The Running of the Widows

It’s nearly dawn. It’s colder than a coffin at a wake and the race is about to begin. This year there are six of us running. Six widowed, and four potential suitors waiting at the altar. There’s no way one of them won’t end up mine this time. I’m in my best running gown. Though the two first-time widows opted for white ones with long trains, mine is hen’s-egg cream with a full skirt and an altered hem so the gown doesn’t sweep the floor when I move. Instead of taffeta and lace, I opted for cotton so I can hitch my dress up when I need to and not get weighted down with extra fabric. Mae’s dress is gingham with a cinched waist and hand-sewn buttons down the back. One hundred buttons in all. All those months working on it together and soon as she gets in runner’s position she rips the seam clear up to her calf.

The judge deducts two points right then and there just as I told her he would. It’s just like her to test the rules. She’s my dearest friend but Mother might be right: Mae will be the death of me. Like the rest of the widows, Florence is in position, head down, one foot on the chalk start line, the other behind her. Florence is more an acquaintance than a friend. Still, I wish Florence the same amount of luck as I wish Mae. Not enough to beat me but enough to come in tied at second.

“Luck, Mae. Luck, Florence.” It’s so cold that my words are little puffs of air between us.

“See y’all at the altar,” Mae says.

“Save your breath for after the Running. You’re both gonna need it.” Florence is a Messenger. She can’t keep nothing to herself.

I focus on the numbers sewn on the backs of the thick vests they make us wear on top of our running clothes. Mae’s number 28, Florence is number 25. Mine is 18. Same as the house numbers we live in. The official walks through the line ticking off items on a checklist. Final checks made, Mother Opal stands at the starting line, arms raised high above her head while the judge gets into position. It’s customary for an official to say a few words to inspire the widows before we set off. This year it’s Mother Opal’s turn. She looks beautiful with her deep brown skin glimmering and complementing her plum Glory dress and matching gloves. Her hair is fresh pressed and curled beneath a feathered hat fit for the church service she’ll lead after the weddings.

“We are gathered here in honor of a long-standing tradition of granting second and in some cases third chances.”

She stares at me when she says it so I know the “third” is meant for me. After the mourning, Mother sent word for Mother Opal to come by when the mood struck her. I set up watching from behind my front room curtains to get a good view of the knocking. Of course Mother would hear the door from wherever she was in the house but because she’s stubborn sometimes, Mother would keep Mother Opal waiting to prove a point. She might be Mother Opal to everyone else but to Mother, she’ll always be the same little Opal she grew up with. The reminding wouldn’t last long. They’re like sisters. Mother would check that nobody was looking before tapping Mother Opal on the shoulder, pressing forehead to forehead in a warm show of forgiveness.

The knock never did come. Still, I just know from the way Mother Opal looks at me with her mouth in a perfect line of not smiling, not frowning, that she knows this year is my year.

“The Running of the Widows is an opportunity to increase your luck and fulfill your obligations to the town at once. The more you sow, the more you reap, the more we grow as Curdle Creek! Your loved one has Moved On. It is now up to you to race toward a new life. To beginnings!”

“To beginnings!” the racers cheer.

The rest of the town is at the church setting up to receive us. The eligible brides won’t know who they’ll end up with until we come crashing through the door. What a gift to be on the receiving end. Moses would have been too. If the children hadn’t left, everything would have stayed as it was meant to be and when I Moved On, my Moses would have been able to wed without running. Instead, here I am racing against my best friend and there’s no telling which groom I’ll end up with: Jeremiah, the good doctor, Brother Lee, or Langston. Jeremiah’s my other best friend. I’d never tell him, but if I could choose anyone, it’d be him.

The sky is rose-colored. Just above the hill the sun starts to peek through. We run at dawn. I repeat Mother’s inspirational words. Run for your life to have luck. Run for your life to have luck. Run for your life—

“To the altar!” Mother Opal yells.

We take off running faster than a lost outsider. Not that outsiders make it to Curdle Creek. We’re set far from other cities and towns so they can keep their trouble for themselves. But if anyone did find their way down the unmarked, unpaved road that leads to the center of town, they’d better be running just like I am now. I keep my head up, eyes looking straight ahead, arms pumping, and, whatever happens, I make my legs keep moving. In a pack, we sprint down Main Street past the Bank of Curdle Creek, the Old Post Office and the new one too. We’re foot-to-foot until the library, where Eustice stumbles over nothing much at all. She’s tottering, arms out to catch herself when her sister Eunice crashes into her, pushing her down. Eunice jumps clear over her and carries on. We all do. Unlike Eunice, none of us looks back. Eunice is waving to her sister when she runs into Carter’s billboard for handmade leather running slippers that are “good for the soul and the sole.”

