It’s two a.m. when Mae leaves. I snuff out the candles, snap off the excess wax to save the shavings to mix with juice for next season’s Halloween candies. What child doesn’t love a wax-juicy? The house is dark. The boiler hums, the floors squeak, the windows rattle. I picture Moses trying to force himself back home, riding on the breeze to slip under loose floorboards. He could, if I hadn’t had the whole house reinforced right after the Mourning Period. No widow should ever have to Move On the same husband more than once. If he did make it back to Curdle Creek talking about it’s your fault the children didn’t stay, you helped them, I’d send the damned fool right back where he came from.
It’s both of our faults. We lay in this very bed making babies like multiplying was the only math we knew. If it had been up to me, I would have left with them. Or, if I’d had any sense, bundled them up in the middle of the night and left just like the non-believer Mother says I am.
With the candles wrapped and put away, the dishes washed and blinds drawn, I have a few hours to be myself before I turn into someone’s wife or daughter. It’s a small price to pay to throw their lot in with mine.
I lie on my Jasmine’s floor. The carpet is thick and tickles my cheek. My daughter’s big canopy bed, trunks full of homemade clothes, thick store-bought curtains, ordinance posters, diaries and schoolbooks are long gone. Even her collection of records by the Curdle Creek Band and her rare collection by the Curdle Creek Wonders—a teen band that didn’t even last through their first Moving On—are stored away in the archives. Her room is emptied. I could be anywhere. Although the Sisters stripped each of the children’s rooms as soon as the Council confirmed they’d absconded, the room still smells like the jasmine perfume my daughter loved to wear. Especially here on the carpet that even after all that scrubbing still carries leftover dabs and drops of crushed jasmine petals and oils. It smells sweet, innocent, just like my Jasmine. Eighteen and already somewhere mothering her little brother and sister. May the ancestors send you breezes that lead you far away from this place, I pray. I cross myself and just in case, I make the sign of the bell to seal it tight.
THE sun rises the same as usual and, just for spite, it’s bright and full. There’s no sense rushing it. Everything in its proper time. First, the Running of the Widows, then the Calling, the Moving On almost smack-dab in the middle of a too-full week, and finally the Warding Off. All that and, in my head, today will always be about Moving On.
My leg’s cramping but I won’t get up and walk it out. Instead, I settle into it, roll with the pain trickling up and down my leg. My stomach tightens and loosens, tightens again. The window’s still closed but there’s a sudden hot breeze in the room. My skin is flushed. I’m sweating all over. My scalp prickles with it. The sudden moisture makes my skin itch.
I deserve to be uncomfortable. Wasn’t I lying in this very spot three years ago when the Messenger knocked on the door? Didn’t I already know it was time when Moses’s gargled voice made its way up the stairs, screech first? Of course I knew his name had been called. We were all at the Calling. I just didn’t know they’d come to collect him so soon. How little time there was to prepare. How hard it would be to know what to say when the time came. I got up, rolled up the quilt, closed the bedroom door, tightened my robe, and went down the stairs to comfort him, slumped over, knees already on the floor. I had already made peace with the news. Of course there’d be a price for the children. First my seat on the Council, then Moses, then my job as a teacher. The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away. One thing for each child. But like Moses said, it’s a whole lot easier to make peace with Moving On when you’re not the one doing it.
I check the clock anyway. It’s six o’clock. The Messengers will just be starting their rounds. The mail comes this time every morning but nobody really wants to see them. They could drive to deliver the mail, throw their costumes and sacks in the back seat—it’d be easier on all of us. But instead they walk, no matter how long it takes, as if folks prefer the sound of their slow-footed heels clicking down cobblestones, delivering bad news door-to-door. Sometimes it takes hours for them to make their way. The longer it takes, the better the news, though, so no one, including me, wants to hear from them first thing.
I put my bedding away, close the door, and settle by the woodstove with a cup of coffee. I have the kettle on for the Messenger, a cup on the sideboard, a plate of biscuits with jam and butter in case the Messenger is hungry after a long day’s work. I keep the lights off and unplug all the electricals; it’s bad luck otherwise. I am sitting with my back to the window and facing northeast, chanting, “I’m open and ready to receive good news, I’m open and—” when there’s a knock on the door.
It could be the newspaper kid expecting a tip for throwing my paper on the porch, like it’s not her job to do just that. Of course I’ll tip her anyway. The last thing I need is her complaining to a parent and that parent complaining to the wrong sister, brother or Heaven forbid Charter Mother. There won’t be enough I’m sorrys to protect me. Not this close to the festivities. So I fish out some coins from the jar, open the door with a smile and a welcome at the ready.
