Coldwater Revival: A Novel (4 page)

Seven

Papa always kept his family entertained and informed, seldom reining in his witticisms or teasing tongue when we were in audience. The twins had learned to prick up their ears and listen well when Papa read stories to us.

But Papa made a grave mistake the night he shared the story of Robert Peary’s daring 1909 expedition to the North Pole. As he narrated the true tale about Peary’s trek across the frozen tundra, we could almost feel the ice between our toes. This adventure, above all others, tickled the twins’ insatiable curiosity. Question upon question popped from their mouths at the story’s end. They were fascinated by blizzards, boreal winds, and—because they’d never seen, felt, or tasted it—snow. The questions continued to erupt like faithful geysers, though the well of Papa’s patience had already dried up. When he refused to answer another question, the twins turned on me. Like the blizzards in Papa’s story, they bombarded me with queries about the mystery called
snow
. For a week or more I answered every bubbling question they spit at me.

“What does snow taste like, Emma Grace?”

“Where does it come from?”

“Mama said that when the angels cry, it rains. Does it snow when the Devil goes to bawling?”

“Why don’t it snow in Coldwater, Sis?”

“Tell me about them bluzzards, Emma Grace.”

“Have you ever seen snow, Emma Grace?”

Having seen snow at age six, I drew pictures for them: sketches of a snowman wearing Mama’s frayed hat; snowflakes, falling from the sky like raindrops. I penciled in snow blankets on rooftops and stick figures in a snowball fight. I assured the twins that if they waited long enough, they were sure to see snow in Coldwater … someday. Someday wasn’t soon enough for my stouthearted brothers. They persevered, pounding me with a profusion of questions that left dents in my hide.

The idea struck me on a hot August afternoon. I believed it came to me out of desperation, as the twins had driven me to near madness with their bottomless bucket of snow questions. I grabbed their grubby little hands and dragged them to Mama’s cedar closet. Digging through the trunk of winter clothes, I retrieved mittens, scarves, hats, and jackets.

The boys and I soon crossed over the bridge, entering the land of pretense with thumping hearts and feet rooted to the pathway of perilous adventure. Micah and Caleb had few tokens of courage and valor to their credit, so they were anxious to join my expedition to the cold north. It wasn’t far—just a few steps inside the door to our imaginations.

“Ooooh, that bored wind is mighty cold, Emma Grace. Think we’ll make it to the North Pole, or d’ya think we’re gonna freeze to death on this ithberg?”

I pinched my lips together, biting back a giggle at Caleb’s playacting. He was quite the performer, pretending to be cold when our outdoor thermometer read 103 degrees. Sweat rolled down his face and neck, dampening the earflaps and brim of his wool cap.

Micah pulled his jacket closed and rubbed his arms with vigor. His body shook with a tremendous shudder. “My ears are plumb frozed off, Emma Grace. Don’t think I can take ’nother step on this frozen ’tandruff.” Micah wagged his head as though filled with great disappointment and regret. “Think we ough’ta turn back? That sky don’t look good, a’tall.”

I glanced at the bright cloudless sky and turned a grin on my brother. Caleb stepped close to Micah, his right hand grasping his brother’s shoulder as a comrade might. “We’re not turning back, Micah. Brave s’plorers don’t give up and they don’t turn back, even if they get kill’t.”

We walked past the horse corral, our trek to the North Pole having taken us but a few yards from the back door of our house. Caleb stopped and studied the barn. He ran into its interior, returning moments later with Papa’s pickax. The ax was almost as long as Caleb was tall. He tried to heft it to his shoulder, but ended up dragging it by the handle.

“We’ll need this to break through the ice,” he said. His stern demeanor reminded me of Pastor Emery’s face when he stormily reminded his congregation about our multitudinous iniquities.

Inwardly, I groaned, for I knew I’d be carting the heavy pickax home at the end of our outing. Sometimes my ideas—deemed as inspired and ingenious at the time—ended up tottering on the realm of insanity.

We trudged closer to the North Pole, that magical, invisible place where all of earth’s longitudinal lines meet together at a single point. The wool jacket I wore scratched my neck and arms. Sweat pooled in my armpits, behind my knees, and in the hollows of my collarbone. It slid into my belly button and down my back. I wished to throw my coat, hat, and mittens into the burning bin, but I couldn’t, for the boys were true explorers now, bravely fighting the elements and any polar bears that might try to eat us. They spoke in the lowered, deepened voices of men on a mission as we staggered on, battling boreal winds, storms, blizzards, and snowdrifts up to our knees. How valiantly they surged forth, fearless of frostbite and subzero temperatures. We plunged on in our quest to reach the North Pole, and felt we had accomplished the task when, at last, we reached the ridge overlooking Mr. Peavy’s farthermost field.