With two out of the race that leaves me, Florence, Mae and Gertrude. We run past Pickled’s Haberdashery and Gran’s Guesthouse. Gertrude gets a burst of speed and shoots by me, kicking up dirt and gravel as she goes. I don’t wipe it off. Ain’t nothing graceful about the Running. There’s no sense slowing down to try to look cute doing it. She can go on ahead. She’s turning the corner at the mill when it happens. Poor Gert leaps over when she should have gone around the slick mud at the bottom of the swell. By the time the three of us catch up, she’s bent over crying about how her leg is twisted and calling for one of us to help her up out of the ditch. Like we’d fall for that trick.

It’s just Florence, Mae and me. I’m out of breath but there’s this voice in my head saying Don’t you dare slow down and it sounds just like Mother.

“You better run like you want another chance!”

I look up and see Florence grinning as she passes me. She’s so good at putting on other people’s voices, props or not, that for a minute she looks like Mother would if she were dressed in two parts of a three-piece dress, tattered veil blowing in the wind. I can’t let her beat me. My right thigh starts to burn and soon the other one does too. We’re passing the schoolhouse, Florence in the front, followed by me, and Mae huff-puffing behind me. She’s got the cutest little wheeze. My side’s cramping and one of my ankles doesn’t feel as sure as it did when we started. I slow down a little when we reach Luc-key’s Hardware store and Royal Emporium Roller Skating, which is part-time rink, part-time barn. Its windows are still boarded up. Has been ever since the fire. Cheyenne, Jasmine, Little Moses and poor departed Little Liza caused a ruckus for weeks when the Council decided the rink was causing idleness and shut it down. Those kids raced up and down Main skating into shops, zipping through produce, bumping into folks, and making nuisances of themselves even though there’s an ordinance against it. I warned them not to mess with the sign but darned if they didn’t do it anyway. Painted dark red zeros all over it. All four of their names were called. Four babies gone. Well, three gone and one Moved On. I wonder if she still loves to skate.

I’m thinking about getting myself a pair of skates when I don’t so much as see her pass but feel her doing it. Mae’s caught up to me and in less than two seconds I’m looking at her back. In front of us, less than a yard away, is the church all lit up with candles in every window, the door wide open. Florence is about to cross the threshold. I should be next. I reach out, not to cheat, but to sort of slow Mae down, and my hand gets caught in the fabric around her collar. Mae’s head jerks back and before I can catch myself, we’re both falling backward. I can tell it’s hard for her to breathe, what with her choking. I mean to let go but there’s yelling and scrabbling behind me and here come Eunice, Eustice and Gertrude wrestling one another to get out in front. Gertrude’s swinging a branch, trying to hit the sisters. Eunice and Eustice get her in the middle and try to squeeze her in some sort of sisters sandwich. The Running of the Widows changes people.

It don’t change Mae though. She slaps me across the face, her fingers crashing against my lips. “This just ain’t your year,” she says.

She scrabbles up, slips off her shoes, and takes off running. That banshee just busted my lip. Everyone knows you ain’t supposed to aim for the head, especially not the face. It’s right there in Book XVI, Volume 2, Section 18. After all that practice. Weeks of strength, endurance and etiquette training and as soon as we get the chance the rules are tossed in the wind like an afterthought bouquet. Now I’m squatting in the dirt, ribs sore, lungs hurting, out of breath, lip busted open and bleeding, knees skinned, hands raw, a stone’s throw from the church door. Lucky me, I’m close enough to see Mae about to go right through it.

I can’t spend another year like this. I just can’t.

I grab a stone. Swift, I raise my arm level, aim, throw. The stone is bigger than it’s supposed to be so I try to make sure it’s smoother than it has to be. We’re friends, after all. No sense in breaking regulations. Mae tilts her head, ducks. The stone thuds against the doorway as Mae slips inside the church. I get up. My body’s screaming Stay down, stay down but Mother will kill me if I don’t finish this race. Besides, there’s still two more to go. Mae and Florence will have picked the best suitors and I’ll be stuck with Langston or Brother Lee, the oldest of the old-timers. I suppose I can’t complain. Anyone who’s lived through as many Moving Ons as Brother Lee has must have an abundance of good luck. Still, if I can’t have Jeremiah, I would prefer Langston if it came down to it.

