The Rebel Wife (9 page)

Emma eases closer to me. “Miss Gus,” she whispers low, so no one else can hear. “Ain’t they got a right to mourn Mr. Eli like anybody else?” She meets my eyes evenly. “Don’t you remember when Old Master died, didn’t we all—all his people—get to walk with him to his grave?”

Mama and I rode in the carriage while Hill and Mike walked behind the hearse. Behind us, the whole town and virtually every servant in the neighborhood walked in silent mourning, such was the great love my father’s people felt for him. They came all the way from the farthest plantations in the county simply to walk him to his burial place.

Emma watches the men and women in the street. “It ain’t no different here, Miss Gus,” she presses. “They just want to give him their respects for all the things he did for them.”

“Judge, please,” I call. “Let them pay their respects.” My face is hot and everyone’s eyes are on me. “When Pa died, his people gave him his due. They want to do the same for Mr. Branson.”

Judge looks hard at me, his nostrils flared. He is caught, though it is not my intention to trap him. He can hardly defy a widow’s request in front of the whole town. He knows too well how petty such behavior would seem.

“Fine, then,” he mutters and turns back to the Negroes in the street. “You stay behind this fence and you keep your distance. You show your respect. You hear?” He sneers at them. The Negroes stand stonily silent. Everyone is silent. The men on the lawn have stopped their nattering and part for Emma and me. Simon is at the back of the hall, tall and somber. He nods to me, just as stony as the Negroes on the street.

Pastor Peekum stands in the front parlor near the casket, rubbing his thin bony hands around a worn leather Bible.

“We’re ready for the service, sir,” I whisper in his ear, and he nods coldly. Bama comes and sits beside me. Rachel has brought Henry from the nursery, and I squeeze him against me. He is mystified, awed by the people in the house and how they handle him. They squeeze his cheeks and his plump arms, declaring they see the Sedlaws or the Blackwoods in him yet.

There is no eulogy. The idea is vulgar. The mourners will in no way appreciate a litany of Eli’s merits. There are no pallbearers, either. Mr. Weems has hired four men to serve in their place. Weems agreed with me that it was ill advised to ask a group of citizens to so distinguish themselves.

Peekum gives a hellfire-and-brimstone service. He is from the Holy Blood of the Redeemer Baptist Church on the west side of town. It was Eli’s church before our marriage, and Peekum was Eli’s pastor. I never went there. Mama and Henry and I always went to the Presbyterian church. Eli hardly went to church anyway.

Peekum is ascetic, with rough stubble on his chin and cheeks. He says that we all face a final accounting before God that will make the experiences of the late war a trivial dance. He says we must beg forgiveness for our sins and that even contrition may not be enough to save us. He agreed to give a short sermon, but he keeps talking. He shouts about Jesus in the garden at Gethsemane, alone, kneeling in prayer and knowing he would be crucified. He sweat great drops like blood as he prayed.

The heat rises in the parlor and chairs creak. Fans make a rush of sound without seeming to stir the air. The murmur of voices comes in from the street. We sit with our backs to the windows.

Pastor Peekum says that we sin, and the ineffable stains like blood are on our hands. That we are like beasts that ravage through God’s garden. We walk the winding path of salvation and stray from it, indulging our avarice, our lust, with gluttonous indulgence. “Turn back,” he cries, “turn back and follow the Lord before you are washed away in a flood of holy blood poured down on us from heaven. Repent.”

Is he condemning Eli or praising him? I grab Henry’s hand, and he looks up at me, frightened. I shake my head at him. What sins might I have committed to warrant such a sermon? These backwoods preachers will take any opportunity to shout the devil at you.

Henry is beside me on the gravel drive. A horse stands harnessed to a black hearse. The animal is dressed in black leather bridles and black silk bunting. Black ostrich plumes spring from his black blinders. The hearse has clear glass windows on all sides, and the coffin sits displayed inside it, piled with greenery and lilies of the valley. Henry’s hand is fast in mine, and we watch the crowd milling on the lawn and Greene Street. The hearse rolls forward and then back with the anxious movement of the horse.

The group of Negroes on the street has grown. I cannot count them all, but they stand watching and waiting, maybe one hundred of them, maybe more. They fill the street up to the corner, fanning themselves in the sun with palmettos and newspapers and hats. They are waiting for a sign, for a movement—and I have to give it. I lead Henry away from the group of ladies gathered at the corner of the house. Judge watches as we approach.

