All the Forgivenesses

by Elizabeth Hardinger

Genres: General Fiction

Synopsis

Growing up on their hardscrabble farm in rural Kentucky, 15-year-old Albertina "Bertie" Winslow has learned a lot from her mama, Polly. She knows how to lance a boil, make a pie crust, butcher a pig, and tend to every chore that needs doing. What she doesn't know, but is forced to reckon with all too soon, is how to look after children as a mother should...

When Polly succumbs to a long illness, Bertie takes on responsibility for her four younger siblings and their dissolute, unreliable daddy. Yet no matter how hard she tries to hold the family together, the task is overwhelming. Nine-year-old Dacia, especially, is resentful and stubborn, hinting at secrets in their mama's life. Finally, Bertie makes the only choice she can - breaking up the family for its own survival, keeping the girls with her, sending the boys off to their grown brothers, long gone from home.

Ever pragmatic, Bertie marries young, grateful to find a husband willing to take on the care of her sisters, and eventually moves to the oil fields of Kansas. But marriage alone cannot resolve the grief and guilt she carries over a long-ago tragedy, or prepare her for the heartaches still to come. Only by confronting wrenching truths can she open herself to joy - and learn how to not only give, but receive, unfettered love.

Release date: August 27, 2019

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 304

Sample

Galena, Kentucky, 1906

Daddy, he was the one always shot the pig. There’s a trick to it. You want to stun her so she falls directly and the heart keeps pumping and she drains out quick. If you shoot her back of the ear, say, like some people does, you might just nick the brain, and she’s like to run around the yard spewing blood and squealing, whirl in a circle, bounce off the cellar door. Might take five or six shots to drop her, and you’ll ruin good meat. No need for her to suffer like that. Daddy knowed just where to shoot her—right between the eyes but up a little bit. Sticking her, that takes a good eye and a sharp knife. You don’t stick her in the vein, might take a long time for her to drain out.

That day, when Mama seen Daddy walking over toward the pig with the long rifle, she hollered at me and Timmy to get back. “Bertie, get aholt of him!” Which I done.

Daddy walked a couple more steps and turned around and shot the pig, and she fell down directly. Then he stuck her, and the blood poured out.

“Bang,” said Timmy. His eyes was bright.

“Come on,” I said to him. “Let’s go look at the fire.” Timmy was three year old, and he’d as soon play with a stick on fire as blood. I took aholt of him and drug him over to where the women was congregated, like they will. Soon’s the sun come up, the women had built the fire and hoisted the big oil drum up on the grate. Then everbody carried buckets of water to half-fill it. Pretty soon it heated up, and the steam smelled of the pigs that had been boiled in it before. Smelled so good my mouth’d filled up.

“Mind he don’t fall in the fire,” Grandma Sweet said. She run her fingers up and down her arms, stripping off water.

“I know.” I myself wasn’t but six and a half, but, like Mama always said, you would’ve thought Timmy was my own baby instead of my brother, the way I was always making over him. Mama called me “little mother,” but I didn’t mind it. She meant it kindly.

“Don’t let him touch the pig,” Mama said to me. “I told you, keep a close eye on him. Ain’t got no time to look after him today.” She had my sister Dacia on her hip, smiling at her, jiggling the baby’s lower lip with her finger while Dacia cooed.

“Bang,” Timmy said again. He giggled in that way little children does, like they’re full of bubbles.

I took aholt of his hand. His fingers was cold, I remember. It was fall. You want cool weather for killing a pig so’s the meat gets good and chilled that night.

We was all there at Grandma and Grandpa Sweet’s place: Daddy, Mama, my older brothers William and Buck, me, Timothy—I called him Timmy—and Dacia. Opal and the twins wasn’t born yet.