Just as I make it to the steps of the church, here’s Gertrude trying to knock me down again. I pop her square in the back of the head where the bullseye would be if I’d painted one. She falls forward, first on her knees, then to her face. She’s a tangle of legs and bones, a small patch of blood and missing hair. A bald spot she’ll hate me for until she dies. I hop over her quick before she can reach out to grab hold like I would do if I were her. Her fingers graze my ankle, a nail slices skin. I falter but I’m nearly at the top of the steps and the scrape might burn but it’s not enough to keep me from reaching the door, blouse ripped, skirt hiked up halfway to bejesus, mouth hanging open, just in time to see Eunice and Eustice push me out of the way, take the steps two at a time, skid across the threshold, then hobble, both of them one shoe on, one off, down the aisle.

The church cheers. All four suitors are claimed. Mother turns to the doorway like she just knew I’d be there. She looks past me, must see Gertrude a heaving, sniffling mess behind me. She nods, sharp. I may as well be last. I’m the disappointment of my generation. I’ll be her cross to bear but only for as long as I live or until my name is called. Whichever comes first.

I settle my skirt, straighten my twists, breathe in and out, stare forward. I can’t do anything about my lip except suck on it and I can’t do that here. Mother would die. If I couldn’t have the good grace to come first, the least I can do is stand here looking like I fought for it. The first year I lost, I sat down as close as I could to Daddy. Just wanted to be near him and his smell of menthol and lye soap. Last year, Mother forbade it. Made me and my bad luck sit way in the back of the church in the Penitents’ box. I’d wait outside if it was allowed.

Mae stands before the altar. Mother Opal mouths the blessing so only she and Mae hear it. She’s radiant. Mae is too but Mother Opal just glows. She could be the one getting married, in her thick red velvet wedding robes with gold tassels, gold-heeled shoes adorned with bells that strap to her slender ankles, and thick spiral bracelets winding around her long brown arms like kisses. Her hands cup Mae’s face. It’s tender and unexpected. Mother Opal never shows favoritism. Mae is so lucky. Mother Opal is offering her forgiveness and bestowing her with a full womb.

Mae waits to say her piece. There’s a chance she won’t know the words. I know them by heart. All the widows should. We’ve been practicing it for months to get the words right when the time came. It would be awful to cross the threshold, make it to the altar, and forget the words. It’s the sort of thing that gets you disqualified.

Mae’s smiling. She’d never be lost for words. Mother Opal must be at my favorite part: With these words I cleanse your family’s name, for those before and those to come, I set them free, one by one. Now she’s asking Mae to swear before church and tomb, ancestors and not-yet-borns, on the souls of the Moved On and the Moving On—the ones whose names will be called tomorrow and who will give their lives for a good harvest, peace and prosperity, etcetera, etcetera, amen, amen, amen.

With the words said, Mother Opal hands Mae a slip of paper. The note is handwritten, thin-looped and long-lined, and on it will be the name of Mae’s next husband. Of course, it’s the doctor. Mae Elizabeth Miller will have a husband of her own. Till death do them part. That’s not a rule, just the way it is. The rest of them will get whoever’s left. Leftover luck. And I will get nothing.

I always imagined I would win. I read the Books section by glorious section. Trained in all sorts of weather, dug trenches through waist-high snow, scaled ladders in the baking sun, waited for hours in autumn rain, ran everywhere I went as often as I could, practiced holding my breath for minutes at a time, polished the tower bell. Even prayed. More than once. Florence and Mae hadn’t trained half as hard. Almost like they didn’t want to be saved. Or didn’t care half as much. No one expected them to win so if they did, it’d be something close to a miracle. Everyone reckoned it’d be me, and if they didn’t, they should’ve. A widow three years in a row is unheard-of in Curdle Creek. Mother’s been talking about it since the last Running. The one that sent Gladys Jones tumbling, virgin-white dress—even though she wasn’t—raised, baring her chubby little legs for the whole town to see, down the moss-covered hill into the cold, red-colored Creek. She wouldn’t have fallen nearly as hard or as long if she hadn’t tried to race me for the door. I’d been a two-year widow by then. It was my turn. If she’d slowed down a little, it wouldn’t have been so bad for her. But no, some folks are just selfish and I had built a trap. Nothing elaborate. Leaves covering a spring, child’s play. Not good enough to win, though.

