One More night
One more night until we sleep in the new Sears, Roebuck tent. Mama says I’ll sleep in my clothes on the ground.
“Tain’t nothin’,” Grandpa says across the supper table. “Me and Fred slept on the ground ever’ night durin’ the war.
Mama’s protruding belly doesn’t let her scoot in close to the table anymore, and tears gather in her eyes.
Swallowing becomes a chore, and I stay quiet about leaving.
But Grandpa talks of nothing else. “Crutcher’s boys’ll be here afore the sun,” he says. David and Johnny will bring home Stonewall the mule after Grandpa sells his pelts.
“Why do you have to leave so soon?” Mama asks. “The battle’s anniversary is a month off.”
“Ya cain’t never tell with travelin’,” Grandpa says. “Could be storms or a body come down sick or some such thing.”
Worry floods Mama’s face.
Daddy pats her hand. “They’ll be just fine.”
“Course we will,” Grandpa says. “Considerable better ta be early than git slowed down and miss the whole dang reunion. Might even stop along the way ta see a few sights.”
After helping wash and put away dishes, I mosey out to the yard. I sit in the cemetery, wrapped in the scent of pines, wanting to tuck a picture of home inside me.
On slopes above me, hickories, locusts, and maples mingle their different greens together to make a color that doesn’t truly belong to any of them. The setting sun glints off our house’s window glass, making it seem like a living thing, resting on the ridge with its window eyes watching the hills around it.
A cool breeze carries the sound of day critters settling in for the night. The quiet gurgles and splashes of Rebecca’s Branch blend with the animal sounds, as it flows dark under the plank bridge. Wisps of fog gather over the water. Overnight, the fog will wrap around our house as though we sleep inside a cloud.
When morning sun bursts over the mountain to burn away the fog, patches will stay tucked in shady pockets between the hills. By then, I will be traveling through those pockets.
As sunset makes the house’s windows appear to blink, I hear the squeak of the screen door. Mama is looking for me. I need to take a bath, even though it’s not Saturday night.
Mama helps wash my hair and comb out its tangles. My comb is already packed, so she uses the tortoise-shell comb that was her mama’s. She doesn’t have many things that belonged to her mama. Her parents died when she was a young’un. She lived with an aunt in Huntington until she went away to school in Charleston.
“You haven’t combed my hair since I was a young’un,” I say as she pulls the comb through damp strands.
“It’s right hard watching you grow up so quick,” she says.
“You’re not still fretting about my going with Grandpa, are you? You’ve told me since I was six I need to learn about other places. Think of all the history in Gettysburg.”
“Some days I’d brew tea for the angels to have you six again.” I feel the comb stop.
“When you have a new baby to fuss over, you’ll be glad I can look after myself.” I turn to pat her round middle and see her wet eyes. “My hair won’t dry if you get tears in it.”
She laughs and the tears splash down her cheeks.
When she picks up combing again, I offer to finish it myself.
“I do need to iron your daddy’s Sunday shirt.”
“What for? Sunday’s almost over.”
“To go to Willoughbys’ tomorrow and pay our respects.”
I turn so quickly it pulls the comb clean out of her hand. “Does Grandpa know?”
“This feud between the Willoughbys and Grandpa’s kin has gone on since before your grandpa was born. It’s not our feud.”
“Mama! Grandpa’s kin is our kin.”
“No matter. Neighbors lost a loved one, and paying respects is the neighborly thing to do. Though I admit having your grandpa gone tomorrow will make it easier.”
“It seems odd, calling One-Thumb Willoughby a loved one.”
“No need to talk disrespectful,” Mama scolds. “Nancy is a sweet young lady.”
“Considerable young. How could she fall in love with an old man like Jess’s daddy.”
“First off, Harmon’s not an old man. He’s the same age as your daddy. And not all folks marry for love. You never can tell what’s in a body’s heart.”
“He doesn’t have money, and I’ve seen better-looking hound dogs. Why else would she marry the son of One-Thumb Willoughby?”
“Can’t say for sure, but Nancy’s parents are both gone. Might be she married to have someone take care of her.”
That notion is so startling I am speechless. Mama kisses my forehead, hands me her comb, and heads for the kitchen, leaving me with my mouth wide open.
You knew One-Thumb Willoughby when he was a young’un. Was he scary back then? Or was he just a mule-stubborn boy like his grandson, Jess?
I wish I knew why Grandpa hates Willoughbys so. One-Thumb was filthy, coarse, and odder than a six-legged toad. But Mama’s right. Nancy seems almost like regular folks—except for marrying a Willoughby as old as Daddy. I don’t reckon I understand love or what makes folks do the strange things they do.
We leave tomorrow, but I can’t sleep. When I shut my eyes, I try to picture Gettysburg, but how can my mind see something my eyes never have? Will it look familiar to Grandpa? Will signs of the battle remain after fifty years? Will I be able to do what everyone expects of me?
Virginia Lee Kent