A lot of the Sweet relations was there, too. Mama, her given name was Polly Jolene Sweet. I don’t remember most of their names, I was so little. Aunt JoyAnn and Aunt Birddella was there, and most likely Alma—and four or five older girl cousins. Hardly nobody my age. Most of them was older. I remember my cousin Frank, who had one side of his head flat and couldn’t but half see. It wasn’t often the Sweets got together. Everbody lived on little acreages scattered throughout the hills, and a pig killing was like a day at the fair practically.

Grandma and Grandpa Sweet’s house, now it was built up on a bluff. There wasn’t much front yard, and the back sloped up a ways and then there was the backwoods. There was a creek run down the hill and curled around in front of the bluff and wandered on down through more woods for a ways. They called it Tenmile Creek. We had to jump over a narrow place in the Tenmile to get up to the house, or, if it was high, we stepped along the rocks.

We was living in the Appalachian hills in southeast Kentucky, but I didn’t know that then. It was just the place where we lived at. For all I knowed, it was the whole world.

Me and Timmy watched as the men spread the pig’s hind legs apart and tied the feet to the spreader. Then they threaded a two-by-four through the spreader and heaved her up and carried her over to the old sweetgum tree, the one with the big stout branch they used for hanging pigs. They strung her up by the hind legs, and then they waited around, smoking, till the blood petered out. I pulled Timmy back out of their road again as they carried her over and lowered her headfirst into the boiling water to scald her. After a little bit, they lifted her out and hung her back up in the tree to skin.

Then Daddy and the other men and boys took off to go hunting, I guess ten or twelve of them altogether. My big brothers, William and Buck, went with them. I seen Daddy lift his whiskey bottle before they got to the woods.

With the pig hanging in the tree, the next thing was to scrape the hair. Now the pigs we had in them days was about half wild, seems like—they had thick brown hair, coarse and stiff. Some people just skinned them, hair and all, and throwed the skin to the dogs. But us, we scraped off the hair first, and then we saved the bare skin to fry up. Cracklins, now that was good eating. Mama told me you ain’t had good food till you’ve eat cracklins.

Grandma and two other women and an older girl, they scraped the hair. It made a snick-snick sound.

“Mind you don’t break the skin,” Grandma said.

Grandma’s half-tail red tom come up. “Scat!” one of the women hollered. She kicked him, and he yowled and took off.

Timmy laughed. Then he stuck his nose in the air and said, “What stinks?”

“Hush, it’s just pig,” I told him.

“We just gonna stand around all day?” he said.

“What—”

“Leapfrog!” He jumped up high as he could, stretching his arms out wide. “Leapfrog!”

“I hear you! No need to holler!” I faced away from the pig and bent over, and Timmy jumped up and landed right smack in the middle of my spine. We both fell down in a heap, and Timmy laughed till the snot come out of his nose. He never got the hang of leapfrog.

I was content to play with Timmy in the yard while they gutted her. I didn’t want to watch anyhow. It about made me sick, tell the truth. You start off by cutting around her rear end and pulling out a gob of innards and tying it off with a string. Then you slice her down the middle and pull out the entrails. Nasty work. Then you saw down through the backbone to halve her, and you’re ready to butcher.

Mama and the aunts set up the two sawhorses with the old door laid across them for a worktable. It was painted black, that door was, and it had a hole where the knob used to be. They used that same door ever time.

The women stood around the table, cutting up the meat and visiting like women will. Seemed like there was a lot to tell. “Well, John, now, John tore off his big toenail the other day, drove the spade clean through it,” a woman in a blue bandanna said. “Like to bawled his head off, a growed man.”

They all laughed.

I heard more snatches. “Poured bleach down the hole, and I ain’t seen a termite since.” “I told him, don’t you never come home like that again unless you’re right with the Lord.” “Well, who do you reckon was standing there? His mother!” “We always salt it afterwards. I never heard of salting it before. Don’t it get tough? It don’t? Seems like it’d get tough.” “Told her and told her, it’s your own fault. Said, don’t come crying to me. You was asking for it.” “Well, of course we didn’t know him from Adam’s housecat.”