I just want to go home, lie out flat on Jasmine’s floor and do nothing for a little while. I don’t even want to read one of the Books, especially not Book XXIII on the virtues of being a widow. Again. But no matter how I feel, tomorrow it’ll be time for the Calling. Then, once the names of the Moved On are called and verified by Mother Opal, I’ll come home to bake the pies. Mother is known for her plump pies bursting with fresh fruits and mulled wine, her generous sprinkling of cinnamon, and extra pinch of love. More than one soon-to-be-departed stayed a little longer to get a taste of Mother’s thank-you-for-your-sacrifice pies. The family of the Moving On always said knowing Mother was coming with an apple, blueberry or sweet potato pie still warm from the oven almost made the loss bearable. If only they knew. Mother hasn’t bothered to bake one of her pies in years. Not since her luck ran out. Since then, it’s been me picking near-to-rotten apples, squeezing out their fresh juice, peeling them like skin, then chopping, mixing, sprinkling. If they taste anything after the gin, rum, whiskey, wine, half bottle of whatever’s left in the cupboard from the year before, it isn’t thanks. The pie will make the news easier to take, though. Poor Moses’s Moving On certainly would have been worse without my extra-special gin cherry pie waiting for me when I got back.

Now, Mae’s standing next to her new husband, the good doctor. He’s just right. Fullish head of hair, cold hands, good job, jolly laugh … dead wife. Mae doesn’t even have to wait for her to be Moved On. She was Moved On two years ago, bless her soul. Her name was called the same year as Mae’s mother’s. Of course, Mae’s father remarried right away. He’s a Deacon. The doctor saved himself, settled into mourning and it suited him. But all that mourning isn’t healthy so of course the Mothers declared an end to his mourning period. This year he gets another wife. According to the Council, his family has proved themselves year after year, what with birthing all the babies, tending to the dying, settling the souls, declaring the dead. The vote was unanimous. He made the list of suitors without the need for provisos and lobbying.

The good doctor’s steadily grinning, shaking hands with all the other brides and grooms. He’s not bad to look at and he has a good grip. He’s a solid handshaker. Always been one of the best ringers. Mae’s mother used to say, A man with a good bell-ringing arm is a keeper. Mae’s new mother says that too. She’s a lot like Mae’s mother. Told Mae to call her ma’am and everything. If she hadn’t won this time, Mae would probably have kept on staying with her second mother until one of them Moved On.

She could have stayed with us. Mother would have been glad to have her. She’d fill out the paperwork before she even needed to. Probably volunteer to take her in. She would want it to be official. An extra mouth to feed is no trouble at all when you ain’t the one cooking and when doing the town a favor means they owe you one in return. Not to mention the extra luck that having Mae would bring. If each house has the same number of chances as the next one that someone’s name will be called, then by rights, more mouths means fewer chances your own name will be called. Mae would bring us luck even if she didn’t have much of her own.

The service is starting and I’m still standing here wishing my daddy would leave his place next to Mother and the girls, hold me by the hand, lead me out of the church and take me home. But Daddy wouldn’t do it. Wouldn’t stand up to Mother and wouldn’t take me home neither. If anything at all, he’d take me fishing down at the Creek like he used to do. I could have gone my whole life without knowing anything good could come out of that water. But the size of them bluefish makes my mouth water just thinking about them. And even better than frying up fresh fish right there on the bank was sitting next to my daddy listening to his tall tales about people who could slip into wells and travel anywhere they had a mind to go. Even outside of Curdle Creek. Not that there’s much worth seeing outside of Curdle Creek. Lynchings, massacres, plagues. I’ve seen the headlines. The world beyond Curdle Creek ain’t nothing but bad news.

Nobody ever comes back to Curdle Creek. Not even Well Walkers. Daddy used to say we come from a long line of them. They’d pop in and out of towns and come and go as they pleased. But something about Curdle Creek put an end to that. Not that Well Walking is true, but, just in case it is, there’s an ordinance against it.

