The Scarlet Thread (25 page)

pay for what Papa did?

Life is not fair.

I put a marker on Sally Maes grave.

Papa is worse. His mind is going. Today when

I went in to wash him and change the bedding

again, he thought I was Mama. He said—Where

have you been Katie love. I have missed you so

much.

I took his hand and said I have been with Jesus

these long years.

And Papa said real soft with tears in his

eyes—Put in a good word for me.

I cannot stop crying. He was a good man once

for all his drinking and wild ways. And he loved

Mama more than life. Hearing him talk today

made me remember what he was like when

Mama was alive. And remembering made me

miss her so much my body hurts with it. Everything inside me is clenched tight, aching and

lonely.

It seems to me when God took Mama from us,

Satan waltzed in the door and he has been living

in this house ever since.

Papa is fading away. He does not eat. He sleeps

most of the day. When he is awake, he does not

speak. He looks at the corner of his room as

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though someone is there visiting with him. Sometimes he smiles and mumbles something.

I am afraid. His curse still lays so heavy upon

me.

Papa died this morning.

He was restless last night. He kept moving and

moaning. I did not know what to do to comfort

him. He could not breathe easy. He was better

when I raised him up and sat behind him and held

him in my arms. I stroked his hair and talked to

him just like I do my babies when they are fretful.

And then near dawn a thought came into my

head so powerful and clear it was like a real voice

talking to me. I knew what was wrong with Papa

and what he needed. I struggled against it but it

was like a hand squeezing hard around my heart.

I laid him back and went down on my knees

beside the bed.

I said—Papa I forgive you. Do you hear me

Papa? I forgive you.

His fingers moved. Just a little. So I took his

hand and kissed it. I said—I love you Papa. And

I meant it. Just for that minute after all the time

before and between up to now. I meant it. I forgot

how much he hurt me and saw how much he was

hurting. Be at peace, Papa, I said. I couldn’t say

no more than that.

And he seemed so. He did not say anything.

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was gone.

We buried Papa in the suit James wore when we

were wed. I sewed Papa inside the wedding quilt

Mamas friends made for them. With Mister

Grayson dead, there was no one to come see Papa

laid to rest beside Mama and the babies they lost.

It was just me holding Beth and James holding

Hank and Joshua who stood beside the grave.

I read words from the Bible. Mama would have

liked that.

It has been raining ever since. Fitting weather

for my feelings.

I cannot help wishing Papa had said something

to me before he passed on to whatever was waiting for him. Even my name would have been

enough. Or if he had looked at me before he died.

Maybe then I would not feel this awful ache

inside me.

Papa didn’t say a word to me. Not from the day

he cast me out to the day he died. But at the end,

when he had no strength left, I think he wanted

to. I hope so anyway.

Oh, what foolish creatures we are. Cursed with

our pride! Cursed with our stubbornness!

No wonder God has forsaken us.

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12

Mike sat on the aisle, Melissa at his side, his three children next

to her. The sanctuary was packed with people. As the pastor offered the eulogy, Alex took her hand. He had hardly touched her

since arriving three days ago. She’d saved her tears for privacy,

unwilling to share them with him or anyone else.

She couldn’t stop thinking about the small polished wooden

box placed on her father’s stone at the cemetery. Was that all

there was to a human being? One small box of ashes that

weighed less than a newborn baby? The pastor had met them

there and led the solemn but brief ceremony. Only family mem1 8 7

Melissa and their children, and Luís and María Madrid. So few.

Too many.

Her mother’s ashes would be mixed with her father’s, and in a

few days a stone carver would come and add the date of her

death to the slab that would cover them both.

Now, half listening to the pastor’s homily, she wondered if the

forget-me-not seeds the children planted around the marble

would come up.

“Marianna Clanton walked in the Spirit,” the pastor said, using the opportunity to proclaim the gospel. Tearful, he rejoiced

for his friend and parishioner. “Marianna will be sorely missed,

but we can take comfort in knowing she’s in the arms of her beloved Savior. And those of us who share her belief have the comfort of knowing she isn’t lost to us. We will see her again.”

One of the church ladies sang “Take my life and let it be / consecrated, Lord, to thee. . . .”

Numb with grief, Sierra stared at her mother’s picture on the

linen-covered table at the front of the sanctuary. She would have

chosen a different photo. On each side were vases filled with

bright yellow daffodils. In fact, the sanctuary was full of flowers—not funeral wreaths, but spring arrangements bursting

with color and a mood of celebration.

“It was your mother’s wish,” the pastor had explained upon

their arrival and her question. “She brought me this picture several months ago.”

Far from the usual formal portrait used in solemn services, her

mother had chosen one when she was years younger, laughing,

with a bucket of yard trimmings in one gloved hand and her clippers in the other. She’d left a note as well. “Rejoice with me.”

