To Make My Bread (30 page)

The Mulkey children ran about just as they pleased because their mother was sick. Sometimes they were very dirty, and always ragged. Mr. Mulkey did some of the cooking, for Alma was lazy and refused to work much, since she was a boarder. Yet she was very smart, for she could read and write well; and it was Alma who had taught Bonnie how to find time on the alarm clock, so that Bonnie could teach the others. Often when supper was over Alma had beaus who took her to the store for soda water or to church. Then the oldest Mulkey child, Annie, who was eleven, washed dishes and cleaned. Most of the time she did the cooking instead of Mr. Mulkey, who liked to talk about how hard he worked at home.

Ora's young ones played with the Mulkey children, though Bonnie had to watch carefully to see that they did not run off and get into mischief, begging at the store or getting wet in the creek, led by young States Mulkey who almost seemed to like getting other people into trouble, and slipping out himself. He was ten, but very large for his age, and his fair face had a big mouth almost clear across from ear to ear. His whole name was Statesrights after someone in Granpap's war.

Mrs. Mulkey was very important because the preacher came to her so often, and occasionally the Company doctor, who owned a drug store in the village. She was a sort of mystery to the McClures, for Mr. Mulkey seemed not to welcome company and none of them had ever seen her. They had heard from Alma about her spells. And some days when Bonnie was in the yard she looked at the windows of the house next door fearfully, thinking she had heard a call from the sick woman. She wanted to see, yet dreaded going there, for she knew there were times when Mr. Mulkey had to force his wife back to bed to keep her from walking down the street in her nightgown.

One day Annie, who was a year older than States, came running into the house where Bonnie was getting some dinner ready for the young ones.

“Please come, Bonnie,” she begged, “come quick.”

Without thinking a second time, Bonnie went right over, running.

“I can't get her back in bed,” Annie panted out, over and over. That seemed the important thing, to get her lying down again.

In the front room, where the curtains were drawn to keep out the hot sunlight, Mrs. Mulkey walked up and down. Annie stopped at the door. Bonnie went inside. Her heart was beating as if it was getting ready to jump from her mouth right on the floor at Mrs. Mulkey's feet. Mrs. Mulkey was tall as Ora. She had a long white face with big dark eyes, and her fair hair hung in strings around her face. The long nightgown she wore was not long enough to cover her bare feet. They were long, like her face, and stuck out queerly from under the gown.

She saw Bonnie staring and stopped short in her walking.

“People say I look like a ghost,” she said, and laughed a tinkling sort of laughter. “I reckon I do look like a ghost.”

She began to walk again from wall to wall. Bonnie went up close to her. “Will ye come to bed?” she asked.

“I was naked, and ye clothed me,” Mrs. Mulkey said, talking very sensibly to Bonnie, as she would talk to a friend. “I was hungered and ye fed me. I was thirsty and ye gave me to drink.”

Bonnie was trembling. She wanted to run from the room. Yet she knew something must be done at once. All the young ones, the Mulkeys and Ora's, were at the door watching, crowding against each other to see. Bonnie slipped her shaking hand into Mrs. Mulkey's.

“Hadn't ye better go to bed?” she asked, and pulled Mrs. Mulkey toward the bed.

“The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want,” Mrs. Mulkey said. She pulled away from Bonnie, trying to get her hand loose. She kept walking back and forth and Bonnie had to follow. The little girl twisted her fingers around the woman's. She could feel the dry bony hand. It felt as if there was no flesh there, only bones for her to hold.

“The Lord is my shepherd,” Mrs. Mulkey said again, and tried again to pull her hand away.

“The Lord wants ye in bed,” Bonnie told her. For the first time Mrs. Mulkey stopped trying to get away.

“Do you think He does?” she asked earnestly.

“Yes'm,” Bonnie told her. “I know He does.”

Mrs. Mulkey's hand went limp, and she allowed Bonnie to lead her back to the bed and get her covered. Almost immediately she went off to sleep. Bonnie watched over her for a few moments, then tiptoed out, shooing the young ones in whispers away from the door.