I’m not saying I’d want to leave. Curdle Creek ain’t no better nor no worse than anywhere else. Pop. Oh, God, no. Pop, pop. It feels so—pop, pop—good and I shouldn’t be pop, pop, pop doing this but pop, pop, if it wasn’t for Mae pop, pop, pop, pop, pop it would all be pop, pop, pop mine. I crack my knuckles one at a time. I just can’t help myself. I look up. Mother’s lips are moving. She’s across the church hall but if words had wings they’d be floating in front of my face, hissing, hot breath whispering, Stop embarrassing me! I bow my head. I hold my breath to still my hands.

The church fills with organ music. Reverend Father pounds on the keys, pumps the pedals, squeals in that off-key voice Mother swears will lead to his name being called sooner rather than later. The hymn “O, Thank Thee for Protecting We” shakes the rafters. Thank God it’s a short one. The last Reverend Father could carry a tune and the rhythm at the same time. He made the four verses sound like a symphony might. His name got called as soon as the tithes went missing. The hymn hasn’t been the same since. It’s a shame too. He was Moved On and then the money was found. A miscalculation. Mother Opal said mathematics had nothing to do with fate and that the schoolchildren would keep studying that, baking, engineering, and anything else the town needed until the town didn’t need it anymore. The hymn’s not meant to last this long. He’s ooohhhhhing and Lord have mercying something fierce. Four weddings in one Running is a blessing.

I’ve been holding my breath since forever. It shouldn’t have taken more than ten Mississippis for him to finish. But no, Reverend Father’s repeated the chorus two extra times and I’m near sixty Mississippis and my eyesight’s starting to blur and the congregation’s waiting for someone to answer Mother Opal’s invitation, “Should anyone present know of any reason that this couple should not be joined in holy matrimony, speak now or forever hold your peace.”

Even the candles are starting to go out. The church is hot. The first-rowers work their fans like the only thing wrong with this moment is the heat. They look as if they’ll wait all day if they have to. What difference does it make to them? Service won’t be over until it’s over. The betrothed will be wed, the Moving On will be Moved On, the sun will set today just as it will tomorrow. Behind them, the second-rowers, the row reserved for community leaders, Mothers, and elders who got to church too late to sit in the front row, move in time to the choir. The choir isn’t helping any. They’ve been holding that same note, a low hum that rumbles like thunder or a disappointed preacher, just waiting on someone to speak up. My eyes are welling up. The church itself is shaking like it caught the Holy Ghost. Lines dance and squiggle up from beneath the floor like heat. There’s two of everything. Two preachers, two choirs, two Mother Opals, two Mothers, two Daddys. Two mes. Both single.

Tiny pinpricks sting my legs. Do I have a reason why Jeremiah shouldn’t get married? I shift the wad of mint chewing gum I’m not supposed to have beneath my tongue. It’s sucking up whatever spit’s left in my mouth. I swallow it. It’s brittle and dry. Instead of making my mouth “kissing fresh” it will probably kill me. Get stuck right in the middle of my throat. That’s just what you get, Osira! I can almost hear Rumor’s singsong voice dancing right over my grave.

They’re not really expecting anyone to object but the asking is part of the ritual and so is the waiting. Curdle Creek runs on rituals. One year, before I was born, the town skipped the Warding Off. Called it off “for no good reason,” according to Mother. That year, hundreds of last-chancers swarmed the town, if you could call it that. They dragged into Curdle Creek coughing, heaving, dripping with fever. Mother Opal recognized it right away—didn’t even need Book IX. Plague. It was late and unplanned but the town rallied together, belatedly honored the Warding Off.

Babies with fat legs dangling off parents’ laps, old people with eyes straining, heads lolling, folks in their starched celebration clothes, my family: the girls and Mother decked out in Moving On mauve, the perfect autumn color for mournings and weddings, Daddy in pressed dress shirt, trousers, and running shoes—they all stare straight ahead. They seem to be leaning forward, breaths held. The least I can do is play my part. I stand straight, tilt my head. It’s Pose 76: thankful but thoughtful. It’s a privilege to sacrifice for the town. If I can’t be a bride, I’ll be a mourning widow. I’m a beautiful mourner, according to Jeremiah. When Mae makes us practice the mourning after, I’m always the first one picked to mourn. Jeremiah says it’s because of my soulful eyes and spontaneous wailing. If he only knew how long it takes to practice spontaneous wailing.