Finishing his homily, the pastor opened the service for sharing. One by one, friends stood and talked about Marianna

Clanton and what she had meant in their lives. Some of the sto1 8 8

ries were funny, making people laugh. Others brought a hush

and quiet tears. When all who wished to had spoken, Melissa

went forward and spoke briefly on behalf of the family. More

hymns were sung by all. Her mother’s favorites. “Amazing

Grace.” “Ave Maria.” “Standing on the Promises of God.” And

last, drawing tearful laughter, “Father Abraham.” Everybody

was on their feet, waving their arms and turning around. Even

Sierra pretended to join in the spirit of rejoicing.

“Rejoice in the Lord always,” the pastor said in benediction.

“Again I will say,
rejoice.
Let your forbearing spirit be known to

all men. The Lord is near.” Sierra felt him looking down at her as

his voice softened. “Be anxious for nothing, beloved, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which

surpasses all comprehension, shall guard your hearts and your

minds in Christ Jesus.”

A reception followed in the social hall.

Steeling herself against her inner turmoil, Sierra smiled and

thanked everyone who came through the receiving line. The

kind words slipped like water off a duck’s back. She couldn’t afford to let them sink in. Not now. Not here in front of everyone.

Later, when she was alone, she’d bathe in the pool of tears.

Alex stood beside her, close but not touching. He was like a

handsome stranger in his dark suit—polite, distant, but not indifferent. Everyone was impressed with his obvious success.

They didn’t know the cost.

Clanton and Carolyn sat with their three cousins across the

room. They talked among themselves, sharing refreshments.

Sierra was ready to leave before the others. She asked Melissa

if she’d mind watching Clanton and Carolyn. She knew the children wanted to visit as long as possible. “Why don’t you let them

spend the night?” Melissa said.

“I didn’t mean—”

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We see so little of them since you and Alex moved south.” As

soon as she said it, Sierra could tell she wished she hadn’t. “Just

don’t worry about them. You need to rest.”

Alex had driven his rented Cadillac to the cemetery and church.

She debated asking him to take her home and decided against it.

He appeared to be deep in conversation with his father.

She spoke briefly with the pastor and slipped unnoticed out

the side door of the social hall. It was beautiful outside, everything in bloom. Her mother would have loved a day like this.

Three blocks away Alex pulled up beside her. “Why didn’t you

tell me you were leaving?”

It wasn’t concern that tinged his tone, but impatience, anger.

He didn’t ask if she was all right. “You were busy.” He was

always too busy.

Alex got out of the car. When he touched her, he did so with

gentleness. Then he put his hand beneath her elbow, his expression shadowed with sadness. “Get in the car, Sierra. Please.”

She did as he said. Putting her head back against the black

leather seat, she closed her eyes, feeling utterly bereft.

“What do you think people are saying about us when you just

walk out the door without so much as a word to me?”

She looked at him. Was that it? Was that why he’d come after

her? “Since when did you ever worry about what
other
people

say?”

“You ought to care. Those people are family and friends.”

“Don’t worry, Alex. I didn’t tell anyone you only called me

three times in the past month.” Ron had called more often than

her own husband.

“The phone works two ways.”

“It does, doesn’t it? But then, every time I called you, you

weren’t home.”

A muscle jerked in his cheek and he didn’t say anything more.

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When he pulled into the drive alongside the Mathesen Street

house, he turned to her. “I’m sorry. Sierra, I—”

“Forget the excuses, Alex.” She got out of the car and walked

along the cobblestone pathway to the front steps. Fumbling for

her key, she shoved it into the lock and opened the door.

Shaking, she walked along the corridor toward the kitchen.

Maybe a cup of coffee would brace her against whatever came.

The kitchen smelled of lasagna. The Pyrex dish still sat on the

butcher block where she’d placed and forgotten it this morning.

Sally Endecott had dropped the lasagna off along with a cellophane-covered bowl of tossed salad and a chocolate cake. Every

day someone from the church came with food—spaghetti one

day, the next a turkey dinner complete with dressing and cranberry sauce. Another brought roast beef and mashed potatoes,

creamed carrots, and peas. Other friends brought home-baked

apple pies and Tollhouse cookies.

No one wanted her to worry about having to cook. No one

wanted her to worry about anything.

Not the least hungry, she measured coffee into the filter-lined

holder and slid it in place. As she poured water into the top of the

coffeemaker, she heard Alex come into the kitchen. He stood for

a moment, saying nothing. When she kept her back to him, he

went to the windows. She knew he was looking out at the back

porch and garden.

“The house doesn’t feel the same without her, does it?” he said

quietly.

Sierra swallowed hard. She couldn’t shake the feeling that her

mother was still upstairs or down the hall. If she called aloud, her

mother would answer.

But it wasn’t true. She had to remind herself her mother was

dead. The ceremony in the cemetery this morning should have

driven that fact home. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. A few pounds

of it equaled a human life.

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