Josh’s visit was a great comfort to me and I thought of it often during the following weeks of isolation I endured. I attended the Easter sermon with my family but other than that grand outing, Mother continued to keep me at home, where I spent long days engaged in chores and tasks she insisted be performed, though they seemed meaningless to me. The days passed quite slowly, and the only surprise in them was how I had begun to look forward to their closing, for as the Spirit used its energies to develop its speaking ability, the violence against us was growing less.
The Being had continued its established pattern of arriving after the supper hour, when the evening lamps were lit, with a rush of cold air and various noises, including knocks on the walls, splitting bed frames and gulping swallows of air. Yet, it wasted no time in blows but cast me down unconscious straight away, beginning its vociferous imitations, repeating phrases of Scripture previously recited by the Reverend and Preacher Justice in our home. The fainting was nowhere near as painful to me as the nightly slaps and jabs and pulling of my hair had been, for I quickly learned to prepare myself for the loss of breath by closing my eyes, and relaxing all the muscles in my body so I might not be further injured if it chose to thrash my limbs about the floor. No one suggested calling Dr. Hopson again. In this matter the Reverend and Calvin Justice had joined forces. They had instructed Mother and Father to trust in the Lord, for He would make certain that I would survive the fits.
The Reverend’s and the Preacher’s amazement at the visitation’s ability to speak at all was quickly giving way to overwhelming curiosity regarding what the force did mean by speaking. It could mimic the Reverend Johnston’s cadence so accurately, it was difficult to believe it was not himself. One evening, he insisted Father cup a hand over his mouth and search for evidence of ventriloquism, but Father found no such thing. Not that he expected to. On the next evening, the voice adopted Calvin Justice’s passionate tenor, as if to prove its versatility, and it read with eloquent force. When the Being finished its talks, it left and I awoke, whereupon I was told of its antics.
A new interest in the force was growing inside of me, for I enjoyed puzzling out the meaning in its recitations as much as anyone, especially since I was not privy to them. I was amazed to hear how the amorphous and intangible violence now parlayed the words of God while I slept unconscious, and I hoped Mother was correct when she said the Being was clearly altering itself into a new personality with a range of aspects beyond evil. Nevertheless, I remained uneasy as I scooped fish guts from the bucket to fertilize the garden and sewed through my afternoons, for despite its new regularity of action, I knew from experience what troubled us was entirely unpredictable.
One lovely spring night, the Reverend Johnston and Calvin Justice and my family were gathered in the parlor in our customary places discussing our supernatural visitation.
“Its tone reminds me of the marvelous talking bird we witnessed at the fair of Knoxville years ago. Do you recall it, children?” I closed my eyes and breathed the fresh night-blooming stock and the scent of Mother’s roses, heavy in the cooling air, drifting in the open windows. I had a picture in my mind of being small and craning my neck up to look at a large black carriage. There was a man standing tall before it with a wildly colorful bird on his shoulder, but I could not remember hearing the creature speak. I looked to Drewry and John Jr. to see what they recalled, but they had their eyes closed, and I could not tell what they pictured in their minds.
“If a bird can learn to speak, what of other lower forms?” The Reverend Johnston pursed his lips in open inquiry and I suspect he wished to discover if the Being could do more than repeat Scripture to him. Could it speak for itself? As his enthusiasm for the entity had grown, so had his Bible. I saw the leather binding of it strained to hold the many parchment notes he had stuffed within it.
“This form is low indeed, Reverend,” Father said. He did not look well. His brow was twisted down with ever growing concern. “Plead with the Lord, Reverend, on our behalf, plead that this demon would trouble us no more.” Father let no opportunity pass him by to remind the Reverend of what he hoped was his true purpose in the matter.
There was a general rustling of clothing as everyone sat up, in a position of alert meditation. I bowed my head, beginning to concentrate on my own breath, filling my lungs with the scent of flowers and my mind with peace. This was not as difficult as it had been previously, for I was not frightened of feeling nothing. I listened for the Reverend’s reading but before he could begin, cold air filled the room and I experienced a swirling of images, including the hearth where there was no fire filled with sparks, before I fell into unconscious darkness. When I awoke, I was lying with my belly and cheek pressed against the parlor rug and my toes touched the smooth wood of the floor.