There’s no reason Jeremiah shouldn’t get his bride except for the fact that I love him. It’s wrong, I know it is. If I’m meant to have someone, the Council will send him to me. What if I just took what I want this one time? The hairs on the back of my neck stand up first. Tiny pinches travel along my arms, legs, back, face. My skin tingles all over. Stings. I look up and Daddy’s smiling at me like I’m the right me at the right time and it’s okay that I’m not up there about to have our sins washed away. There’s always a second chance for people who do right, he says. Please, Lord, let that be true. Daddy deserves a second chance too. It’s not his fault he married Mother, that Romulus ran off, that Turners don’t carry nothing but bad luck.

Blasphemy. It sends chills through my body. If it’s meant to be, it will be. “Forgive me, ancestors, for I have—” I’m whispering but someone shushes me anyway. Mae is practically glowing, holding out her hand to the good doctor. He takes it. The choir sings. The whole church seems to shake. Mother Opal waves her hands above their heads, proclaims them a union. Mr. and Mrs. Mae take their seats in the family pew to wait for the rest of the couples to join them.

Now it’s Jeremiah’s turn. He’s marrying Florence from across the Creek. They look besotted with one another. Happy. After the ceremonies the organ will play “The March of the Widow.” It’s an upbeat jazz number designed to make your feet move faster than they are otherwise inclined. Gertrude and I will make our way down the aisle to have counsel with Mother Opal. Just like last year, she will tell me I must try harder to “fulfill my obligations.” That if I’m not careful I will look ungrateful, and ungratefulness is a sure way to get nominated to be Moved On. I will repent.

Jeremiah does not look as though he is just “fulfilling his obligations.” He looks relieved but also happy. Like, maybe he didn’t love me much at all. Not that he ever said he did. Nobody in Curdle Creek says that. But, didn’t he show it when he was sidling up to me even before his dear wife was Moved On properly? He was sitting there eating my pies, talking about how good they would taste if we ate them together. And how nice it was to have my company in his time of mourning. When he started whispering in my ear about leaving Curdle Creek it was me, not Florence, reminding him how lucky we are to be living here. How much better it is to live here than to die somewhere else. Of what would happen if the Council found out he was even talking about it. If Mother Opal found out Jeremiah had thoughts of leaving, he’d lose everything. Any favor he gained by wedding Florence would be squandered before you could say I do. He’d have nothing. No wife. No extra luck. No blessings but me.

Mother Opal issues the invitation. I object. I do. I’m practically running, feet tripping over each other toward the altar. Mariah giggles. Never too far behind, Rumor starts in. Before long they’re both near squealing. I picture Mother, dignified, gliding down the aisle, dainty and lovely. What would she say? She’d say something practical, remind me I don’t have too many more runs left before the town chooses someone for me, my name is called, or both. “Stop this foolishness!” I whisper. I sound so much like Mother that I frighten myself. It works. I slow my walk, my breath, stop swinging my arms. Still, not two steps later and I’m at the altar. It seems bigger and wider up close.

Mother Opal is standing huddled close to Jeremiah and Florence. “Are you sure?” she asks. “There is no rule against it, but none for it either.”

Like twins, Florence and Jeremiah nod. Just look at the two of them, already in cahoots against me. I open my mouth to tell all of the many reasons that this man and this woman should not be joined together in holy matrimony. Mother Opal hushes me with her warm hand pressed against my lips. She turns to the congregation.

“In an act of generosity, Florence and Jeremiah have given Osira one of their blessings.” The congregation applauds. “I have decided the form of the blessing is to be a new role in service of Curdle Creek.”

Except for the click of heels against the wood floor that I recognize as Mother’s shoes, the congregation is silent. Mother stands, resting her gloved hands on the pew before her. Even from here, I can see her fingers curled into fists. Her voice is calm, almost sweet. “I would respectfully remind you, Mother Opal, that Osira has a role already. As my eldest living child, her role is to return to my home and be counted as one of us.”

“But she is not your oldest living child, is she?”

Is she saying Romulus is alive?

Mother Opal directs a long, pointed fingernail at Mother. “And I don’t think I need to remind you of all people of my role, or yours either.”

All eyes are on Mother now. “No, Opal.”

No one calls Mother Opal by her name. I don’t care how long they’ve known each other, no one does it. Not to her face, not behind her back, not in the church surrounded by the full Council and all of these witnesses. I think I’ve stopped breathing. This must be what death is like. I’m too hot and too cold at the same time. It’s a cacophony of sounds. Feet shuffling, voices whispering, birds squalling, Mother, still standing, staring.

