Love and Lament (19 page)

She came over and stood beside her brother. She shook his arm to make him watch her signing. “I had to shoot George,” she said.

“I know,” he cut in. He pointed down to the river, past the confluence with Love’s Creek, where the water glinted in the last rays of sunlight. There were no signs of life but a vine of smoke from an outdoor fireplace across the river and the barking of a dog.

“Siler,” she said, “you know I killed that crow.” And now she was crying and trying to catch her breath.

“What crow?” he asked. He gave her a puzzled look, tilting his head, biting his lower lip the way he did when he was thinking hard. There was not enough light left to the day now for her to see into his deep-set eyes—we’re all just skulls with skin, she thought. Across the river she could no longer make out the smoke, or the chimney, and the opposite bank was indistinguishable from the darkening water.

“You know that crow that belonged to Willie and I was supposed to take care of it, and I forgot to give it water—well, I didn’t give it water because I was afraid of it, and then I thought it was going to die and I prayed for it to die quickly, but it didn’t. And when it did die I thought I was going to be taken by the Devil that very night, and I tried to stay awake all night. And in the morning when I wasn’t gone, I thought he was coming for me, and was going to surprise me. I don’t know but he’s not coming someday.” She wanted to tell him more, but she just couldn’t.

Siler shook his head at all this. It was becoming hard to see, and her signing was imperfect anyway. What she was trying to tell him seemed crazy, but she was upset.

“And you knew about it, didn’t you?” she asked. “I thought you knew. Don’t you remember?”

“No,” he said. “I don’t remember. Let’s go home.” He took her hand and walked with her back up to the cemetery. Now the dusk had faded to night and the evening star was out in the western sky.

“I’ve done worse things,” she whispered. But he had not seen her lips. “I killed a living thing, on purpose.” She thought, I don’t believe in the Devil anymore, but I saw him there with Daddy,
I know I saw him in the broken glass
.

At supper that evening, she was again left to start the conservation, if there was to be any at all. “Daddy,” she said, “who was that down at the store today, the old man with his dogcart?”

“Nobody,” he said, shoveling his peas toward a piece of cornbread. “Just a Jew peddler named Gubbs that comes by every now and again, selling goose grease and string and such. Got a sway-back pony so he doesn’t have to haul the cart himself.”

She glanced at Siler to see if he was attending to the talk, but he was paying no attention and she didn’t bother to translate. She told Cicero that Siler had a new girl named Rebecca, and as soon as the words were out of her mouth Siler glared at her. He shook his head curtly and she signed, “What’s wrong with telling him that?”

“I told you in confidence,” he said, squeezing his fists. He pushed back from the table and cleared his plate.

“What’s the matter with him?” Cicero asked.

Mary Bet shook her head, tears coming to her eyes. “He can’t talk about it.”

“I know that,” Cicero humphed, “but why—”

“Daddy, he’s just eaten up from the inside, he doesn’t know why, and I think he suffers worse than any of us, because he’s more sensitive. He always has been.”

“I didn’t say anything—”

“No, it’s not your fault. It’s just—he’s going with a Jewish girl. There, I shouldn’t have told you, but I did. Please don’t say a word to Siler about this.” She studied her father, but he betrayed nothing, just continued to mop up the molasses on his plate with his last bite of cornbread. What was he thinking, and why would he not say a word? “Well, Daddy?”

“Well, what?”

“Why don’t you say anything?”

“You told me not to.”

“You can talk to me.”

“There’s nothing to talk about. He’s a grown man, he can do as he pleases. I don’t know what they do out there at that school. I know they go to church, and the Jewish people have their own church, or synagogue, or what have you. I don’t know what your mother would say.”

“It doesn’t matter what mother would say. What do you say, Daddy? Why don’t you go out there and talk to him, he’s eaten up inside about it because he’s afraid you won’t approve.” The front door opened, then closed again. “All right, just go after him, I don’t know what he’s liable to do in this state.”

“What do you think he’ll do? I’m just sitting here a-wondering what the girl’s parents are thinking. You know, Jewish folk don’t cotton to marrying gentiles anymore than the other way around.”

“That’s good that you’re seeing things from that angle, Daddy, but who’s talking about marriage?”

“If we’re not talking about marriage, what’s the problem? Unless he’s dallying with her.” Cicero slowly got to his feet, a hand going to his back as he straightened up and arched. “I won’t catch up with him, you know. And by the time he gets home, I’ll be asleep.”

“Then speak to him in the morning.”

“He’s always up and doing his deliveries before I’m hardly awake,” Cicero said. Then, “I’ll speak to him tomorrow,” raising his voice just enough to make her back down. “Now I’m going to my study where I don’t want to be interrupted for the next hour solid, not unless the house is afire, and then only if you can’t handle it yourself.” He trundled off, leaving her to clear the table and take the dishes out back to the washstand, where she worked until the
light had turned grainy and the lightning bugs winked like watchful little eyes in the warm, still air.

She waited for Siler to say something to her the next day, but he acted as if nothing unusual had happened. Her father was short with her, and so she assumed he’d not had a pleasant day and was not disposed to conversation. The next day he was at his lodge meeting, and it was not until the day after that she had a chance to ask if he’d talked with Siler. Cicero shook his head as if hardly remembering. “I’ve been so busy, I haven’t had time. It slipped my mind. I’m not sure why it’s so important to you. You could speak to him yourself.”

“Daddy, you don’t—” She’d started to say “understand,” but that would be rude, and not quite accurate—he understood.