The Messenger’s on the porch, hand raised about to knock again, head already shaking as I swing open the door. With the pursed lips, midnight-black wig pinned up in a stiff bouffant, mustard-seed dress with matching cinch, gloves and clutch, I know the message is from Mother before she even says a word. Leave it to Mother to send a Messenger instead of ringing the party line. Mother likes the drama of it all. The Messengers have been delivering news ever since the Curdle Creek Theatre was shut down. That’s forty years of delivering bad news. All those actors out of work gave Mother an idea. The Old Post Office was closed and the theater became the New Post Office/Theatrics Society. The actors became mail carriers, delivering news in character. They’ve gotten good at it. Even won awards.
I step back, unsteady, but of course the Messenger comes inside when I invite her to. It’s rude not to invite the Messenger in and if nothing else I’m always polite. She saunters down the hall, too-high heels clacking on the wood floor. Before long she’s in the living room. It’s a short walk but, since Mother’s corsets make her unnaturally thin around the middle, the Messenger’s struggling to breathe. My heart’s not beating so I can hear her panting. She must have rushed straight here.
My hands are shaking but I take the envelope from the Messenger’s fingers. It’s customary to settle the slip before the reading of the message. It wouldn’t be fair to let bad news sour a good performance. I sign the receipt and add a generous tip, stuff the slip back into the envelope and seal it.
The Messenger sits down in my chair just the way Mother would. She takes the letter from the clutch and places it on the table between us. She moves deliberately. She doesn’t settle into the chair; she perches, hovering over it. That’s just how Mother sits, I want to say, but of course she already knows. It’s a small town and Mother’s on the Council. Everybody knows the Charter Mothers.
What does she want? Maybe it’s news about the children. Maybe she’s heard where they are, that they’re fine and they want to come home. Or an apology for blaming me for the leaving. Or a— My heart’s beating fast again and my fingers ache. I can’t crack them, not now. Not with the Messenger looking more and more like Mother by the minute. If you wouldn’t do it in front of the person, don’t do it in front of the Messenger, they say. Not that the Messenger will judge you for it. Messengers will tell the person about it, though. Unless you pay them not to—which is against the rules. Or, you nominate them for the Moving On—which isn’t. Anyway, I already know who I’m nominating and I don’t have no change to spare.
I fold my hands in my lap and wait for the reading to begin. The Messenger puts my cup to her lips. “May I?” she asks.
She’s thoroughly in character now. I couldn’t stop her if I wanted to. “Of course.” The words come out on their own. “I’ll get you the biscuits.” As if I can’t stop myself, I cut one in the middle, slather it with butter and jam for her.
The Messenger clears her throat. I drag over the ottoman; she raises her feet, settles back. Ten minutes pass with only the loud beating of my heart, occasional rattling of the wind, and her steady wheezing. Before long, it gets kind of comforting. It can’t be bad news. If it were, Mother would have directed the Messenger to start before now. Mother hasn’t been here herself since the children left and that was only to check they’d really gone. As if I’d have hidden them in the cellar so they would miss the Moving On just to spite her. The only reason it wasn’t reported right away was because Mother hadn’t believed they’d gone. No grandchild of mine would disgrace my name! They have a debt to pay to this town and by blood or by dollar, they’ll pay it. It was frightful. I was half worried she would find them under a bed or in a closet somewhere even though I’d already looked myself. I knew just as sure as I’m breathing that they must have been long gone by the time Moses sent for the Messenger. They’re dead. I just know it. If they weren’t, they’d find a way to get word to me. Not through a Messenger or the party line operator who’d just go straight to the Council. But they’d find some way if there was one. And the first thing I’d want to know after being sure they’re all living is whether leaving was worth all they gave up to do it.
“Oh-sighhhh-raaa!” she suddenly screeches. The Messenger’s voice is high trilled. My name trips over her tongue in that awkward accent Mother uses to make Osira sound like a sin and a curse all at once, and, just like when she calls my name, I jump.
“Ma’am?”
“What in Heaven’s name are you doing home at this ghastly hour? You should be out exercising, running laps, preparing for the Running of the Widows like your competition! You don’t see Mae Miller sitting around eating bonbons and scones, having extra sugars in tea, and doing whatever it is you do with the shades drawn! And open those curtains this instant!”