“Who are you and why are you here?” the Reverend Johnston demanded, irritating me, for I felt I was just waking up from a too short nap, when into the cold silence I heard the voice distinctly reply.
I am a Spirit; I was once very happy, but I have been disturbed.
“Look, Jack, her eyes are open.” Mother kneeled beside me, her face concerned. I wished to tell her, do not be afraid, for I am well, but I found I could not force myself to speak. I struggled to move my tongue but it was as if my mouth was frozen still. I closed my eyes. For a moment I felt it was speaking only to me, expressing my own true feelings: I once was happy, but I had been disturbed.
“Mark its words!” The Reverend was excited.
“They are the first not taken from the Scripture,” Calvin Justice whispered.
“What do you mean?” the Reverend Johnston asked the air.
I am a Spirit; I was once very happy, but I have been disturbed.
It repeated the phrase once more, and I heard it, but pretended to be sleeping, as I could not speak of what it called to mind, an ugly incident our family had hoped would remain forever forgotten. With my body frozen stiff as my voice, I recalled it fully, measuring the import of the Spirit’s words.
Years ago, Father and the slaves had cleared a plot of thistles and brush up on the plateau at the northern boundary of our land above the river and in carrying out the work, they came upon a small mound of what appeared to be graves. Father surmised the site was an Indian burial ground and gave orders to work around it. A few days later, Vernon Batts came calling to our home, as at that time he was trying to make a friend of Drewry. Together the two boys went out to hunt down the spot of the graves, hoping to find some relics the Indians were thought to bury with their dead. When they reached the mound, Drew had suggested they leave well enough alone, as the graves did not seem fanciful up close, but Vernon maintained they would have to look inside them to be certain. Drewry had foolishly agreed and they had proceeded to scatter the rocks and dig up the earth, and in the process, they disinterred the bones. There was nothing of value in the grave but Vernon did not wish to leave empty-handed. He had removed the jawbone from a skull and carried it back to our house, devising an elaborate plan to scare Richard and Joel and myself. I was sewing in the parlor when they ran in, wildly excited. I had seen Vernon slip on Mother’s clean and polished wood, whereupon the jawbone flew from his hand and struck the wall with such force a tooth was knocked loose, and it disappeared from sight through a crack in our floorboard.
Unfortunately for Drewry, Father had been passing through the house at that very moment and hearing the scuffle he had entered the hallway and demanded a full account of their doings. Once informed, he had reprimanded both boys severely. Vernon was sent home and Drewry was taken to the barn for a whipping. Father sent Dean to take the jawbone back to the grave and he was instructed to replace the bones that were disinterred and told to make certain the rocks were piled high to protect the graves from future marauders. The following year, Father had allowed the thistles to reclaim the area.
“She is waking now,” Mother said. I had opened my eyes but remained still. As I focused on Mother’s cotton dress I realized she had moved my head onto her lap. She stroked the hair off my forehead and I felt as though it was true, I was waking from a long and restful sleep though I was unaware of having slept at all.
“It has departed.” The Reverend shook his head with some consternation and his silver hair fell in front of his ears. I felt sorry for him, none the wiser on his mission.
In the morning, once the Reverend and Preacher Justice had departed, our family sat all together at the table, discussing the Spirit’s meaning in using the word disturbed. The same recollection of the lost tooth had visited all of us. Drewry, brave soul that he was, suggested perhaps our family troubles had been brought about by his own thoughtless and horrible mischief from that day long ago.
“I have thought it over and I must speak of how it seems not right.” Drewry set his elbows firmly on the table and raised his eyes to Father. “I cannot understand,” Drewry said nervously, “why, if the Spirit belongs to the bones I did disturb, why has it come to settle at our home rather than Vernon’s, since Vernon was the one who plundered the bone from its grave?”
“It would come here, Drewry, searching for the tooth it lost!” Richard was on my left and as he spoke I turned to him with great concern. Did he not realize our father was unaware of this significant detail?
“What say you, Richard? What tooth?” Father set his spoon beside his bowl.