The twins turned their beet-red faces downward and gazed at the white world below us. Cotton covered the land—white ruling the world as it had in the time of Robert Peary’s expedition. As our gazes soaked in the blinding whiteness, for a brief moment in time hot Texas cotton became cold arctic snow. It was a winter of cotton.

“We did it, men!” I shouted. “We reached the North Pole, and just in the nick of time. See that black cloud, way over there on the horizon? It’s heading this way, and it looks like trouble.”

The boys’ gazes followed my extended finger. A single white cloud appeared in the distant sky. Though tiny and far away, it sufficiently fueled the twins’ excitement.

“We’d better … uh, what’s that word, Emma Grace?”

“Stake our claim.”

“Oh, yeah. We’d better stake our claim right now, ’fore that bluzzard hits us,” Micah said. He withdrew a swatch of cloth and a small stick from his pocket.

Caleb glanced at Micah and nodded. Micah smoothed the scrap of cloth—his American flag—and together my brothers raced down the ridge.

I stayed my position at the top, watching with wonder as Caleb lifted the pickax with wobbly arms. I cringed as he rammed it into the first row of cotton. I sighed with relief when Micah jabbed his flagpole into the hole and planted the flag of the United States of America into a winter world of snow.

Micah and Caleb stood like little tin soldiers, straight and tall as they looked across the glacial field they had just conquered. In their mystical, unspoken way, they raised right arms at the exact same moment, saluting the starchless flag that hung limply in the breezeless afternoon. Then they turned as one and marched up the ridge. We linked arms—we, the conquering heroes—honorable patriots of our country. We, the hot, weary wanderers who were more than ready to shuck our winter uniforms.

“Men,” I proclaimed in the manliest voice I could muster, “you’ve vanquished the wilderness and triumphed over the elements. You completed your mission despite dangerous storms, boreal winds, and record-breaking snowfalls. Now it’s time for you to go home and tell the world about your victory.”

“Don’t forget about them cold, cold bluzzards we had to fight off, Emma Grace,” Micah reminded me.

Off the twins ran; peeling outer garments as though the cloth crawled with vermin. I stooped and retrieved discarded articles, lest Mama give me a good skinning when I got back to the house. Then I hefted the weighty pickax to my shoulder and followed my brothers home.

Eight

Tragedy struck our family at the end of cotton season, when the ground lay cracked and parched beneath a ruthless sun and the few remaining pickers worked an entire day to fill a single sack.

Mama and the older boys left early that morning to work the crops on our farm. Molly and Polly would be toiling alongside Papa today, yanking the last scruffy bolls from the stiff, withered stems of Mr. Peavy’s cotton plants.

The morn began as any other: purple light dancing on the horizon, the sky aquiver with lavender hues. I recalled thinking that those first streaks of daylight were truly beautiful. I watched as the dawn swapped shades, blushing to peach as stars paled in the sky and the night skittered away. At the time, I had no way of knowing that the glorious dawn would end in the most sorrowful twilight of my life.

I scrunched kinks from my back and gazed through the bedroom window, my thoughts sailing across the fields to where my family waited for daylight and another day of picking cotton. My mind idled in laziness for a time, until I remembered the chores Mama had ordained for my day. It seemed another Falin would also be hard at work this day. Because of the long hours Mama spent at the home place, or in Mr. Peavy’s fields, most of her chores had fallen upon me. I’m uncertain when it happened, but at some point in that interminable cotton season, I came upon a fine appreciation for my mama.

I lay in bed, running a mental finger down my work list.
Sort the dirty clothes; set them soaking in tubs of cold water. Drain the water and sprinkle soap powder over clothes in late afternoon. Peel and chop vegetables. Cube and brown the meat; set it to stewing. Mix a triple batch of cornbread. Cover it with oilcloth to prevent drying. Wash dishes, clean the house, feed the animals, and corral the twins. Or did the list say to feed the twins and corral the animals?
I shoved the entire roster to the flip side of my brain, desiring only to lie abed like a princess. For a few moments, I forgot all responsibilities required of me this day.

“What’cha got for breakfast, Emma Grace?” Micah floundered down the stairs, briefs riding helter-skelter on his narrow hips as his fist rubbed sleep from his eyes.

I giggled at his early morning presentation. A thatch of light brown curls jutted from his scalp, as tangled and disheveled as Whisper’s furry pelt. I leaned over, wrapping my arms around him.

“Mornin’, precious. Where’s Caleb?”

“Comin’,” Caleb called, his voice thick with sleep-hoarseness.

Caleb cuddled Whisper in his arms and stepped into my morning hug. Both smelled of puppy. Hard-pressed to distinguish Whisper-fur from Caleb’s mane, I stroked all hair in sight.

“You two—go wash up and slip on some overalls while I dish up your oatmeal. Have you visited the bathroom yet?”

“Don’t Whisper haf’ta wash up too?” Micah asked. The flow of love from his eyes to the puppy was palpable. I felt my heart swell as it absorbed a bit of love’s power.