Buck is a few steps behind Judge. He is with Mike, who weaves on his feet, obviously drunk. Buck holds Mike’s arm. He looks at me and gives a subtle bow. His face is sad but so handsome. I am glad he cannot see me through my veil. Heat burns my cheeks. Still so handsome. It has been two years since I last saw him. His hair is black with a hint of gray coming in at the temples. He has a long mustache like a cavalryman. Like General Custer. A dashing look. I squeeze Henry’s hand and walk past without a sign. I can feel that hunger, like an itch deep in my belly, dead so long I didn’t think I could feel it again.

Judge meets me as we near the hearse and scowls at me. “What’s all this about?” he demands.

“I am going to walk behind the hearse, Judge. It’s my place and my son’s place.” I say it breathlessly. He stands silent. He believes women and children should be hidden in the carriage. He can tell me no. Surely he would not insist with the whole town watching. I have pushed him too much already today.

“Fine, then. Let’s get on with it.” He walks back and speaks to Buck and Mike. They are all waiting, black and white, men and women, watching me. The breeze presses the veil against my face and shoulders. It flutters against Henry’s arm. I nod at Simon to begin, and he tugs on the horse’s bridle. The horse jerks forward, but Simon’s hand steadies him into a slow, even pace.

There is a rumble of steps behind us as we enter the street. All of those people like some solemn army marching along, men and women, friends and family, and the hundred Negroes who have come to bury Eli. We move in a strange and grand procession to put this body in the ground, to bury with it all that he means to each of us. To forget him and the past. Not like Weems said. We all want to forget. We want to bury this body and forget him.

The procession moves slowly down Greene Street under the oaks and elms. The air is so still, nothing moves except the shuffling feet. The old brick homes watch us as we pass. They were all so fine once. Now many seem like ghost houses with gaping mouths and blank eyes. Their wrought-iron gates are rusted, and weeds climb their walls as if to swallow them whole. The boxwoods grow unkempt and wild. The lawns are more thistle and dandelion than grass. They grow tall in front of the houses as if to hide them for shame.

The New Cemetery spreads out behind a low stone wall, mostly wide lawns and young trees. Graves are scattered sparsely, except for the small field of white-painted crosses commemorating the men of Albion dead from the war. Eli will lie in a spot of green lawn shaded by young oaks where a red-earth hole has been opened. There is a plot for me next to him. From the brick-walled entrance, I can clearly see it. The black box in front of me will be lowered into it, and he will become one among the legion of dead who haunt this town.

Behind us, at first as a low hum, there is singing. The harmony begins to rise into a full song. The Negroes are singing. The men behind me pause in their steps, twisting their feet in the dirt, turning to look. I can tell which footsteps are Buck’s. He is a few feet behind me. I can hear the crunch of Judge’s shoes, too, just behind me. And Mike’s stumbling tread. He hangs against Buck as they walk. All of those feet pressing me. Henry’s hand is damp from the heat. This relentless heat and those footsteps. Purposeful steps like marching soldiers. The singing grows louder. Murmurs wash over the crowd of mourners, but I look ahead, my eyes on the hearse and coffin, on Simon’s black hand holding the reins of the black horse. The voices rise as more of the Negroes begin to sing to the rhythm of this funeral march. The strangeness of it. The disturbing strangeness of it.

THE MORNINGS HAVE BECOME
strands of quiet moments that grow into afternoons and afternoons into days. It feels like Judge will never come. This heat won’t relent. Perspiration beads Henry’s forehead and makes his blond hair stick to his temples. The servants move slowly. No work can be done at midday. The town seems asleep from noon to four, and even outside of those hours, few riders pass under the windows.

Late each afternoon, a bank of clouds rolls in, dark and ominous, and yet the rain does not come. The nights are sweltering and restless.

The street is empty. I half expect a caller. Someone must come eventually. I am more a prisoner of this house than I was before Eli died. I could at least go out before, but now mourning keeps me here alone. Where can I go anyway?

Away, but for the money. I could leave Albion and this prison and these ghosts and go away. When will I hear from Judge? How can Eli have done this?