There was never a good time to bring the matter up again, to either Siler or her father. When they saw Siler off at the train station, he seemed happy, probably, she thought, to be leaving and heading back to what he considered his real home now. He looked so serious and grown-up standing there in his gray pinstripe suit, his raincoat draped over his arm, his fedora cocked to one side. She felt an upwelling of love for him that she was afraid of—she wanted to embrace him there and tell him that she loved him and would always love him, and that they should forgive each other for what had happened that dreamy afternoon years ago. But the train was coming, its scolding whistle shrill and certain as it cut the morning air. There was still time to kiss him … all her life, she thought, looking back on this place, she would regret that she hadn’t.

But in the bustle of bags and last-minute questions about tickets and his lunch sack and reminders to write every week, there was no chance even for another hug. Siler shook hands with his father. “I’ll be home Christmas,” he vocalized. He winked at Mary Bet. “Be good,” he said.

At the “All aboard!” he was swallowed in the gathering of passengers, and he never looked back.

ON THE EIGHTH
day of November the Western Union telegram came. Siler had been making his way along a train track outside of Morganton, where the roads were too muddy for walking. The conductor had blown his whistle in plenty of time, he said, and had put on his brakes. He couldn’t understand why the young man wouldn’t get out of the way, but he never even turned around. When Mary Bet later had time to think about it, what she could not understand was how Siler was unable to feel the train coming. She could feel it herself down at the platform—you didn’t have to see it or hear it. “He couldn’t hear it,” Cicero said, “that’s all there is to it. He had no business walking along the tracks like that.”

“The girl—” Mary Bet tried to tell him. But when she saw the pain in her father’s eyes, she couldn’t go on. She wanted to tell him what was on her mind, that perhaps Siler had had a falling out with Rebecca, that they were afraid of what their parents would say if they were to become engaged.

Cicero shook his head. “He couldn’t always feel vibrations. I could walk up right behind him sometimes and he wouldn’t know I was there.”

He always knew, Mary Bet thought. He just didn’t always turn around. But he always knew; he knew even better than people who could hear.
He chose to stay on that track, and he left us no reason why
.

After the funeral, Mary Bet went into her father’s study and sat with her toes just touching the carpet, the way she used to as a little girl. He was in his easy chair, a book on his lap, his glasses midway down his nose, and it was hard to tell if he was reading or just staring at the book.

“What is it, Daddy?” she said.

He shook his head. “I’m not sure if we shouldn’t’ve asked more questions.”

“Questions?”

“Of the sheriff out there last week. Why did they not take him to the hospital, or a doctor?”

“I’m sure it was too late for that, Daddy.”

“But why to the sheriff’s office, then, and not straight to the coroner’s? Why do him that a-way? If he was dead and hadn’t done anything wrong.”

“I’m sure there’s an explanation for it. We’ll wire and find out. Or you can call on your telephone at the store.”

Cicero shook his head. “No, I’ll write, if I can think what to say. I don’t want to trouble anybody, and I’m sure you’re right.”

It was not for another three weeks that Cicero brought the subject up again. One evening as supper was ending, he reached into his jacket and pulled out a letter and his reading glasses, which he exchanged for his regular pair.

“Letter here from Sheriff Meacham out in Burke.” He read,

Dear Mr. Hartsoe
,

In response to your inquiry, your son, Siler B. Hartsoe was brought to this office by the Southern Railway Company after the accident on the 8th of November. He was already deceased and had been declared so by Dr. J. Trimble Bone, Burke County Coroner. Since your son was not a local resident, the railway company decided to transport the body to my office rather than an undertaker’s to await shipment back to his home and so that I could sign the release form allowing said shipment and provide you with a copy of the death certificate. We have had two similar cases that I recall, one when I first took office nine years ago, and another a few years before that time. After the superintendent of the North Carolina School for the Deaf came and identified your son (verifying the identity card in his wallet), I immediately called the Hartsoe City sheriff’s office and was given your telephone number at the Alliance Store. The death occurred at approximately 3:15 p.m., and I spoke to you at approximately 5:30 p.m. that same day. I believe, from the wire I received, that the body of your son arrived the next morning at approximately 8:45 a.m. I hope this clears up any questions and concerns, and I want to express my deepest sympathy for the loss of your son
.

Yours sincerely, John Meacham, Sheriff

He carefully folded the letter, replaced it in the envelope, and tucked it back in his pocket. “I reckon that explains it.”

Mary Bet nodded, and though she wasn’t convinced, she didn’t want her father worrying about it any more. But now the letter had raised more questions than it had answered, and she could not help wondering what Siler was doing out there. Was he alone? Where was he going? And were the reports from the railway and the coroner and the sheriff one hundred percent accurate? She had no reason to doubt them, but she wondered how complete they really were, and if the conductor, for example, had something more to add than the impersonal statement on record, “male pedestrian failed to heed warning whistle.” She would like to talk to the conductor, ask him if Siler turned around at all, shrugged, gave any sign of awareness. Anything would help put her mind at ease, because she could not help imagining the worst possible scenes. If Siler had thrown himself under the wheels, certainly the conductor would’ve reported it, but if he’d glanced back, ever so briefly … well, that would be worth knowing, though she couldn’t say exactly why. Maybe it was better to assume that he simply was
lost in his thoughts—but what thoughts? Could his foot have gotten stuck? She looked at her father, tears stinging her eyes, and she didn’t bother wiping them away.

“What is it, baby girl?”

She shook her head. “Nothing, Daddy, I just don’t want you to worry so.” She got up and cleared the dishes.

CHAPTER 12