cover, then she could not help crying out, “Oh, Gawd, why couldn’ you le me keep my child a lil bit longer?”
She fell on her knees by the box and bowed her head to the floor. The cover fell out of Andrew’s hands and clattered heavily down.
Big Boy picked it up and said brokenly, “Gi me de hammer and nails, Pa, I’ll finish em.” He called out solemnly to the crowd standing outside in the yard, “All o you-all what wants to look at de body come on in.”
A long line of people filed in and then out. And the hammer in Big Boy’s hand began falling on the nailheads with quick telling strokes. Mary gripped her jaws tight together trying to keep her mouth shut, but she couldn’t.
“Don’ nail de cover down so tight, Big Boy. Seems like it’ll smother em.—Oh, Jedus—Master—look down—”
Andrew’s mule was hitched to the plum tree, and as Andrew helped Mary climb up into the wagon, to sit on the board seat laid across the coffin, a soft shower of white petals fell over her.
“Tell Auntie to come set by me,” Mary whispered, and Andrew lifted the old woman and put her on the seat beside Mary, then he took up the rope reins and the mule drew the creaking wagon down the street. Reverend Duncan came next. He was alone in his buggy, for his huge body so completely filled the buggy seat, there was no room for his big fat wife who drove alone in another buggy right behind him.
A stream of men and women and children on foot followed them. The sun was almost down, it soon would set in the open grave. The treetops glowed red; the people marched and sang.
Mary heard none of the words, but she knew that all these great waves of sound were prayers sent up to God.
Reverend Duncan took his place at the head of the grave and opened his Book, the same Book he used to marry her to July.
Doll yelled at the top of her voice. Andrew and Big Boy hurried to hold her and keep her from hurting herself in her grief. The whole congregation wailed and wept as Reverend Duncan told how Jesus rose from the dead.
Night fell before the service was done. Torches lighted the men who filled in the grave with heavy red earth and patted it smooth. All the medicine bottles were laid on it.
Then Reverend Duncan opened the Book again and read: “De Lawd gave, de Lawd have take em away. Blessed be de name o de Lawd.”
XXXI
The sky was thick with stars, but the earth was black with sadness. Hot grief tore at Mary’s heart, almost splitting it in two, yet her eyes stayed dry. Her joints ached, her flesh was sore, but she tried to hold up her head.
Her house had been put in order before she got home. Supper was cooking on the hearth, the bed and chairs were in place, burning rags were trying to drive out the scent of death which still tarried thick in the corners. Doll helped Seraphine feed the babies and put them to sleep. She promised to come back in the morning and have all the bedclothes washed.
Long after everybody else in the house had gone to sleep, Mary lay awake. The night was full of curious sounds that made her sit up and listen. Some of them made her mouth go dry and the cold sweat pop out all over her. She could hardly keep herself from calling Seraphine and Keepsie to wake up and hear them.
Once, Seraphine’s baby cried out, and she hushed it with a few sleepy words. Then the blood-chilling sounds stopped for a minute and started again.
At last dawn rose, the cocks crowed lustily, the cattle lowed, the birds sang. The flies clustering on the wallpapers woke and buzzed and crawled. Mary got up and dressed hurriedly. God had plagued her enough. She would pray until she found peace.
Where could she go and not be seen or heard? The Big House garden held too many ghosts. She hurried down the street, down the hill, toward the thick pine woods. Nobody would find her there. The morning star blazed in the gray east, the night was over. She would spend this day in prayer.
Her misery was not a garment that could be shed. It was mixed in her flesh and blood. Only God could cast it out and heal her.
A deep hush lay at the foot of the pines, but high overhead an early morning breeze moved.
She closed her eyes and fell on her knees and bent her head to the earth. But her tongue and lips and voice had got separated and dumb. Despair threatened her. Misery split the shell of her heart clear in two. She could