The Messenger waits while I tie the curtains back and straighten the bow. Since I’m already up, I pour myself a cup of tea with two cubes of sugar though I would usually take four. I half curtsy and lower myself onto the settee, back straight, knees bent, toes pointed inward. I take the form of shame, careful not to look too comfortable, so she can continue.
“It’s almost as if you want me to be shamed forever. As if you have no plans for upholding your duty to replenish the town after your children robbed us. If that’s the case, tell me now and I will change my nomination for the Moving On, because a child of mine who would not do whatever she could to save the family’s name is of better service to the town if she is Moved On expeditiously.” The Messenger gets up, gathers her clutch, straightens the wig. “I’ll expect you at the house right away. Since you don’t have a family of your own to take care of, you’ll come take care of your sisters and the house.”
The room goes dark. For a second I can see me back in my old room, painted blush pink, ordinances framed on the wall like trophies surrounded by awards for reciting the most books, praising loudest, ringing the most bells at a time. I don’t fit in that house any more than I’d fit my full-sized body into my old single bed. Why not? Mother would say. You are single.
“Oh-sighhhh-raaa!” the Messenger squeals again. “You have one minute to get back to this house. Do not make me tell you again. Your father is at a meeting with the Deacons and I’ll be having company for supper later. I’m in preparation for mourning. I just know your daddy’s name will be called this year. We need to prepare. Before you ask, yes, Brother Jacobs will be by later. And, before you leave we’ll talk about who you’re nominating this year. And who you’re not.”
It’s as if she read my mind. Of course I’m nominating Brother Jacobs. He and Mother are carrying on like she’s not a married woman, as if Daddy doesn’t have a vote in the Moving On. Like they’re first-time beaux, holding hands in public, whispering in each other’s ear, plotting. Mainly, it’s like they don’t even care who sees them or who they tell about it. I have this sinking feeling because I know why. Each year, Mother predicts that Daddy will be Moved On. Every slight—real or imagined—leads to her having premonitions of his name being called at the Calling. One year she’ll be right.
BEFORE I go to Mother’s I shut the windows against more bad news and check that my Moving On bag is where I left it. Like most Curdle Creekers, I keep a bag packed just in case my name’s the one called. A good dress, a sewing kit, clean underthings, ointments, coffee grinds for the bags under my eyes, comfortable shoes, a slip, hair supplies, and a spare bell for the waiting. You never know how you’ll feel the morning of and who wants to waste time packing when you might not have that long anyway? Mother Opal’s right. A packed bag is a life saved. It wouldn’t be fair on anyone to have to pick out what clothes to lay me out in.
My heart’s still beating loudly when I make my way back downstairs. Mother lives across the street. If she was watching when the Messenger left, she’ll be wondering what kept me. Please don’t let her be sitting by the window, please don’t let her be sitting by the window, please don’t let … I’d pray out loud so the elders could hear me but Mother can read lips and she’ll know I’m talking about her. Although I know there’s nothing coming, I look to the right, then the left, then the right again. No one drives up Pleasant Mills Road unless there’s a good reason to. Otherwise, people park down on Main and walk up the road to show proper respect to the neighbors, who will already be out front, hands half-raised, expecting a hello from whoever’s passing by. I make my legs move faster than my head wants them to, in case she is watching and isn’t already dressed in her mourning gown ready to receive the visitors who will be coming as soon as the mourning bell tolls. I stick to the pathway so as not to crush the grass, tiptoe up the three stone steps, take a deep breath when I reach the landing, and slowly swing open the screen door so that it doesn’t squeak.
I press my fingertips on the front door and push. It opens and I slip inside. The windows are covered in thick black curtains so that the sunlight fights to get into the house. It makes everything look black and white. Like we’re inside one of those sepia prints Jeremiah’s so fond of snapping. I’m holding my breath. Still, the silver mourning tree quivers, the black bells tinkle. I’ve let in a draft.
“What grief-stealer is this sneaking around my house?”
I swallow the air I’ve been holding. “Mariah, where is Mother?” I ask. I stand still, eyes watering, throat burning as my younger sister waits at the top of the stairs, hands on hips, leaning on one foot then the other so that she’s rocking like the pendulum of a clock. She stares for a full minute not blinking. How can she do that? It’s like she doesn’t need to blink. Like she’s not really a girl but some sort of doll. A thirty-year-old haunted one. And here comes her sidekick, Rumor. Knocking on twenty-eight, she’d be a bargain doll, any joy used up before you even unwrapped it. Of course, she stares down at me too. They block the way. My breath dislodges in a little gasp that sets off a fit of coughs. I could die right here and they’d still be up there grinning. I’m blinking back tears. This sets the two of them off to giggling. Rumor winks.