Aunt JoyAnn, she was one of them standing there and working, and Mama next to her watching and playing with Dacia. JoyAnn said to Mama how pretty of a baby Dacia’d gotten to be.

“She’s a Sweet, all right. Look at all that curly hair,” Mama said, petting her. “Now Bertie, she takes after her daddy’s side, sure enough. You know his mama said to me one time, ‘Us Winslows got eye-colored eyes and hair-colored hair.’ ” Mama and JoyAnn both laughed. No matter how many hundred times I heard “eye-colored eyes and hair-colored hair,” it never made no sense to me, though I got the point.

Then Mama told the story—like JoyAnn didn’t already know it—about how they named the baby Dacia after Mama’s favorite cousin twice removed, who was a famous gospel singer and sung at the Union Gospel Tabernacle in Nashville and married a rich man and always wore rouge. I never seen that Dacia myself, but Mama and them was all the time talking about her. They called her somebody’s Dacia, I forget who, and our Dacia they called Polly’s Dacia. Our Dacia was too little to walk yet, but if she was setting on your lap and you started singing or even just clapping, why, she’d dance, swaying her head and flinging her arms. She was loose-jointed as a rag doll.

Now some people, when they seen her name spelled out, called her “Day-SEE-uh,” but that ain’t right. It’s “DAY-shuh.” Sometimes I’d call her Day-SEE-uh just to tease her.

I looked up when Mama said, “Dacia, boo!” Mama swooped her nose down close to Dacia’s face and then pulled back. “Boo!” She done it again. Dacia broke out in a toothless grin and started burbling. Then JoyAnn laughed and said, “Boo.”

They kept it up till Dacia got tired of it and started fussing. “Bertie,” Mama called to me, “come put Dacia down.”

“Now Bertie, she was a colicky baby, remember?” Mama said to JoyAnn. I reckon she knowed I could hear her. “My Lord, you’d’ve thought her stomach had a mouse in it, the way she gagged and spewed up milk. You never seen the like. Bertie! Come get Dacia!”

I stopped playing with Timmy and walked over there.

“You’d pick her up—stiff as a washboard!” Mama went on. “Never smiled! Sour as a chokecherry! I thought, ‘I waited all this time for a girl, and this is what I got?’ ” Then she leaned over and said something in JoyAnn’s ear, something about Daddy—I heard her say his name, Albert—and JoyAnn laughed.

Wasn’t no use of me crying about being called a washboard or a chokecherry or even a Winslow, I knowed that. Didn’t do no good. Just showed you didn’t have no sense of humor. Come to that, the way I was raised, it wasn’t no use of crying—or even whining—about hurt feelings, period, unless somebody’d died. If you was a bawl-baby, you got shamed, you got teased, or people just ignored you like you’d embarrassed yourself, which I reckon bothered me the most of all. If you kept at it, you got punished, though usually only a slap. So you learned to hide your feelings or wait till you was out behind the barn and nobody could hear you.

Mama looked at me standing there. “When I call your name, you come—hear me?” She kissed the baby and laid her in my arms. “Mind you don’t drop her.” I seen Mama’s shirt had wet spots from nursing.

Soon’s I took aholt of the baby she started bawling, and she bawled all the way to the house. Timmy followed behind us with his head hung down.

I carried her into the side room, where Grandma kept the cribs. I picked the littlest one, but still I wasn’t hardly big enough to reach over the side, and I dropped the baby a little bit. She hollered like she’d been whipped.

“Stop bawling, you baby, you ain’t hurt.” I took Timmy by the hand and walked him back to the yard. I said to him, “Don’t worry, she’ll fall asleep directly.”

By the time they was done butchering the pig and wrapping up the meat in newspapers, me and Timmy was tuckered out. I made him a pallet in the corner of Grandma and Grandpa’s room. I seen he had a little brown crust of pig’s blood on the tail of his shirt. I scraped at it with my finger. His eyelids fluttered, and he went to sleep.

