Losing Battles (55 page)

“Never said Sam Dale was the father,” said Granny. She gave a minute nod at Judge Moody. “Going to marry the girl, I said. Think Sam Dale was pulling her out of a pickle.”

“Granny!” Miss Beulah ran to the old lady. She picked up a church fan and fanned her.

“Granny, you’re playing with us now, ain’t you? With your grandchildren and all? With the reunion that’s gathered round to celebrate the day with you?” Uncle Curtis stood and asked her.

“Hush. She wouldn’t play with us about Sam Dale,” said Miss Beulah. “She’s saying things the way they come back to her at their own sweet will. Maybe she’s not right in step with the rest of us any longer—that’s all.”

“Think he’s pulling her out of a pickle,” said Granny.

“Granny, which would you rather? Keep Sam Dale perfect, or let him be a father after all?” Miss Beulah asked, her voice pleading.

“It’s not a matter we can settle by which we’d rather,” said Judge Moody down a long sigh. “You can’t change what’s happened by taking a voice vote on it.”

Miss Beulah begged. “Granny, you can’t have Sam Dale both ways.”

“And carry him a generous slice of my cake,” Granny ordered her.

“Hey, don’t she know the difference yet? Who’s alive and who’s dead?” asked Aunt Cleo in a nurse’s whisper.

“She knows we’re all part of it together, or ought to be!” Miss Beulah cried, turning on her. “That’s more than some other people appear to have found out.”

“You could be anybody’s,” said Mrs. Moody to Gloria. “My husband was speaking truer than he knew.”

Gloria turned toward Granny.

“Don’t make an ell’s worth of difference, does it? If you’re not Sam Dale’s,” said Granny, waving her away.

Jack held his arms out. He clasped Gloria as she threw herself against him. “She’s Mrs. J. J. Renfro, that’s who she is,” he told the reunion. “Grandpa married us in Damascus Church and she’s my wife, for good and all. And that’s the long and the short of it.”

He turned with her and they walked the short way down the steps into the yard and sat on the old cedar log in the moonlight and began looking at each other.

“There was a time, some years back, when I didn’t deplore her presence here.” Granny was speaking. “Mr. Vaughn is so much given to going out of sight to do his praying before we blow out the lamp. And she and I could set and catch our breath when the day’s over, and confab a little about the state the world was in. She picked up a good deal from me.”

“Who’s that? Miss Julia Mortimer for the last time, Granny?” asked Aunt Birdie.

“Too bad she wasn’t able to put two and two together,” Granny said. “Like I did.”

“But all that happened a mighty long time ago,” Aunt Birdie objected during the hush that followed.

“You forget feelings, Birdie! Feelings don’t get old!” Aunt Beck said, with all the night’s agitation. “We do, but they don’t. They go on.”

In her soft yellow lamplight, Granny smiled, showing her teeth like a spoonful of honeycomb. “She was young herself once. And if she was, I was. Put that in your pipe and smoke it.”

Uncle Nathan stepped down from them and went to his pack, which was still under the tree where he had dropped it. Groping in it, he brought up his cornet and readied it.

“Play ‘Poor Wayfaring Stranger’!” came a call.

“Play ‘Sweet and Low’ for me!”

When they all stopped asking, he played them “Let the Lower Lights Be Burning.” He needed nothing but his good left hand.

“Makes the hair of my skin stand on end. Like I was pulling okra,” said Aunt Nanny. “To hear him reach with his horn like that.”

“That’s right, that’s the way. Blow ’er over Jordan, Nathan,” called Uncle Noah Webster. “Blow Miss Julia Mortimer over Jordan.”

Uncle Nathan held the last note. He held it till none of them listening had any breath of their own left—then he ceased. Miss Beulah looked at Granny. So did they all. Though the hills were ringing still, Granny nodded in her chair.

Miss Beulah drew the lamp away from her face. One bit of brightness still gleamed about her—the silver wire of Grandpa’s spectacles she had put away in her lap. There behind her, spread over her chair and ready to cloak her, was “The Delectable Mountains,” known to be green and red and covered with its ninety-and-nine white sheep, but now a piece and puzzle of the dark.

Jack and Gloria sat side by side on the old cedar log, close together, their backs to the crowd. Around them, though they appeared not to know it, the girl cousins as if with one accord began stirring about, cleaning up after the day. They cleared off the tables, carried platters and watermelon plates and cloths back to the kitchen or the back porch. The cake of ice had disappeared, the lemonade tub had nothing left but hanging crusts of sugar and a pavement of seeds. From the complaint they made, there had been little left to feed the company dogs. The cows were calling, taking turns.

Presently Uncle Nathan passed close by the porch, going down into the yard carrying upright a hoe with rags draped about the blade in a sort of helmet. There was a cutting smell of coal oil where he walked. After a moment, a red torch shot up fire, moved; then an
oval, cottony glow, like utterly soft sound, appeared in the dark—how close, how far, how high up or low down, was not easy for the eye to make sure. Then it went out, and appeared almost at once in a new place.

“We’ve lost him, I know, to the Book of Revelation,” said Miss Beulah. “But once a year I feel like he still belongs to us. Right now, he’s burning the caterpillar nets to finish up the day for the children.”

Their eyes as they watched all reflected the fiery nests in dancing points.

“And at the same time, it’s a hundred thousand bad little worms that’s curled up and turned black for every touch he gives,” said Aunt Birdie. “You can be thankful for that much deliverance.”

Uncle Nathan carried his torch past Jack and Gloria as though he didn’t see them. Neither did Jack and Gloria seem to know he went by. They sat without moving, kissing each other.

“Mr. Renfro, do you dream at all of what’s coming next?” cried Miss Beulah.

He didn’t move. Only, while they looked, the wilted snippet of traveller’s joy slid out of his shirt pocket and dropped to the floor.