“She’s here,” Mariah calls.
Mother practically glides up behind the girls as if she’s been waiting just behind the corner. She rests a hand on each of their heads. They both lean into her. She hmmms down at them. “Go finish getting ready.”
They are already dressed. Matching twirly gray dresses, Mary Janes buckled and shined, hair half-cornrowed, half-out the way all the little girls are wearing it. They skip down the hall to their room as though they aren’t way too old for childish games.
Mother settles herself down in the parlor to receive me. I sit across from her in the guest chair, clasp her hands in mine. She already has the touch of the widow. Her hands are ice-cold, still clammy. It’s just like Mother to have already started the rituals.
“I’m so sorry,” I say. I bow my head.
“It’s not your fault.”
I squeeze her hands. Make the mistake of smiling.
“It’s not like you didn’t remarry to spite me, is it?”
My fingers tingle where she’s pressed her fingers into my skin. Starting at the knuckle and working my way up, I rub warmth into one finger, then the next—
“Stop that!” she says before I get to the third one. “This is the year. I just know it. I’ve been preparing all morning.”
With her black dress, manicured nails and hair freshly dyed, Mother looks like a model perched in her chair, feet, already slippered, planted firmly on the floor. Her face is made up in Illusion of Grief Number 5. All the widows wear it. The pharmacist can’t keep the stuff on the shelves. It’s gotten to the point he keeps it locked up. We’re friends though. He gives me my one allotted compact once a month in the store and swings by one night a month with a special delivery that I don’t even tell Mae about. Mother would be appalled.
Daddy’s with the Deacons preparing for the Moving On. This is the busiest time of year and Daddy has so much to do that we hardly see him for days. It would be just like him to miss his own Moving On. It’s the Deacons’ job to manage the ushering out of the departing. Without them it would be uncivilized chaos with all that hooting and hollering and the whole town running through the streets like there’s a sale at Carter’s. The Deacons are in charge of choosing the Caller, clearing debris from the Moving On route, keeping the nominations orderly, and organizing the cleaning up. The Council is in charge of the rules. Making sure we abide by the agreed-upon ones and replacing the less popular ones like burning at the stake. Everyone’s responsible for gathering their own rocks—or sticks. And Mother Opal is responsible for all of it and all of us too. Anywhere else she’d be the mayor. Here she’s the Head Charter Mother, the most powerful person in Curdle Creek. The closest thing to her is my own mother. Been that way since they were kids.
It’s bad luck to court Moving On the way Mother does. No one would dare tell her that. She’s bound to be right one day. But Daddy didn’t do anything wrong. He hasn’t offended anyone. Hasn’t spoken out of turn. Hasn’t even had much to say about Mr. Jacobs stopping by for “ordinance study.” Daddy’s got nothing to be afraid of. Mother’s just superstitious. When we were growing up, she used to say Bad things come in threes. Back then, she meant my brothers and me. One day, I won’t be here for her pre-mourning party. I could hire an eldest, someone to take my place and help around the house. They’d be like an extension, a substitute me. They could fold up in my small bed, hold Mother’s hands at night, be her mourning partner. If only there were such a thing: someone I could buy for a year or two then put back on a shelf. But even if there were, even if everyone else was doing it, I’d never live it down. Mother would take care of that. Besides, I could hardly live with myself. I need to do this right for Daddy so he doesn’t worry about the girls, Mother, me. So he knows when it really is his time he can count on me. Then his soul can rest. Mostly, though, so he doesn’t come back haunted and restless.
“I’ll stay here for as long as you’d like,” I say.
“You’ve done enough already.” I feel my heart stop. “Just you being here is all the blessing I can handle.” My heart starts again. Mother is a Charter Mother. Before long, the other Charter Mothers will be here mourning in unison, putting out food, receiving visitors as if Daddy was their husband too. I kiss the air above her cheeks—close enough to hear the peck but not too close to leave a speck—so I don’t brush off her rouge. I go find the girls.
As if the whole house has forgotten how to mourn, there are balloons left to fill. I lay them across the floor between the girls and me. Rumor’s job is to stretch them. They are brittle from months of waiting. She rubs them, teasing life back into them so that Mariah and I can fill them with breath. We work in silence, stretching, blowing, tying until half-full black balloons cover the floor. They spill out into the hall like a carpet. While the girls scatter them around the mourning tree, I string up the streamers. We clear the table for the trays of food that will arrive when the mourners do. When we finally finish, the girls and I take our places behind Mother. We don’t have long to wait before the mourning begins.