I set there and looked at him for a while. There’s a certain velvet sheen to the eyelids of a sleeping child. Some baby animals have it, too.

When I walked back outside, some of the women was washing up and some was laying out food. Mama was telling them the story on me—how I snuck down to the creek at our place, Elbow Creek, by myself. I loved it down there on the Elbow. I fished for tadpoles and crawdads there, and things there was peaceful. But I was forbade to go to the creek by myself. I was not ordinarily a contrary child, but ever little bit I felt like I had to go down there and just set and listen to how quiet it was. It was like I couldn’t help myself. Well, this time that Mama was talking about—a week, more or less, before the day we butchered the pig—well, when I come back home, I’d stood there and told her I never went down to Elbow Creek, and me with mud all up and down my skirt. Mama like to had a fit. She feared me going down to Elbow Creek, sure enough, but it was me bearing false witness, now that she couldn’t hardly abide.

Mama said to them women, “So I said to her, said, ‘Bertie, I sure would hate to think Jesus got nails pounded into his hands just so I could tell a lie and get away with it.’ ”

“Saved by grace,” Aunt Birddella said.

“What about that snake that time?” somebody said. “Wasn’t that Bertie? You know, that time Albert—” And I said, “What?” And Mama said, “Hush, we wasn’t talking about you.” And I said, “Yes, you was, you—” And Mama narrowed her eyes. “Hush, I said.”

Then I had a memory light on my chest like a butterfly will, lingering for a moment, its wings quivering. In my memory I was real little, and there was a man there with snakes, and I was setting on Daddy’s shoulders with my hair flyaway, and there was a commotion, and then me and him was walking home. Then I blinked and these pictures flew off, and I felt goose bumps all up and down my arms.

“Saved by grace, thank God Amighty.” This was the woman with the blue bandanna, nodding, and her eyes closed.

Now Mama and her kin was the kind that believed you was saved by grace and not by works, so you could get away with a sin if you wanted to—you just didn’t want to. Grace was God’s way of letting you into Heaven even though you was a born sinner. But the way Mama taught grace was a hard teaching. According to her lights, if you was in God’s grace you didn’t even want to do bad no more.

But me, seemed like I was always wanting to sin. For sure I’d ruther lie than take a whipping. There was times I was like to covet, and I was like to get a hungry headache at Sabbath service. I got to where I hardly ever wanted to go no more. Not to mention, honoring your mother and father meant doing their will without complaining even in your heart. That was hard. So whenever Mama talked about them nails in Jesus’ hands, seems like my insides would fold in two.

And besides, after I went down to the Elbow, she’d made me go cut her a switch anyhow, and she give me a whipping. “Shame on you for disobedience, shame on you for making me whip you,” she hollered, and afterward she throwed the switch into the trees. I’d felt scalded.

Now one of the other women spoke up. “My little Pleasant, she hardly ever lies, but does she steal—food! Right out of the pantry. I told her, said—”

“It’s ready,” somebody said. “Come and eat it before the flies get it.” So we all lined up next to the worktable. They had scrubbed it down and put on a red-and-white cloth, and they’d set out bowls and bowls of food.

“We waiting on the men?”

“How come?” the bandanna woman said. “They wait on us?”

Everbody laughed.

“Let us pray,” Grandma Sweet said, and we all bowed our heads. She thanked our heavenly father for sending Jesus to die on the cross and get raised up after three days by God’s grace. “Hallelujah,” Mama said. Grandma Sweet thanked God for the food we was about to eat by His grace, too, and we all said amen.

Everbody took a breath and helped themself to the food. Mama filled me a plate, and we set around on chairs and tree stumps and eat. The women kept on talking. Mama bragged on me making my first pie crust in a teacup. I didn’t know why she bragged on it since it was a mess and I’d like to cried over it, it fell into so many pieces. Mama bragged on me ever little bit, on how handy I was around the house, and though I warmed to the praise, it always made me break out in a sweat. I never liked people looking at me. But it did feel good knowing I was able to do something that pleased Mama.