“You will not deny me,” Mother says.

I love my job at the library. I get to read all of the Council-approved books before anyone else does and sometimes I even see the banned books before they’re pulped at the mill. It’s not the same as when I was teaching. There’s nothing quite like teaching children spelling, ordinances and rituals, but of course, when my children ran off, I couldn’t be trusted to mind other people’s children. I could hardly expect more than to be allowed to keep our family house with the garden and a plot in the back. The Council providing me with a new job after stripping me of my own was a gentle kindness.

“I think you’ll find that a role in service of the town is a role in service to us all.” Mother Opal pinches my lips together as if I’m the one speaking out. “You are not being denied. You will surely gain as much as anyone else has a right to.”

My eyes are watering. My lips are tingling. I’m whimpering and I can’t help myself.

“Book XXIII says a thrice-widow belongs to her kin,” Mother says.

Mother Opal twists my lips a final time and lets go. “And Book XIII says a resident of Curdle Creek belongs to us all. She draws for a new role. If you’d like to object, you can do so officially.” Mother Opal pauses, narrows her eyes. “After the Moving On.”

The girls pull on Mother’s arms, begging her, “Please sit down, please, please sit back down.” Daddy leaps up, raises his hands and his voice in apology. His voice is beautiful. No one can sing apologies the way he does. He holds the final note so long that folks start applauding.

Mother isn’t watching him. She’s watching Mother Opal. Mother Opal’s watching her too. Soon, everyone stands up to join Daddy’s song. They’re all singing Mother Opal’s praises. Well, everyone but Mother.


A Deacon prepares the barrel and I prepare for my new life. I close my eyes. You’re meant to make a wish. To close your eyes and think of the sort of person you want to grow old with or the difference you want to make to the town. Your contributions. I make mine. Please keep my children far away from this place.

I reach in. It’s like bobbing for apples. The bundles of paper, origami shapes with embroidered roles if you’re lucky, blank if you’re not, all feel the same. By weight and texture, each one is just as likely as the next one to be something I’d want to do. If there were such a thing, it’s as though the Saint of Widows is guiding my hand, leading me to the slip of paper with my future on it. My hand brushes against one, making my palm itch. It feels like it’s the one. I dig a sliver of a nail in it, not enough to be accused of ripping it open, just enough to hold on tight, and rub the tip of my finger along it. Do I feel the word “Mother”? The rest of the Mothers are voted in, but surely being a Mother is of service to the town. I can be a Mother too. Make decisions, guard the rules, measure the thanks. Or is that curve too round, too close to an O to be anything but “accountant”? I like numbers just as much as the next person, but I’d rather not be in charge of counting the dead.

No, there’s no way it’s “accountant.” I would know it if it was. This paper feels right. So, I hold on to it, slip it into my other hand and keep feeling around for another one, just in case. It isn’t really cheating. It’s insurance. Like carrying a spare set of keys to Mother’s house so the girls don’t get locked out, even though the door’s always unlocked because no one would break into anyone’s house in Curdle Creek.

The inside is darker than I remember it being. Maybe I’m deeper down than I planned. One foot grazing the bottom of the hardwood floor, the other dangling in the air.

“Osira.” It’s soft, hushed as a reverend in a brothel. Low as a muffled amen. Still, my name echoes. Who was that? My hand tingles like it’s touched something hot. But I’ve just scraped the bottom of the barrel. Scraping don’t sound like names and something said my name. It’s a whisper but it’s in my head so that might not count. I’m still shaking, though. I sure hope nobody out there can hear my teeth rattling, my breath catching. My eyes are closed. I don’t need to open them to see the rows of papers folded into themselves, grinning like teeth waiting to taste a bit of skin. Maybe it was the shifting of papers, the shuffling whoosh, whoosh as I part them.