Simon is working in the front yard. He is always toiling in the garden. He seems so calm. He pushes the lawn mower, a whirring contraption that has a canister filled with spiraling blades that move inside each other in a dizzying whirl. Back and forth, it whines with each push, back and forth across the grass from the fence to the boxwoods. The grass is lush. Simon will hand-carry water each day from the pump, little by little, until it rains.

The garden used to be mine, but Simon took it from me. He was right to take it from me. After that first year with Eli, all I could manage was the garden, even if I did become distracted. Sometimes the honeysuckle grew wild up the back porch posts. And in the fall, those dead gray tendrils stubbornly clung to the peeling paint. There were summers when the garden looked as untended as our neighbors’.

Then Simon stepped in. He asked permission of me to maintain the hedges, then subtly suggested planting climbing roses by the front door. He remembered, he said, delivering messages by the Chapman house before Eli bought it and always admiring the tender pink roses there. By summer’s end, he had taken over. I assume it was with my consent. Perhaps I agreed to it all at a time when I was—not myself.

But the lawns are clean and clipped. The trees are pruned and heavy with budding fruit. Irises line the walks, rioting with flowers. All the climbing vines by the front door bear soft pink roses that give a sweet smell that comes to me in my upstairs sitting room. The faintest scent of roses when the perfume is carried on the breeze, like a tiny, unexpected gift. I love to look out upon the flower beds, to smell the roses, and to watch them change from season to season. To see the work and care that Simon takes with them, as if it is all done especially for me.

The servants are quiet when I enter the room. Their conversations stop midsentence. They will resume as soon as I leave. I hear them talking as they do chores, gathering the laundry off the line from the end of the garden or in the kitchen. They’ve started whispering because they think I’m listening. I surprise them too often. I walk in on Simon standing in the rear parlor or in Eli’s office, staring at the walls. Then he nods and leaves without a word. It would be different if I had something to do. But Judge keeps me waiting. He tells me Eli’s money is gone and then forgets about me. And there is something going on with the servants. I know it. They look at me sidelong when I walk by. They watch me from the windows when I am in the garden.

Rachel is with John in the carriage house. Henry’s feet scrape on the gravel, and his prattle keeps me from hearing. If we were closer, I might hear more. Rachel says she is unhappy.

“Henry, shush,” I whisper.

She tells John he should be worried.

Just one step closer, holding Henry’s hand as we step onto the quiet grass.

She tells him that he should be a man for their family. That he should lead. If she were in charge, they’d already be gone. John tells her he is the head of the family and he will make the decisions. Not likely, with Rachel as a wife. John should have thought of that before they married. He says that he has been watching her and Simon. He wants her to tell him what is going on. She is laughing at him.

The air is so hot and still, and the only sound is the heavy drone of the cicadas. On and on the cicadas chirp. The background to a domestic squabble. I never had a domestic squabble with Eli. There was no need. There was nothing for us to squabble about. When Eli was angry with me, I couldn’t respond. He would chide me for coldness to our guests and then say I was too warm with the Yankee officers. When he hired Rachel, I told him she had a bad reputation and I would not welcome her into the house. His face turned bright red, and he blustered on about the Negroes and second chances and Christian charity. He flapped his arms up and down like a pelican. I couldn’t answer. I could only laugh hysterically into my hand until I was almost in tears. Absolute tears. I was almost out of my senses. He left the room, confounded, I guess. The next day he brought Rachel to me so that I could welcome her to the house. My protests were always for nothing.

After Henry was born, all Eli really expected from me was that I listen. He would talk at dinner and in the evening if we did not have guests. I knew by then to nod and smile or make some encouraging noise. He would talk on and on about the Republicans and Negroes and trying to keep the party together and cotton and railroads and progress. He always left money in a box in his office that I was free to take, although I barely touched it. All my accounts at the stores in Albion or Nashville or New Orleans were paid without question, regardless of the extravagance. Maybe it was wrong to spend so much, but I felt pushed almost to see if there was an item that he would find unacceptable or ostentatiously expensive. Ruby earrings. Gilded cameos. Brooches of gold filigree studded with tourmaline. Nothing seemed to ruffle him or even make him raise an eyebrow. Now the bills are stacked on my dressing table. Emma brings them to me one by one as they arrive. What am I to do with them?