While we eat, the sun come out, like it will sometimes in the fall, and the air warmed up. Some of them took off their sweaters and set around fanning themself, and some of them spread out a quilt and laid down. Their heads dropped back and their mouths fell open. Pretty soon my flat-headed cousin Frank come along carrying a stick with a rag tied to it. He took up a place and stood over three of the sleeping women and waved the stick back and forth, I reckon to keep the flies off. I remembered, then, that I’d saw him do that before. Frank, if you once showed him how to do something and got him started, why, he would keep doing it till you told him not to no more.

It got quiet.

Mama, she laid down on a quilt and dropped off. Now I myself never liked taking a nap, but after I watched Frank waving the stick for a while, I laid down next to Mama and fell asleep, too.

Next thing I knowed, why, Daddy, William, Buck, and the other men come tromping into the yard. Men and boys makes a racket just by walking along, seems like. Must be the things they carry—guns, knives, traps, chains, tack—not to mention the buckles on their boots and the noises bubbling up from their gullet.

They’d got a mess of rabbit and three pheasant, and Daddy had a gunny sack half-full of squirrel.

“Jesus wept!” he bellowed to Mama. She was setting on the quilt holding Dacia, fluffing the baby’s hair with her fingers.

“Ain’t you got nothing to do?” Daddy said. “Smother me some squirrel!” He loved him some squirrel gravy.

William and Buck and the men swarmed to the table like locusts and started eating the leftover food right out of the bowls.

Mama give me Dacia to hold, and then her and two of the women dumped out the scald water and rolled the oil drum out of their road. Then they built up the fire again and started in cleaning and cooking the game. The chill had came back, and they had on their shawls and sweaters.

“I need to go to the backhouse,” I said to Mama.

She never said nothing, only reached down and took the baby from me and balanced her on her hip.

I went to the backhouse and relieved myself. Then I wandered into the house to check on Timmy, but he wasn’t laying there no more.

“Where you at, Timmy?” I hollered. “Daddy and them’s back, and Mama’s making smothered squirrel!” Grandma and Grandpa’s house was bigger than ours, four rooms, but it didn’t take long to search through it. Timmy wasn’t nowhere.

I went outside and started looking for him. Timmy was like to hide from me. He’d watch me from his hiding place, and whenever I got close he’d start to giggling. Then when I found him, he’d take to laughing like I’d happened on him just by luck.

Now I looked through his favorite hiding places. I searched the grove to the west of the house, and then I looked out back of the barn, behind the backhouse, underneath of the outcropping by the big mossy rock, calling his name.

I was standing at the edge of the backwoods when Daddy come walking toward me, his shoulders bobbing up and down like they always done from his bad knee.

“What the Sam Hill you doing up here, girl? Didn’t you hear us calling you in?” He reached where I was at, and he bent down and give me a hard swat on the behind.

I blinked back tears. “I can’t find Timmy.”

“Can’t find him? He hiding?”

“How would I know?” If I hadn’t’ve been so sidetracked I never would’ve mouthed off like that.

Daddy raised his hand and slapped me in the face. Hardly nothing I hated worse than getting slapped.

He took aholt of me by the elbows. “My squirrel’s getting cold.”

“I went—I looked—”

He give me a hard stare, his eyes big and wild. I smelled liquor on him, which I most always did. He squeezed my arms.

“We was playing hide-and-go-seek, Daddy. I don’t know where he’s at.” That lie just tumbled out of my mouth.

Daddy swore, grabbed me up, and carried me back to the house. The ragged skin on his hands scratched my underarms.

Wasn’t long before everbody started up looking for Timmy. The dogs bayed and tore around the yard like dogs does. They give them the scent, and the dogs loped off, and people followed them. I remember my older brothers’ faces stiff with fright.