“Guess it wouldn’t hurt to run a cloth over his face,” I said, hiding my smile between pursed lips. “Don’t forget to take him outside to pee.”

“Why can’t he pee in the …” Caleb’s whiney tone was predictable. ’Twas the one he used to wear me down. I straight-eyed him and slipped into the no-nonsense voice of my mama.

“We’ve been over this before, Caleb.” I bent my elbow, placing a fist against my left hip, as Mama was prone to do. “Take him outside like I said. That’s why God made such a big outdoors. So all the animals would have a place to do their business.”

The boys dressed and stomped to the front door, their bare feet pounding the hardwood floors like yoked oxen.

I turned the gas jet low and stirred the oatmeal, scraping glutinous bits from the bottom of the pan. As my thoughts drifted to the book on my bedside table, I wondered if I’d have an opportunity to read today.

In late afternoon, I studied Mama’s overlong list, checking completed chores with a stubbed-off pencil. As I recited my accomplishments aloud to Micah and Caleb, they yanked on my pants legs as though they were bell ropes at Christ’s Chapel.

“Hold on, you two. Let’s see now, stew’s in the warming bin. Three pans of cornbread ready to bake. I’ve laid the table, tidied the house.”

“We wanna play som’more hide-and-seek,” Caleb demanded, jerking on the legs of my overalls in singsong with his words.

“No more hide-and-seek today. And you can bet I’ll be keeping a hard eye on you two—stowing away in the root cellar like that when you knew it was off-limits. ’Bout scared me to death. Best you abide by the rules if you want me to bake any more sugar cookies.…” My voice trailed off, the boys having forsaken my company. As my nagging drifted to the far side of nowhere, I grabbed my book and followed the twins outdoors.

The boys and Whisper ran free. But for the lack of war paint, they looked like a couple of want-to-be braves, running and hollering as though they were part of a raiding party. I propped my crutch against a pecan tree and plopped to the grassy slope, my fingers a’ twirl as they parted the pages of
Gulliver’s Travels.
A duel of sorts interrupted my reading, the boys’ impish squeals contending with Whisper’s sharp, persistent barks. As they tossed sticks for the puppy to fetch, their high jingling laughter proved heady to my ears. They ran without care, their brown curls jouncing the air as they leapfrogged the tall grasses. A familiar wave of love unfurled in my chest as I watched them scamper about. Sometimes even my eyes ached with love for Caleb and Micah.

Engraved on my heart was this picture of the twins at play in the high-grass field. Other visions were there as well. Visions I feared to call to the light. I found no pleasure in them at all, for they hung about my heart like an albatross; a harbinger preceding a brewing storm. For five years, I had separated my memories, knowing some held the power to toss me back into the pit of despair I had but narrowly escaped. Now I had no choice. I had to let my memories play out, for they were a barricade on the timeline of my life, and I could straddle them no more. Fear slapped a padlock around my chest, trapping my breath as I stretched to retrieve my most dreaded memory: the hour I had so miserably failed my little brothers.

I heard the high, keening wail, but held no thought that it seeped from the recesses of my heart. ’Twas not until I felt the flow of tears that I realized the keening was my own. It lifted to the highest branches, stirring treetops on my behalf. It swayed the evergreen pavilion over my head with a crush of mournful waves. The trees alone knew I could not face the swell. Just as I knew it was not yet in me to set my memories free.

I bolted from the granite ledge and stumbled down the slope, sinking my knees into damp creek sand. My gut-wrenching wails erupted upon the solitude of dusk, startling tree birds into a squawking frenzy. As my tears splattered into Two-Toe Creek, I prayed my pain would wash away, as well. The wailing quieted after a time, leaving dried tears and salt tracks that pinched my face. I leaned forward, splashing icy water onto my overheated cheeks. Then I sat on the sand.

I wondered about my resolve to visit the past, questioning if the trip was necessary, after all. Why did I have to face my demons? Couldn’t I exist as before? I had grown used to the baggage of guilt I carted around, and life
had
been somewhat peaceful, hadn’t it? My head ached with questions for which there were no answers. The truth was that I had known but half-a-heart’s pleasure since the day of the tragedy.

Truth and I tangled in a battle of wills that afternoon. In the end, I won the fight, for I had not the courage to nudge my memories from their womb of shame. They had been sheathed against the world far too long for me to take comfort in the parting.

Turning my back on all I had dreamed of accomplishing, I rose from the sand and walked down the path that led home. I’d come within a hair’s breadth of reliving the horror of five years past. I shook with the thought.
You’re not ready yet,
my heart cried.
You’re not ready to go through it again.

The woods quieted. Subtle were the sounds that accompanied twilight’s descent: birds twittering in the roosts above my head; the age-old hum of creek chatter. Exhausted, and depleted of anything resembling stoutheartedness, I walked away, postponing my date with grief until another day.

A stronger day.