The bell strikes thirteen. The mourners arrive with the thirteenth gong like they do every year. Daddy is much loved. The mourners arrive in cycles: one enters, one leaves; another one enters, another one leaves. They come in with a kind word, a plate of warm food, and their favorite memory. The Charter Mothers take the food. I take the gifts. The girls give out the balloons. It’s efficient. By the time the whole town has said their goodbyes, there are at least a hundred presents beneath the tree. Daddy touched a lot of lives. Each year, Mother stacks the gifts, still sealed, in the attic. If Daddy’s name really was called, we’d open them after the Warding Off and join the town in thanks the day after. The whole town would be grateful, and lucky us, giving and giving till there’s no one else to give up. I swallow the bitter words before they settle in my heart. If I’m not careful, Mother’s superstitions will become my own.
I can’t wait for Mother Opal to arrive. She’s usually here by now, reminding folks to prepare their own hearts and homes just in case someone else’s name is called. She won’t flat out say Daddy’s name won’t be called—no one can say that, what with the nominations not even done and the Calling still to come—but it’s comforting. She must be tied up with one of the other families or settling a disagreement between neighbors. It’s not like she could cut a visit—especially not a scheduled one—short. Not that she has to worry about being nominated for the Moving On. First she would be cast out of the Council, then stripped of her role as Head Charter Mother, then the worrying could begin. It hasn’t been done before but folks are always looking for a reason to change something or other. Grudges have a way of carrying on here, like nobody can let a grievance go. If Mother Opal doesn’t settle it for them, folks will nominate one another out of spite. And when they run out of people to nominate they’ll blame her. Mother Opal will get here when she can. This whole town runs on her time. Who would blame her if she slipped out to be with her dearest friend? It won’t do to show favorites. I can hear her saying it, mouth full of snuff, tucking it beneath her tongue to make room for the words. Everyone would blame her. Every single soul, living or not.
I’m still watching the door when the final bell rings. It’s Glory, the grand bronze bell with hand-carved flowers and the names of the Moved On etched inside. The bell’s perched down by the Town Hall so it can be heard from the Creek to the peak and everywhere in between. The mourning has ended. There’s one balloon left. Still no Mother Opal. The Charter Mothers account for each dish and weigh up each gift. “So-and-so brought such and such,” one says, and then the scratching of pen on paper while another makes a note of how grateful the giver was. Gift times food equals grief. Some of them wonder out loud if they should wait for Mother Opal. Others say she’s forgotten and her absentmindedness about something this important at a time like this is a sign. “A sign of what?” Rumor asks. Division, I think, but I keep it to myself. No sense worrying the girl just because I can’t shake this feeling that something’s wrong.
“It’s nothing, sweet pea. Mother Opal didn’t forget us. She’s just got a lot to do this time of year.” Of course she does. She can’t be everywhere at once.
When the Mothers leave, they pack up all the grief with them. They take down the streamers, dismantle and fold up the tree, stack the gifts in the corner. Still its shadow is everywhere. In Daddy’s favorite chair, under his side of the couch, on his special mug. The whole house is heavy with Daddy’s memory. I pinch myself. He isn’t even gone yet. Mother locks herself away in her room to finish freshening up. I go to my old bedroom, which is done up now in teal. I make the sign of the bell, run to the kitchen and take a spoonful of castor oil to clear my head. I chase it down with another one: One for the body, one for the mind, Mother Opal always says. I make it to the bathroom before the purge, knowing that when I come out I’ll feel lighter and whatever’s gotten into me will be long gone. There’s no place for treacherous thoughts in a civil mind, the saying goes.
I get dressed. Stretch my calves. Say a prayer: “Dear mothers, fathers, spirits of my ancestors living and otherwise, please let this be my last year on God’s green earth as a widow.” I say my mantra: “I am strong, loyal and true. I will enter the Running a widow and leave a bride.” It’s the same mantra I said last year, and the year before when I was a new and tender widow, certain I would be swooped up like the prize Curdle Creeker I am. If I’m not careful, next year I’ll be running against Mother. I can’t help it, I laugh out loud. A Charter Mother running like the rest of us? Even if that was a thing, I’m certain she’d cheat.
The door is closed still, and I whisper, heart racing, “To all spirits, good and bad, if you’re listening, please take me far away from this place. And please, let my father leave with me.” I wrap my index fingers around each other, a promise, the sign of the cross and the bell. Surely both will seal this plea.