Directly Mama give me Dacia and had me to go in the house and set there with an older girl cousin of mine. I laid Dacia on a blanket on the floor and set near to the stove and bawled, shivering. Dacia, she stared at me for a while and then took up whimpering, and I had to swallow back my tears and keep her company. Otherwise she was like to start howling.

Sometime after dark, Mama come and got us, and we walked the three mile home. When I seen our house coming up, with its familiar hewed wood siding and corrugated tin roof, I sunk down to my knees. Mama, she kept going, and after a little bit I rose and caught up with her. We never eat that night except Dacia.

Seems like I never slept that night for praying. I asked the Lord to lead the men to where Timmy was at, shivering in the cold but living still. I prayed they would find him alive for Mama’s sake, and I promised I’d never take my eyes off of him again. But the praying never done me no good. I felt myself drug down into a dark place, and seemed like my eyes never closed all night long. I knowed whatever happened to Timmy, it was my fault, and nobody realized it but me. There wasn’t no getting around it.

I got it in my mind that if Timmy died, Daddy would shoot me. I hoped he would sneak up on me and shoot me in the back of the head so I wouldn’t see it coming. Maybe I dreamed that.

The next morning I was looking out the front window and seen Daddy and my older brothers walking up to the house. Aunt JoyAnn was with them. Mama had me to wait in her and Daddy’s room while she went out and talked to them. I heard her wailing, and I knowed Timmy was dead.

Pretty soon Mama and Daddy come in. They stood there side by side.

“We found him a ways downstream on the Tenmile,” Daddy said. His voice went high-pitched. He cleared his throat. “He was wedged in some rocks, is why we never found him till daylight.”

My throat twanged from holding back tears. I looked at my hands and waited for the judgment of the Lord to come down upon me. I deserved it.

“The Lord called Timmy home, and he’ll be up there in Heaven, waiting for us, when we get there,” Mama said. “He’s happy in the Lord.” There was red all around her eyes.

“But I want him back,” I blurted out.

Daddy blowed out his breath. “You think we don’t? Wantin’ ain’t gettin’. Time you learned.”

About that time I heard Buck sobbing in the front room, and then the sound of it changed, like somebody had pulled him to their chest. William, I heard him clear his throat two or three times.

“Tell me what happened,” Mama said to me.

My tears dried up. “Well.” I took a breath and then another. “Maybe he hid, and after while he looked around and didn’t see me, and maybe he . . . felt like I wasn’t looking for him no more, so he took off by himself.” It was like I was speaking with the tongue of the Devil himself. I wondered if God was gathering up thunderbolts to rain down upon me.

“He knowed better, he was told,” Mama said. “Don’t a one of you pay no attention.” I seen how her bottom lip was pointing off to the side on its own ever little bit. She never had that tic before.

Now JoyAnn come in carrying Dacia. The baby’s cheeks was pink, and she was babbling. She looked for all the world like a painted doll. They don’t come no prettier than Dacia was, even I’ve got to admit that.

“We got to go take care of him,” Mama said to me.

For a tiny second my heart went wild, but then I realized she was talking about Timmy’s body, not him. I pictured his body stuck in the rocks, cold and wet. It wasn’t like I hadn’t saw little drowned animals before. Their skin is waxy, and their hair clings to it like thread.

JoyAnn set with me and Dacia that day while Mama and them buried Timmy. They went ahead and put him out by the big mossy rock at Grandma and Grandpa’s, which they could since her and him owned their place. Afterward people talked about how big and brave my brothers was, helping dig the hole.

Now me and JoyAnn, there wasn’t hardly a word spoke between us all day, seems like. I slept some in the afternoon. When I got up, I felt extra wakeful. JoyAnn had me to go feed and water the chickens and horses and gather the eggs, which I done. I felt like I was floating six inches off the ground and not really touching anything, like a ghost, though as I poured the grain into the feeders I noticed it give off its usual smell of old fruit, and the dust floated up. Blue, our dapple gray mare, she nickered and puffed out her nostrils and nuzzled my neck like she done, but it was like I was standing a ways off and watching it. I didn’t get no feeling out of it.

