River People

FOUR

Effie stood on the porch and Pa close by, both of them watching Rev. Jackdaw climb into his buggy and slap the reins over his old horse, Nell. Every time the preacher walked the nag in from the pasture and began hitching her to the buggy—saying he was going into town to check for a letter—Pa sent Effie to the attic to be sure the man was leaving his belongings.

In the spring, she’d said, “I do.” Now it was late August and yet they remained at the farm. Week after week Rev. Jackdaw reported he still hadn’t received news from Omaha. And week after week Effie watched Pa’s frustration grow. He came in the house only for meals and sleep, biting his tongue, avoiding any rift that might cause his son-in-law to try and sneak away without the daughter. His only compensation for tolerating the situation was that Granny screamed less. Rev. Jackdaw knew to keep her occupied and distracted, reading to her from his Bible. Or from Granny’s Jonathan Edwards tract: “God holds you over a pit of hell. He holds you as one holds a spider or some loathsome insect over the fire.”

With the buggy heading down the lane, the dust rising and blowing along the pasture fence, Pa turned back to his work in the field. Effie saw Ma and Skeet bending over baskets, the twins carrying ears of corn. As always, she’d been left with the baby and Curly. Granny and Johnny too, who were no help in the field.

She shared Pa’s fears. The preacher could not leave her behind in shame. She hadn’t been pregnant, but everyone in New Ulm knew she was married—even Jury. She wouldn’t be left behind now, not with his wedding so close.

When she was sure Rev. Jackdaw wasn’t turning around for any reason, she ran through the house, climbed the attic ladder, and stepped into the heat. With shaking hands, she opened his valise. When she’d accidentally seen the dress hidden there, he’d explained it had been a favorite of his dear sister, and that he kept it in memory of her. Effie touched the edge of the red, wanting to take out the satin and feel it glide over her body. Perhaps she and his sister were the same size. But she didn’t dare. She wouldn’t get the dress refolded and tucked in exactly right. Just poking fingers down through his two extra shirts and touching the softness made her nervous.

“If-fee! Injuns!”

She turned and hurried back down. Johnny and Granny sat at the kitchen table. Granny wore her Never Forget quilt around her shoulders, patches made from the clothes of her murdered children. Red slashes of ripped cloth randomly placed on top. Symbols of spilled blood. Her cane banged up and down on the floor. “If-fee, If-fee!”

“I’m right here, Granny. Shush, you’ll wake the babies.” And to Johnny, “Everything is all right.”

Johnny held his slate but no longer practiced his name. He covered his ears against Granny’s screaming, but his eyes fixed on the rapping cane as though it were about to attack him.

“I’m right here,” Effie said again. She grabbed Granny’s hand, stopping the noise. It was always the same, Granny needing her every second, day and night. For seven years she’d slept in Granny’s bed, seven years of brushing up against aged and chiseled bones, Granny’s nightmares and stories, dozing in them and waking startled, pulled from her own nightmares by Granny’s screams.

And times like this with Granny mentally resurrecting her children. And the day they died. Her mind so crippled there was no way to save her from having to watch them be murdered over and over.

“Get my gun,” Granny cried, her eyes wild.

“There aren’t any Injuns,” Effie said again.

Johnny’s face, red with fear, and Granny’s stark terror were a cold wind weaseling into the room. When Ma and Pa were there, the screaming was less frightening, but with them off in the fields with the other boys, fear came up through the floorboards, crept out from the corners of the shadowy kitchen where children had died. The cold blew over Effie, stroked her with icy fingers.

“Breathe,” she coaxed Johnny. “Work on your letters.” And to Granny, “No one’s coming. Look.” She lifted a corner of the quilt and knocked hard on the stock of the gun in Granny’s lap. “Your gun is right here.”

Granny’s eyes narrowed on her, as if Effie were lying, trying to fool a poor old woman in her distress. Even on the first day after Baby Sally’s death, Granny hadn’t noticed the toddler’s absence. She’d had no understanding of how her screaming for her dead babies filled Effie’s mind, rocked Ma to the core, and sent Pa fleeing to chores he’d already done.

The chalk Johnny used snapped in two under his pressing and he howled.

“No Injuns are coming,” Effie told him. With a shaking finger she traced a J on his dusty slate. “Like this, you’re doing it backwards again.” She couldn’t read well, but she knew how to spell and write the names of her family. “Johnny starts with a J. The letter comes down and out. This direction.”

Granny’s cane swung again, pointed to a spot on the floor. Effie couldn’t keep herself from checking to be sure no blood suddenly pooled there. No children’s ghost faces looked up at her.

Granny’s fits could scare the bee-jesus out of a fence post, and Effie searched the kitchen for distraction. Bread dough beneath a floury cloth rose over the top of a pan and waited to be kneaded down. Rinsing her hands at the kitchen pump, she told herself she wouldn’t give in to fear this time. She’d carry on as naturally as possible, let Granny’s fit of derangement pass. She punched the dough. Slapped it.

Granny cried, the toothless gap in her mouth wide. Her body cowering.

Effie stopped, grabbed the dishcloth and dropped her face into it. Never a moment of peace. Even at night while Rev. Jackdaw huffed and puffed on her in the attic, Granny called from below. The whole house listening to the length of the mating through Granny’s wails. When finally Rev. Jackdaw rolled off her and wanted quiet and the small mattress to himself, she rose to go to Granny. Who could blame her for wanting away from Homeplace? Even if it were the devil himself taking her.

Johnny sobbed. Granny’s face was blanched and the terror in her eyes sent a new rash of chills snaking up Effie’s back. She saw no dead children, but they’d all been killed right there, the blood, the crying. Painted savages stood in the very spot where her feet now trembled. Her heart raced. Even if no one else could see them, Granny saw actual ghosts. The spirits of her dead children lay scattered across the floor. Dying again.

“Let’s get out of here,” Effie said. Was Baby Sally’s ghost also there? “Bring your slate, Johnny.” She wrapped an arm around Granny’s waist, hefting her up. “We’ll sit on the porch. You can look out and see how all the trees are gone.”

Moving Granny along with the dragging quilt and a clutching Johnny was slow and felt nearly impossible. Behind them, Effie was certain that faces on the floor watched them leave.