“It was wrong in every aspect—” Drewry began his explanation but once it was revealed how the Indians’ tooth had fallen under our house Father became enraged. Slamming his fist down on the table, he ordered Drewry out to the barn. I squeezed Drew’s arm as he stood, for I saw beneath his mask of stoicism he was crumbling inside.
“Father, I would have you know I do repent that incident more than any other from my short lifetime and if I could but live that day again, never would it be the same.”
Mother looked as if she might cry, as it was sad for her to hear her son’s repentance, but she said nothing aloud. It was useless to dissuade Father from implementing punishment once he had decided on it. We all knew it was better not to speak. As Drewry left the room, Father rose and went not directly to the barn as I expected, but instead into the hallway. Removing his short knife from his belt he stuck its sharp end into a crack between two floorboards, meaning to pry it up right then, with his bare hands. He exerted all his effort and though I expected it was an impossible task he had set himself since our floor was well laid, I did not say a word.
“This floor is solid as they come,” Father grunted with frustration, unable to loosen it. John Jr. rose and stood behind him, waiting for the instructions he correctly sensed would be forthcoming. Mother, Richard, Joel and I sat at the table holding our breath, unable to touch the grits and fresh milk in our bowls. When he had exhausted the possibility of removing the board with his knife and hands, Father sat back on his heels. “Fetch Dean up to the house, John Jr., and the crowbar and the claw hammer,” he ordered.
Father spent the rest of the morning disassembling that section of our floor. Our hallway was demolished, board by board, and the creak and split of the wood coming up induced terrible fear in my heart, as I associated the sound with the previous violence of the Spirit. I remained seated at the table, but Richard and Joel moved to sit above the action on the stairs. I expect they wished to jump down and play under the house, but they were too frightened of Father’s anger to ask if they might. Father himself climbed down through the open floor when it was large enough to do so and stood firmly on the cold earth exposed below. Dean had brought the fine rake and Father combed the dirt carefully, but he found nothing.
“Lucy, get the sifter,” he commanded, and I saw Mother frown.
“Goodness, Jack!” She shook her head all the way to the kitchen as if she thought his was a foolish pursuit, but she brought the sifter to him with no further remark. I followed her example and kept a silent vigil, but moved to the parlor so I might engage my hands at mending and have an excuse to look away from the consternation on Father’s features as he sifted the dirt beneath our house, cup by cup. He kept at it all the day, but he did not find the missing tooth.
“If ever a tooth did fall here, the earth has claimed it for its own.” He climbed from the hole defeated, and after John Jr. and Dean had helped him replace the boards, it was near time for supper.
“Betsy, fetch your brother,” he looked to me, wiping dirt from his cheek with a white muslin cloth Mother gave to him. He apparently had no energy left for whipping Drewry, who had waited all day in the barn.
“Tell him make haste to return to the house and to his room, where he might pray to God for forgiveness for his sins.” I hurried to the stables, relieved to be outside, for I had not known the day was so lovely. The sun was soon to pass behind the trees and the land glowed with the pink goodbye kiss of day. The grass seemed greener and the air more still and I heard the whippoorwills starting their evening song. Despite my relief at being out-of-doors, I felt a tingling fear, walking alone down the path, and I ran the final yards to the stable barn, throwing open the door when I reached it. A group of flies, warmed to buzzing, spun about my head, and I saw Drewry pacing through the dusty straw littering the rough barn floor, his eyes downcast and his face pale from fear.
“Father has not the heart for whipping, Drewry. All the day he has searched for the tooth and found it not. He instructs you to your room to pray for forgiveness for your sins.” When Drewry stopped his movements and turned to face me, his features were without the joy and relief I expected.
“Dear sister, do you know why we are so cursed?” His face seemed to crumble and he stepped forward clutching me to him in a hard embrace. In the troubled lines around his eyes I saw my own inner feelings and I struggled not to give in to tears.
“At least Father’s crop will not be laid across your backside,” I said meekly, squeezing my arms around his waist in an effort to console him.
