Outside, blustery weather pushed over the old mountains and licked at the weather-beaten boards as I covered Retta’s lifeless body with her quilt.
I walked out onto the porch and lifted up my sorrows to the mourning winds, my heart heavy, shattered in grief, the loneliness unbearable, smothering.
Retta had been as close as kin, what remained of any family I had left. A hope that Retta would replace the loss of my parents and help the healing was now lost to the old lands. I tightened my bruise-colored hands over the splintered porch rail, leaned over, and wailed to the trees, cried for dear Retta and my family taken from me.
From the stall, Junia hawed and kicked at her door, raring to break free and see me. Exhausted, I straightened and walked over, pressed my cheek against her neck and stroked her muzzle. Junia whisked out a trembling bray. She was all I had left now, and her big solemn eyes and worrisome ramblings told me the girl knew we only had each other.
Pennie jumped up onto the ledge of the Dutch door, purring, butting her head against Junia’s face, and the ol’ mule let her. I was surprised how quickly their friendship had developed but grateful the cat consoled her.
I turned to Retta’s darkened cabin, the nightfall crowning the hard day and harder times sweeping in. “We have to go down the mountain and find Alonzo,” I said, saddling Junia.
When I got to his tiny cabin five minutes later, it was empty and he was nowhere to be found. I banged on the door one last time, my fist darkening from my anger and dismay.
A curse slipped off my lips. I headed back to Retta’s, not knowing a lick about burials or funerals but reckoning it was up to me to handle it all. At the table I rummaged through the lining of my coat and pulled out the bills, then folded them into my pocket.
Nurse Amara slipped in later to let me know she’d send the funeral wagon up tomorrow afternoon, then gave solemn condolences before wearily going on to her next patients.
In the glow of candlelight, I sat and read Retta’s Bible, praying for her, and for me and my folk, dozing off as the pulls and sighs of the long night shifted into the fatter hours of slumber.
Several times, I jerked awake thinking I heard someone crying. Rubbing tired eyes, I found my lashes wet. It weren’t long till my lids grew heavy again, my tears dried, and the leaving hours of night called me back asleep.
The next morning, Junia neighed outside and I raised my head from the table. Sunrise filtered through the windows and skated in between the cracks of ol’ weathered boards, haloing over Retta’s bed of eternal slumber.
I sat at the table, thinking. If I went to town and told folk of her passing, it could bring the law down on me. And without Retta, I would surely be sent to the House of Reform. But Retta deserved to have her friends pay their respects. I was torn and tapped the worrisome thoughts onto the table.
As Amara promised, the funeral wagon arrived a little past noon and the men carefully placed Retta in a pine coffin.
I grabbed my gloves and Retta’s Bible, looked around one last time and quietly closed the door. Following the four men in the wagon, we rode toward Retta’s family cemetery.
The men dug hard and fast, and after they lowered the cheap pine box into the ground and filled the hole with dirt, one of them, a young colored man, came over and removed his cap. “Ma’am, I’m Leon Payne. Me and the fellers wondered if there was anyone other than you?” He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his brow, looking around the small graveyard.
I’d hoped her nephew would come, but the ornery man had gone on a tear. I wondered if Amara had published the news to others. It was as if the world didn’t know Loretta Adeline Adams existed, scratched out a life to make a difference—a talented seamstress to many in these hills, mother to her nephew, nanny to me, and loyal friend. She deserved better for her ninety-two years of service to others, and the guilt of not letting others know last night weighed heavily on my heart.
Talk traveled fast in the small town, and even faster when it was bad news. I prayed Retta would forgive me for not telling folk, but I had to try to keep myself from going to prison. Somehow, I had to get out of the ugly grip the state held on me, and if this allowed me more time, it meant another day of freedom.
“Ma’am, is there no one else?” Mr. Payne inquired again. “I’m happy to wait. Send one of the fellers into town to let the townsfolk know about her burial so they can come out and pay their respects.”
“No, sir, just me. And she asked for a private burial,” I lied. Pulling out money, I passed him fifteen dollars for their labor and another ten for the box and added four more dollars. “Is this enough, sir?”
“Sure is, thanks.” He pocketed the money and said, “I sometimes ride a ministry circuit. I’d be honored to say a prayer, lift Miss Adams up into her Heavenly Father’s arms.”
“Much obliged, Mr. Payne.” I turned one last time, searching past the smattering of crumbly headstones for him. Likely, Alonzo was passed out in his bed, or a town alley.
The men gathered around the fresh-dug grave and took off their caps and bowed their heads as Mr. Payne recited Corinthians 15:51–57. “‘Death is swallowed up in victory… O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?’”
Mr. Payne gave a fine eulogy, one that honored Retta, and I was grateful. When the man finished, he sang a dirge, slow and quiet. The other three men joined in, lifting the sweet, mournful song into the hills.
I peered up to the blue endless skies and mouthed, Don’t leave me, Retta, Don’t go.
After the song, Mr. Payne came over and laid a comforting hand on my shoulder. The other men passed in front of me, dropping whispered condolences.
When they were gone, I stood alone over her fresh grave. “Retta, your prettiest petunia will always miss and love you. Thank you for reading to me every day when I was little, for your love.” I kneeled down. “Mama, Papa, I miss you. Come home soon. Come home, I need you.” I struck a fist to the earth, delivering my demand. Time passed, shadows stretched longer as my grief grew and sat lodged like a live stone in my throat that my sobs couldn’t loosen.
In a while, Junia called out softly. I looked out to the ancient hills and said one last prayer, then scooped up a handful of the Kentucky soil and tossed it across her grave. “I love you, Retta. Go dance with your angels.”