Other than my own breathing, I keep time by marking the muffled beat of the bass guitar. If I’m too quick, they’ll say I’m arrogant. Too cocky to deserve anything other than what I get. Too long, and I’m indecisive. Too unreliable to deserve this third chance. Mae and I timed it. Three minutes, thirty-nine seconds is respectable. Not too fast, not too slow. I’m counting beats. I’m at 4/16ths when I feel it. A warm light on my skin. There’s something warm close to my face. Don’t look, don’t look. Wouldn’t it be just like the devil to be waiting in the bottom of a barrel right there in the middle of the church? Just hunched down low waiting to pull one of the devoted in there and take them to some sin-haven of a city beyond the Creek? The thought of a barrel-sized devil tickles me. The sound of my giggles echoing back to me slaps me like a cold washrag. There’s nothing funny about a forty-five-year-old woman wriggling in the bottom of a barrel, fishing for a piece of paper for the job that could change her life.

Please let me see a miracle. Mother said that one year all the men said they’d seen Seamus Creek, the town’s first and only Charter Father. Seen him right there in the bottom of the barrel, sipping whiskey and smoking that long pipe. They claimed he said they needed to right a wrong, that they’d been called to put an end to the Moving On. The women said they saw poor Seamus’s wife, Mother Creek. She was dressed in a long black gown, hair pinned up, plain faced, barefoot. She told them the Moving On was right and proper and that some years more than one name should be called to balance the year before. There was a lot of talk about who had seen right. That year, the Caller saw each and every one of those men’s names. That seemed to settle it.

I open my eyes and curl the paper against my cheek. It’s the right one. I can feel it. It has to be. My body stops shaking. I can see it now. I’ll be a Charter Mother just like Mother—only kinder. I’ll make new vows to the town, sign the Curdle Creek Charter, have my name chiseled in the archives. I’ll accept my blessings. My past will be expunged. Then the kiss. Cheek, cheek, and finally lips. Sealed. There will be cheering, congratulations, presents. Then, arms linked, waving hands, strolling home through the city with Mother, Daddy and the girls following behind like a procession in time with the ringing of the bells. It will be a good way to end a day like today. With our good name restored, there won’t be a need for me to move in with Mother for her to practice her yearly mourning, for me to worry that I’ll be Moved On. No hunting of souls, chasing down the living. Of course, we’d do it anyway.

I say a prayer for good luck, then push out of the barrel, settle my clothes, and then, practically whistling the Wedding March, I turn to the altar. The wedded couples wait with Mother Opal ready to receive me and my good fortune.

“Congratulations,” Mae says without moving her lips. She’s such a good friend, always happy for me when happiness is called for.

I rub the paper between my fingers, nod slightly. There’s nothing better than a new start.

The choir leader jerks her head at me like You had your turn, hush now.

The organist plays the Fresh Start March, which is just like the wedding one. Everyone turns to watch me glide back down the aisle. I left-right-left slow to the altar just like we practiced in the preparation for surprise classes I took down at the Hall. Daddy’s grinning at me. Mother’s head is bowed, lips silently moving. The girls wriggle like impatient little joy-sucking leeches. The tune picks up. I walk faster to keep in time. The church is full; even the non-believers are here today. Who am I to judge? I nod and smile at everyone. The carpet feels lush beneath my feet. The candles are bright, there’s a slight breeze, the babies have stopped whining. I hadn’t noticed it before, but the March really is lovely. When I’m a Mother, I’ll make a proclamation to play it more often. The rhythm is sort of catchy, and I’m dum, dum, dum-dumming along with the organ, snapping my fingers as I walk. Look at me, changing my fortune, and I didn’t have to get married to do it.

I’m nearly at the altar, one foot on the bottom step, when a Mother-in-Waiting steps in front of me with her hand out. Does she want change? I didn’t bring my wallet so I don’t even have the customary two bills to slip into the collection plate. Her hand is empty, fingers wiggling. “The paper,” she mouths in a pretend whisper that even the back row can hear. I’m about to kneel in thanks. She unfolds the paper carefully as if it’s Exhibit A in a trial and shakes her head. She lifts it above her head, turning from one side of the building to the next so everyone can see the picture of the bale of hay. The music stops. Mother moans. The woman waves me away.

A farmer.

Mother Opal is on the top step, back turned like she can’t stand to look at me. Mae and the good doctor stand beside her now, heads bowed. I step forward to push past the would-be Mother. “It’s wrong! I’m supposed to be a Mother! I just want to be a Mother!”

Two hands grip my arms tight, pulling me down the aisle in reverse.

Mother clamps her fingers across my mouth.

“You should have thought about that before your children left,” Mother Opal says.

Daddy tightens his grip. The girls follow behind, shaking their heads like Poor Osira, what else could we expect?