“If all my sins and yours, sweet sister, and all the sins of every one of us within our family were combined and offered up to God, along with all our resolutions never to sin again, what would be the outcome? More of the torture we have received as good, God-fearing Christians?” Drewry had clearly thought about it in the day. “Tell me, Betsy, what horrific crime has any one of us indulged, that we should be singled out for such punishment?” Drewry’s hands gripped my back and reminded me of Father undoing my stays. “I do believe what haunts us here has naught to do with God,” Drew continued, “and God’s forgiveness of our sins has naught to do with our continued torment.” I could not answer him and though it was blasphemous to do so, I well understood the feelings he did voice, for the injustice of our suffering weighed heavily on us all.
“We will be transfigured by our affliction,” I said, repeating a phrase I’d heard the Reverend say to Father. I tried to utter it with hope for a positive transformation in our future, but I too was filled with dark foreboding thoughts. We remained standing together as the last rays of sunlight filtered like the long fingers of God through the cracks in the barn siding. The last pure beams of light fell well short of our two figures, and as we gazed, it disappeared entirely.
Several nearly identical nights of Scripture recitations followed, then passed away, so many I lost count, for the only in-constants were each evening our home held a different configuration of callers from around the district, as the word spread regarding the Spirit’s abilities. The Thorns and the Porters came, and the Polks, whom we did not know well, came from the east and brought old Mr. Harris and Mr. Gooch. They witnessed deeply engaging religious talks in place of the violence of before, but all that was discovered was only that no one could compete with the Spirit’s pious knowledge. No one could successfully argue with it. The Being could give correct interpretations of the Bible passages, and it could recite more than one translation, as well as patiently inform the community which verse was most authentic and original.
“This is a most unusual parlor game,” old Mr. Harris concluded when he left our house and I thought it was an accurate description for those evenings spent indulging the Spirit’s intellectual development, amid the rush and whir of turning pages.
Before long it had impressed everyone with its mastery of Scripture, and then abruptly the Being grew bored with theology and turned to mischief. It began to gossip, tattling fervently on all members of our community. It told how Mr. Thorn had fallen asleep in church during Reverend Johnston’s Sunday sermon, and it accused Sarah Ellison of regularly cheating Thorn’s country store by filling her sack with five pounds of flour while only paying for three. Calvin Justice recalled how the Spirit had spoken of truth, whatsoever he shall hear, that shall he speak, and he suggested the purification of our souls through upright moral behavior was perhaps the visitation’s true intent and meaning, but I did not believe it was so. Even with our daily sins and trespasses, I felt our souls were infinitely more pure than the Spirit’s intent.
Toward the end of April the days had lengthened so it was not necessary to light the lamps until well after supper. We had the windows open all through the house and I was in the kitchen helping Mother and Chloe prepare two trays of tea for our guests. The Randolphs were our callers and they had brought their cousin Clara Lawson with them. Though she was many years younger than Mother, Clara’s husband, George, had recently passed away and made her a widow.
“Smell the roses and the charlock, Betsy,” Mother said as she shook the tea cloth out the back door of the kitchen.
“We are privy to one sweet spring,” Chloe said, and she held her nose high, looking out at Mother’s garden.
“Let us add fresh flowers to the tray.” Mother took my hand and pulled me down the path past the blooming orange calendula to her bed of roses. We had no basket and she bade me hold my skirt up so she might gently place the thorny roses there as she cut them from the bush.
“Observe perfection in these blossoms, Betsy.” Mother smiled at me and touched my hand. “Striving not, they are an example of beauteous nature unto the Lord.”
“They are flowers, Mother.” I sighed, wishing to accomplish the task and return to have a slice of Chloe’s custard pie, but Mother frowned at me and I realized I had given the wrong response. She felt compelled to correct me.
“Elizabeth, think on it. The Lord has given us perfection in His nature, that we might strive to emulate such beauty. Pray, you shall one day blossom to such perfection as this rose.” She clipped a stem and tossed it so the thorn pierced the plain cloth fabric of my skirt. I looked at the growing pile of blossoms, noticing the petals curled like lips, the edges darker than their centers, like real mouths. If they could speak, what would they reveal of beauty and perfection? The last light of day touched the garden and I sensed someone near, watching. The bright tinkle of Clara’s laugh fluttered from the house sounding like a spoon dropped accidentally in its saucer and beyond it the crickets and katydids screamed, night has come, night has come.