All those days Bonnie was very busy. She was head of the house during the day, caring for the children. She liked this, yet there were times when she felt ready to run, and on those days she was cross and ill natured with the young ones. As the end of summer came it was better, for she could remember that she would soon be starting school and that thought was enough to make her patient with the others.

Some days she had a big baby on her hands. For Granpap was as much trouble as any when he was at home. He fretted so. And since this fretting was unlike Granpap it made everything about him seem unnatural and wrong.

When no one was looking John made up for Bonnie's worry by helping with the dishwashing and cooking. He even scrubbed the floors when Ora and Emma had no time to do so. Ora and Emma, having to do washing on Saturdays and ironing Monday nights, had little time for scrubbing. It would have been against the feelings of the whole community for them to do scrubbing and ironing on Sunday. Yet in secret they sometimes did this, and probably the other women did this, too, and never told outside.

All through the summer Granpap was worrying Emma to go back to the hills. She reminded him that sometimes in the winter up there they had starved. In the village there was sure money and the store to buy from, near by, and there was the school, which was most important.

The summer went by, and it was almost time for school to begin. Changes had to be made, and many things decided—one of them whether Emma or Ora should go on the night shift. For in order to care for the young ones during the day, one of them must work at night so she could be at home while Bonnie attended school.

A few days before school began Emma came home to find Bonnie crying. She was sick at heart at first, thinking Ora's young, or John, had been hurt.

“What is it, Bonnie,” she asked. “Now you tell me.”

“Hit's Granpap,” Bonnie said.

“What about Granpap?” Emma asked and shook Bonnie again.

“He's gone,” Bonnie said.

Granpap had put a piece of bread in his pocket, taken his fiddle from the trunk and left for the hills.

“W
HERE
'
S
John?” Emma asked. She thought at once that John had gone with Granpap.

“Out back somewheres,” Bonnie told her. “He was a-crying, too,” she said. “I know it. But he ran away.”

Emma went through the house where Ora was already getting supper. John was not in the bedroom, and the yard at the back was empty. Perhaps John had run after Granpap and by now was part way up the mountain. She called him, and when not a sound came for an answer she called again. With a flat bang the door of the outhouse swung back and hung on its one hinge. John stepped out and came toward her. He did look as if he had been crying.

“Why did Granpap go?” Emma asked him.

“He said he wanted the hills, and wanted work.”

Granpap had said more than that. He had said, among other things. “Hit ain't right, Son, for a man to be asking money from a woman. And this place, hit takes everything out of ye. Down here I'm like a gun shell with the shot taken out, good for nothing but a little noise and some foolish smoke.”

“Did he say he was coming back?” Emma asked John.

“He didn't say,” John told her.

Ora came out. She had just learned from Bonnie what the trouble was. They stood together talking and John walked around them aimlessly, in a large circle, zigzagging in and out around the two women, like a crazy boy. He was actually befuddled. Part of him wanted to follow Granpap into the mountains, and part wanted to stay and get schooling, and learn the new things that he had not yet learned.

Ora said, “Granpap can take care of himself, Emma. And maybe he's better off in the hills. Right now you'd best come in and eat, and not worry. Frank's in there and he'll say the same. Granpap will care for himself, and not come to harm.”

Emma knew these were sensible things, and she knew the truth of what Ora said. The trouble was that she had come to rely on Granpap's presence, as if he was a husband. And except for lying together, she and Granpap had been husband and wife to each other. They had quarreled and got over it. Granpap had scolded her and the young ones, and she had scolded back. And they had rejoiced together. It was more than anxiety that held her to Granpap. They had been through too much together for her to lose him without a heartache.

But he had gone for good. She had to make up her mind to that. They watched for him the second day and the third, and another; but on Sunday evening Emma had to say, “I reckon he's gone for good,” and turn her mind to other things that needed her attention.

That Sunday evening Bonnie got everything ready for school. Not that there was much to do, but she pretended that she must be busy getting ready. She had already washed her one dress and Esther's. The dresses hung up clean and ironed on the wall in Emma's room. Bonnie wore Emma's shawl and Esther had an old dress of Sally's, torn and too big, but good enough to wear at home.