When I come back inside, JoyAnn seen me and wiped her nose and patted the side chair for me to set down. “You don’t remember this, but you stayed with us for a while, you and Timothy, while your mother recovered from his birth,” she said. “You must’ve been about three.”

I never said nothing.

“I recollect how you’d drag him around like a doll, and you barely bigger than him.” She blowed her nose on her hankie. “You’d crawl up in the rocking chair, and your legs was so short, your feet hung over the edge. So you’d lean back hard as you could, back and forth, back and forth, singing to him.”

Nobody said nothing for a while. Pretty soon she got up and made some supper. Then she put me and Dacia to bed—Dacia in her crib, and me in my pallet in the corner of the front room. Mama and Daddy and William and Buck, they wasn’t back yet.

I must have fell asleep for a while. I dreamed Timmy himself sent an avenging angel after me, roaring like a bear. I woke up, and I heard that angel up above me, and I made water a little in my drawers. But then I realized it was Daddy on the roof, drunk, talking and hollering to himself like he done. I imagined I could smell his slobber and throw-up through the tin. I wondered what was going to happen to us now. Our family was ruined, seemed like, without Timmy there where he belonged. Me, I didn’t belong there no more neither. With what I done, I didn’t belong nowhere. God nor Jesus wouldn’t want me in their heart now, seemed like.

I laid there for a long time. I tried to pray, but my teeth chattered to the point where I couldn’t. I cried for a while, quiet as I could, till my lips felt dried out. I ached all over. I had a painful buzz in my mouth that wouldn’t go away.

I needed Mama. I needed to tell her I’d lied to her and Daddy both. I wasn’t watching Timmy like I was supposed to, and it was my fault he was dead. I went over it in my mind, how I would say it, how I would beg forgiveness and ask Mama to pray with me and get me right with the Lord like she knowed how. I reckoned everbody would hate me. I knowed I would be punished in some terrible way. But I deserved it. And besides, it would be better than feeling like I never belonged nowhere.

Finally, I rose up and tiptoed into Mama and Daddy’s room. By the moonlight from the window I seen Mama laying there, facing the wall.

I didn’t hear Daddy up on the roof no more. I don’t know if he’d passed out or if the thunder in my ears was too loud for me to hear him.

“Mama,” I whispered.

She turned over quick, and I was surprised to see she had a half smile on her face. But soon’s she seen me, she pursed her lips. “What are you doing up? Get back to bed.”

I opened my mouth, but no words come out.

“Stop your bawling now,” she said, though I wasn’t. “Ain’t no tears in Heaven, you know that. Timothy’s asleep in Jesus.”

“Yes, but—”

“Lord don’t want to see you crying, hear me? Ain’t your place to tell God Amighty what to do.”

I tried to get started. “I never thought Timmy would die.” That word die had a thickness to it that stuck in my throat.

“Ever living thing dies,” she said. “It’s the curse of sin. The wages of sin is death.”

This took all the breath out of me.

“I’m tired, you hear? Go back to bed.” Now her shoulders squirmed like she was being tickled, and I seen a light come on in her eyes. Then I heard giggling, and I knowed Dacia was in the bed with her, curled up behind her, and that was how come Mama’d been half smiling before. She give a little sigh and turned over, and you could see her body loosen under the quilt. The thought of her making over Dacia at that moment was like sand in my teeth.

I walked back into the front room and dropped onto my pallet. After while I started smelling my water on my underdrawers, and I knowed I couldn’t abide it through the night till morning. I got up and made me a bowl of soap and water, and I took my time rinsing them out and blotting them with a dishrag. I hung them up on the back of the chair. I didn’t have no clean ones, so I laid back down with nothing on underneath of my nightshirt. I hadn’t never slept that way before, and it felt amiss in some way I couldn’t fathom. That alone would have kept me up the rest of the night, even if I didn’t have nothing else haunting me like I done.