“That’s plenty,” Mother said and stopped her clipping. She looked around, listening carefully, as if she too felt the Presence in the air.
“Mother, do you feel the Spirit?” I was frightened, but Mother turned me toward the house and spoke calmly.
“Yes, Betsy, I feel the Spirit. The Spirit of the Lord and the Spirit of the roses, and the Spirit of the katydids too, for all living things are Spirit.”
The kitchen was warm and reassuring and we carried the trays into the parlor to serve our guests their tea. The Reverend cleared his throat and was about to start his reading when a clatter of stones fell down the stairs and the room became cold as a cave in winter.
I would speak to you of an ugly thing.“Speak not, but return from whence you came.” Father was ever vigilant with his requests.
I would speak of adultery, and charge within this room there are some partaking of it.
A general gasp of shock, expressed by a sharp inhalation of breath, swirled about the parlor, as this was a most serious accusation.
“Charge thee before God?” Reverend Johnston narrowed his eyes and looked keenly at the Randolphs and Clara Lawson. “For He is all knowing and all seeing in such matters.”
“How does a demon charge before God, good Reverend?” Thomas Randolph looked to Father for support.
Speak not, Old Sugar Mouth! In this purpose, I am the tribunal.
A strange and most disturbing silence followed.
“Old Sugar Mouth, what does it mean?” the Reverend Johnston mused, hugging his Bible to his belly, frowning. I saw Father look away and smile slightly and I remembered I had heard him say to Mother our Reverend did indulge the sweeter words of the Lord, as he did the fat corn cakes. Thomas Randolph shifted his feet as if he was uncomfortable in his position and I saw Clara look to him, but sideways without turning her face. Abruptly, I knew what the Being said was true, plain as if it spoke into my ear alone. Clara Lawson was engaged in a romantic tryst with her cousin Alice’s dear husband!
“How can you berate so good a man?” Mother rebuked the voice.
The wicked boasteth of his heart’s desire, the covetous blesseth himself and abhorreth the Lord.
“Dear Lucy, I feel most suddenly unwell.” Clara stood, nervously smoothing the folds from her skirt.
“It is common to feel unwell in the presence of our visitation.” Father turned to her with reassurance.
“You shall spend the night with us, Clara.” Alice Randolph stood and took her arm and Mr. Randolph also rose.
The wicked are snared in the work of their own hands.
“ ’Tis not wise to ride when you are not sound.” Mother was concerned. “We have pallets and plenty of beds.” She followed Clara, who hurried from our parlor attempting to fetch her cloak. “What ails you, Clara? I will make you a special tea.”
I turned in time to see Clara trip and stumble on the pile of rocks at the foot of our stairs. Her lithe form fell heavily onto the hallway floor.
“Clara! Are you hurt?” Mr. Randolph was quicker to her side than Mother or Alice, and I saw Clara raise fearful eyes to focus on his face.
Let thy sentence come forth from my presence, behold the ways of the wicked.
At this Clara fainted into unconsciousness and Mother and Alice Randolph kneeled beside her.
“She must not be moved,” Mother said as she lifted Clara’s hand to feel her pulse.
“Indeed she must! It is the evil of this house that makes her ill!” Mr. Randolph was quite upset.
“I have smelling salts …” Mother rose to fetch them from the kitchen but Mr. Randolph ignored her.
“Open the door, Alice!” he commanded his wife, and we watched him cradle Clara’s limp form to his chest. He carried her out onto the porch.
“I believe we will depart,” Alice said hastily, grabbing her cloak and Clara’s from the pegs. The Spirit slammed the door after them, letting loose a malicious laugh.
The wages of sin is death.
“Judge not, lest you be judged …” The Reverend’s eyes were downcast and he was disturbed and Mother stood helplessly gazing at the shut door.
Be quiet, Old Sugar Mouth, for you know nothing of it.
Mother had placed the cut roses in a blown glass vase on the table beside the tea tray and their perfume sweetness filled the air. I breathed deep their luxurious scent, pitying poor Clara, for though she had a friendly disposition, the Spirit clearly felt unkindly toward her, and the natural outcome of the Being’s dislike would undoubtedly be great tribulation for her. I did not suspect it could be greater than my own. I realized I had witnessed the entire exchange without being made to suffer pain or unconsciousness, and I wondered as I fell asleep that night, Was there any meaning to the Being’s actions?