John was already wearing his clean shirt and jeans. He was not like the girls wanting to keep his clothes fresh for morning. The important thing to him was school. Ever since the visit to the city he had thought about Basil and what Basil wanted. Basil had gone somewhere and learned books; and people who knew books somehow had a chance to get the kind of things the rich woman in the city had. There was Emma who needed new clothes and some time to rest, and Bonnie who wanted an extra dress sometimes. Schooling, to John, meant living better. He wanted to meet Basil and talk to him about such things. For years when he thought of his brothers Kirk had come first. Now he felt rather scornful of Kirk who had thrown away everything he had, and lost his life for a woman.

Everyone went to bed earlier than usual that night, for there were many extra things to be accomplished in the morning. Bonnie went to Emma's room first. She wanted to be first to bed, and the first up. But someone was there before her. Young Frank was now sleeping in Granpap's place with John. Much as absent ones were regretted, in such a crowded household there was always someone to use the space they had left.

Bonnie heard Young Frank sobbing over in the bed. When she heard that she did not turn on the light. As far back as she could remember she had never heard Young Frank cry, or laugh either, for that matter. He was always quiet and shy.

“Young Frank,” she said, and then didn't know what else to speak. She thought he would not answer, but unexpectedly he raised his head and spoke in a loud whisper. She felt that he was not talking to her but to everybody. He talked as if he hated the world and everyone in it.

“They won't let me go to school,” he said. “Won't they? Well then! I'll haul spools and I'll work every day like they make me. I'll haul spools and let the old mill shake. But hit can't shake the devil out of me. You watch. I'm a-going to the devil as fast as I can. They can't stop me.”

“I'll teach ye, Young Frank,” Bonnie said, standing back, almost afraid of him for the first time in her life. He had been so quiet she had never thought of him as having any special wishes. “I'll teach ye at night.”

“Teach me! I'll teach you,” Young Frank said. He put his head under the bed clothes and would not answer again.

The alarm clock in Ora's room was set for four-thirty in the morning. Emma lay in bed with everybody asleep and pondered on her life that was to come. She wondered about the night work. She would have taken the day work, if Ora had not been big with child. It was the least Emma could do to take the burden of the heavy night work, with only snatches of sleep in the day, for Ora during this time, When the baby was born, then Ora would stay home, and when she got well enough would take the night shift, and leave Emma free to work in the day. Even if she had to work day and night, the young ones were to get their schooling. And that was enough satisfaction. And these two younger ones, Bonnie and John, would never leave her completely as Basil had done.

Emma drifted off to sleep, then woke with a start, hearing someone moving about in the house. The light was on in the kitchen. She got up and went in there. Bonnie was standing by the stove completely dressed in her clean calico, making a fire.

“Did Ora wake ye?” Emma asked.

“No,” Bonnie told her. “But I'm sure hit's time t' get up. I think we'd better wake Ora.”

“Ora always wakes by the clock,” Emma said. “Hit's too early, Bonnie.”

“I might be late a-getting to school,” Bonnie said. “I know hit's time t' get up.”

Bonnie was so stubborn the only thing to do was wake Ora. When the light in her room was turned on the clock said one. Bonnie would not believe, and held it to her ear. Then she had to say reluctantly that it was going. Frank grunted from the bed, hating to be disturbed by the light, and the youngest, lying at the foot with little Raymond, moved and let out a wail of protest. By this time there were stirrings all over the house, in all of the beds.

Emma cut the damper so the fire would go out, and made Bonnie undress. It was very humiliating to Bonnie, and depressing; for everyone was cross with her for rousing them three hours before time. She got back into bed expecting to keep awake, and when Ora came in to call them she thought it was still one o'clock or near that time. But Ora insisted that it was four-thirty and after.

Then there was enough hurry to satisfy Bonnie. Frank, Ora and Young Frank started out first. Young Frank was gloomy. Just before they left Bonnie remembered what had happened the night before. She went up to Young Frank and said low, so the others wouldn't hear and make him feel embarrassed, “I'll bring home my books and teach ye.” Evidently he didn't think much of her offer, for he said not a word in answer, and went off behind Ora and Frank, quiet and sullen.