Granny, the moment she was touched, put up her head warily.

“The joining-of-hands!” Miss Beulah at her side put out the cry. “Everybody stand! It’s time for the joining-of-hands!” She threw out her arms. “Where’s Jack? Sometimes just making your circle will bring him in. Stand up, catch Granny, don’t let her fall now! Pull up Brother Bethune before he’s slipped clear down out of reach! Stand up! Judge Moody, stoop a little, catch hold of Elvie’s hand. Mrs. Judge, I’ve got you.” She shook Mr. Renfro and got a cry out of him. “Drag Nathan in where he belongs!” came her urgent voice. “Now, are we a circle?”

By now the chairs were pushed back out of the way and as many of the reunion as could worked themselves into a circle in the expanded space of the porch. The rest of them carried the circle down the steps and along the flower rows and around from tree to tree, taking in the well-piece and the log seat and the althea bush and the post with the Wayfarer’s Bell on it, encompassing the tables and the bois d’arc tree.

“Are we a circle?” cried Miss Beulah again, and she struck off the note.

Then they had the singing of “Blest Be the Tie.” There was only one really mournful voice—Judge Moody’s.

“And will you give us the benediction, Brother Bethune?” cried Miss Beulah. “Are you fully awake?”

For a moment Brother Bethune tottered, but Vaughn caught him and held him by the waist to steady him. His arm shot into the air and his voice exploded: “God go with us all!”

“Amen,” said the voices around the circle.

“Now,” said Miss Beulah warningly, “would anybody care for a further bite before starting on their road?”

“I couldn’t get another bite in me if you was to stand before me with gun loaded, Beulah,” Uncle Dolphus said, leading a chorus of No’s.

Uncle Noah Webster and Uncle Dolphus gave a brotherly shout together. Unregarded, a flower had opened on the shadowy maze of the cactus there on the porch with them.

“Well, I reckon that’s what you’ve all been waiting for,” said Miss Beulah.

“We scared it into blooming after all,” said Aunt Birdie, sashaying towards its tub. Little groups in turn looked down in a ring at the spectacle, the deep white flower, a star inside a star, that almost seemed to return their gaze, like a member of the reunion who didn’t invariably come when called. The fragrance, Aunt Beck said, was ahead of the tuberose.

Only Granny sat and stared rigidly before her.

“Leave her alone,” said Uncle Curtis.

“Granny’s almost a hundred,” whispered Uncle Percy, trying to tiptoe going by her.

“Granny heard the Battle of Iuka. Heard the volleys,” said Uncle Dolphus, circling around.

“Talked back to General Grant. Remembers the conversation,” said Aunt Beck, pausing at the still chair.

“Mrs. Moody thinks she wants to say something,” Miss Beulah said.

“You’ve produced a night-blooming cereus!” repeated Mrs. Moody. “I haven’t seen one of those in years.”

“Yes’m, whatever in the nation you called it, it bloomed,” said Miss Beulah. “Even if it never does us the favor again.”

“Wait on it a little longer and there’ll be another one,” said Uncle Noah Webster. “I love ’em when they smell sweet.”

“And not a drop of precious water did I ever spare it,” said Miss Beulah. “I reckon it must have thrived on going famished.”

Not a groan but a long expenditure of breath was heard.

“I think Judge Moody had best be excused to bed,” said Miss Beulah to Mrs. Moody, and she took one of the lamps and started inside. “That man’s ready to drop.”

Uncle Homer threw out an arm to keep Judge Moody from passing. “Oh, we’re going to tend to that road better—wait till I get to be supervisor,” he said. “Roads—mosquitoes—our many cemeteries—mad dogs—floods—I’ll get my hands on all of ’em. Some day we’ll even do something about that bridge. Though no use us fixing our end any better till they fix theirs!”

“Oscar, just beat your way around him,” said Mrs. Moody, as she herself went stepping over the sleeping twins who lay entwined on the threshold of the passage, their twin pea-shooters pressing crosses into their naked chests.

“Here’s the company room—be careful how you step,” Miss Beulah’s voice came from inside. “And don’t bump your head. The only thing I still haven’t offered you is my nightgown—could I help you to it through the door? It’s fresh and it’s cool—I starched it this morning—and the only one to my name. It’s going on eleven years old.”

“You didn’t suppose I would
undress
, did you?” exclaimed Mrs. Moody’s voice.

“Do you want to let Judge Moody tell you goodnight, Granny? He’s bowing to you,” said Mr. Renfro at the old lady’s chair. “You remember Judge Moody.”

“Thought I sent him to Coventry,” Granny said.

Judge Moody slipped around her and followed his wife inside. His voice came out saying, “But if that’s to be our bed, I’d like this one last baby carried away from it.” When Miss Beulah returned to the porch she was holding her—it was Lady May, still dressed, and sound asleep. Gloria took her and carried her to a shadowy corner, out of the glare of the moonlight, and sat down with her, to watch the reunion go.

Mr. Willy Trimble came up to Granny. “Then keep a close watch on this young lady, folks,” he said, putting his long, joker’s face down beside Granny’s unblinking one. “If she starts to cutting up and you-all don’t want her, send for me and I’ll come back after her and have her for mine.”

All at once, and at the very end of her day, Granny decided to take off her hat. Elvie received it from her—it sank heavy as a
setting hen in her small arms. She ran into the house with it, blowing on it, as though in its dust lived a spark.

Granny was staying.

“Now I got far to go. And no mule. And Willy Trimble has whispered in my ear I still got to turn around and get me back to the cemetery in the morning,” said Brother Bethune. “I’m just good enough to get her into the ground,” he said, after he’d found his gun. “She’s still being a schoolteacher about it, up in Heaven. I’m the one she couldn’t bring to school.”