I do not know who first repeated the Spirit’s accusation, I know I did not, but perhaps it was destined to be known, for only a few days later Alice Randolph came calling alone, intent on speaking with Mother.
“Hello, Mrs. Randolph!” I heard Richard greet her from the bottom of the hill where he was playing. It was wash day and I was hanging the bed linens on the line that ran beside the garden. “Mother’s clipping lavender,” Richard informed her, skipping along, accompanying Mrs. Randolph up the hill to Mother’s garden. She seemed unaware of him, walking quickly, but Richard carried on talking. “My father has said I might be allowed to bring the corn to your mill, come fall.”
“Has he? Are you already so big?” Mrs. Randolph answered, but from her preoccupied tone I could tell she was not at all interested in whether my little brother was of age to be trusted going to the mill. “I shall not forget to look for you,” she politely reassured him anyway. They arrived at the edge of the garden and I saw that Richard’s face was lit with happy thoughts of a fall paddle in the mill pond, but Mrs. Randolph wore a serious expression.
“Mrs. Randolph, why hello! Might I offer you some lavender to scent your wardrobe?” Mother stopped her work, her sharp iron clippers suspended in midair.
“No, thank you, Mrs. Bell. I call with a delicate matter on my mind.” Mrs. Randolph wore a dark woolen cloak dyed from walnut hulls and I saw her fingers were busy with the somber material about her throat. Mother set her tool down and placed the long lavender blooms into a basket at her feet.
“Shall we repair inside and hold our discussion over tea?” she asked her guest.
“ ’Tis not necessary, as the matter is brief.” I peeked from behind the wet sheet I was pinning and saw Mrs. Randolph appeared to be struggling with the task she had set herself. She was a skilled miller’s wife, adept and practical, but clearly she was more comfortable grinding corn than discussing the unpleasant aspects of life. Mother quietly and politely waited for Mrs. Randolph to reveal her trouble.
“Malicious rumors regarding my good husband, Thomas, and my cousin Clara issue from your home.” Mrs. Randolph sighed, confessing her concerns. “I come to beg you, please, you must affect this evil gossip, for tarnish grows on our good name!”
“Were it possible to affect this visitation, do you believe that I would not?” Mother touched Mrs. Randolph’s arm. “This Spirit is not influenced by me nor by any other.”
“There are many who say it speaks the truth!” Mrs. Randolph was close to tears, and allowed Mother to comfort her in an embrace.
“It speaks both lies and truth in equal measure.” Mother’s countenance was thoughtful as she stroked Mrs. Randolph’s back. “No one of good upbringing gives credence to its tales.” She moved back a step but kept a reassuring hold on Mrs. Randolph’s arms, searching her face, encouraging her to be stalwart. “You are unconsoled,” Mother sighed, as if she knew not what to say.
“There are many in these parts with upbringings leaving much to be desired!” Mrs. Randolph pulled her arms free, with some impatience. “This talk is hard for Thomas, and how will it affect our livelihood if folks refuse to use our mill?” She used a corner of her cloak to dab her nose. “And what of our dear Clara? She is of a delicate constitution, as you know. When she was small, often she did spend the winter months in bed, with fevers and the like. Her mother went to an early grave caring for her, and now Clara is widowed so young. I believe she can weather no more suffering.” Mrs. Randolph shook her head and I could see she was more deeply concerned for her cousin’s welfare than she was for her good name. “If my Thomas consoles her with his company, what is the sin in that?”
“Rest assured, I will do all I can for your benefit and Clara’s.” I knew Mother’s word was good, but what could she do? “Shall we have that cup of tea?” Mother left her basket at the bush and took Mrs. Randolph’s arm in hers. They walked together down the path into the house, where I could no longer hear their conversation.
The Spirit did not speak of Clara or the Randolphs again during the week that followed, but Mr. Thorn came with a cartload of supplies, and while he smoked his pipe and shared a drink with Father, Thenny and I were allowed a brief visit.
“Betsy, have you heard of the affair?” Thenny’s eyes shimmered with the excitement of her knowledge.
“Of course, for I was present at the accusation.” I felt proud of this fact though I knew it was wrong to be boastful.
“The store is buzzing with it! Mother says Alice Randolph ought to tie that Clara flat down on her husband’s stone and grind her up like corn to grist.” I said nothing in response to this, recalling Mrs. Randolph’s worry for her delicate cousin. I had a strong sense of discomfort and foreboding as she went on, describing the gossip at her father’s store, and it grew so intense, I changed the topic, asking what she knew of Joshua Gardner.
“Josh Gardner no longer comes to lessons regularly and I suspect the reason is your long absence!” This news was a great distraction from Clara and the Randolphs’ troubles and we worried over it until Mr. Thorn was slapping the reins of his mares and ordering Thenny to climb in the cart before he left her behind.
It was only one week later when we received the devastating news that Clara Lawson had hanged herself inside her barn. Mr. Randolph had found her swinging from the rafters when he called to give his customary help about her lands. No one was privy to the scene when he cut her down and most certainly considered his own role in her sin, but we were all at church that Sunday when he rose and spoke.
“The evil curse hosted by the Bells attacked our poor Clara, God rest her soul, with gossip and fear, and they put no stop to its vile lies!” Thomas Randolph was a tall man and wiry, and his voice rang strong with angry conviction.
“How say you? What relationship do the afflicted have with what has cursed them?” the Reverend spoke in our defense. “I hesitate to remind you, Mr. Randolph, your cousin Clara sinned against the Lord in taking her own life.” Thomas Randolph sat and I saw Alice put her arm around him for comfort, but he shook her off.
“Please, do not further pile our sorrows,” Mother begged, standing to face him. “The loss of Clara Lawson is a heavy blow to all gathered here.” She meant this most sincerely, but I could see from the hard set of their faces that the Randolphs would forever hold us responsible, despite Mother’s woeful insistence we were not to blame.
“Get on with the sermon, Reverend,” Old Kate called from the back, for once representative of most of the congregation, who felt the Spirit had simply hastened the affair to its natural conclusion. Most were satisfied to hear of it no more.
We did not attend Clara’s funeral, held the next day, but the Reverend Johnston said her eulogy, despite her sin, for he was a kind and forgiving soul. When he arrived at our home that night, he told us it had been a nasty business, for a hard rain had fallen all afternoon.
“ ’Twas mud they buried the poor girl in.” The Reverend shook his head with some sympathy, removing his wet hat and coat in our hallway.
“Perhaps they might have waited …” Mother lingered at the door and held her lamp aloft. She stared unseeing at the great drops of water falling on our porch. “God’s tears fall hard for poor Clara.” The whole incident had greatly disturbed Mother and we were well aware of it, for at suppertime over Chloe’s fried chicken and fresh peas, she’d prayed for Clara to enter the Kingdom of Heaven, despite her sins.
“Better it is over and her body in the ground.” The Reverend spoke not unkindly, but with resignation. He turned away and entered the parlor, greeting my father, my brothers and myself with a sigh. No one else was present, and though I knew it was only the rain and a symbolic gesture of community respect for the Randolphs that kept the curious away, I felt an overwhelming loneliness at the thought of Clara Lawson’s frail bones buried in the ground. I recalled her sewing at a quilting session, her long black eyelashes vivid on the pale skin of her cheek, focused on her work. The Reverend waited for Mother to come away from the door and join us.
“I shall read tonight, as I did at the grave, from Genesis, of Eve’s original sin.” Mother frowned, but I realized the Reverend needed to atone for having given poor Clara any eulogy.
“God hath said, ye shall not eat of it, neither shall ye touch it, lest ye die.”
The Spirit entered the parlor like a small leak of rain speaking softly.
Luce …
It whispered Mother’s name and brought the scent of wet roses and lavender with it.
Luce, it was her fate and his to be thus severed. The wages of sin is death.
It said nothing to show mercy for Clara’s pale skin and long black eyelashes, forever closed and buried under mud. No mercy, and no remorse, entirely culpable as it was.