Crutchers
As I near the Crutcher place, I hear the sound of young’uns playing. It’s how our house might sound if my brothers and sisters had lived.
I come over the rise to find David playing Chase with Johnny and the littl’uns. David’s eleven, Johnny nine. Lizzie, the youngest, whines and clutches a dirty blanket. Her nose needs wiping and her diaper droops near to her knees.
I hello the bunch of them, and Lizzie attaches herself to my skirt. “I have mail for your daddy,” I tell David, as I pick up Lizzie and hold her at arm’s length.
“Pa’s sick,” Johnny says. “Been sick more’n two weeks. Molly’s takin’ keer of ‘im.” Molly’s only eight years old.
I heft Lizzie into the house, where Molly stirs something over the fire. It doesn’t smell fit to eat.
Her daddy’s lying abed, breathing loud, coughing with each breath. He’s powerful feverish. I prop his head and plump his pillow, which is fire-hot from being under him.
I grab a diaper from the clothesline and toss it to Molly. “Diaper Lizzie, and don’t let anyone eat whatever’s in that stewpot. I’ll fetch Aunt Freddie.”
I scurry down the hill fast as a squirrel down a maple, and find Aunt Freddie stirring a kettle of stew at her stove. I scarce get out two sentences before she snatches a potholder, grabs that kettle and a pan of cornbread, and lights out quick as an eyeblink.
I want to go with her, but Mama says no. I already missed morning lessons. She won’t let me miss afternoon ones.
Our noon meal won’t be a hot one since Aunt Freddie took the stew to Crutchers’. We have cornbread and honey though, and I cross the plank bridge to the springhouse for cheese and milk.
The springhouse door opens into what used to be a cave. The sound of water plays in the cool, dark stillness, and the dampish cave smell wrinkles my nose.
I light the stubby candle in a bowl by the door, and the candlelight’s flicker throws shadows on the rock floor and wall. It glimmers in the spring of water that gurgles from some unknown place, fills a shallow bed, and disappears beneath the rocks. The water is always cold, so we set bottles and crocks of food in it to keep them from spoiling.
As I carry cheese and milk across the bridge, raindrops splash in the branch. Rain drizzles down the windowpane while we eat, and shows no notion of stopping.
After I clear the dishes, Daddy goes fishing, but Grandpa stays inside and watches while Mama and I do lessons. He takes interest in the history lesson.
The history book Mama teaches from only goes up to Grover Cleveland’s first presidency, but Mama has pages and pages written in her own flowing handwriting that bring history right up to today and President Woodrow Wilson.
Grandpa interrupts the lesson. “Ain’t no president yet to equal the first. George Washington stood taller afoot than all the rest of ‘em on horseback.” He crosses his arms over his chest as if daring us to disagree.
Mama goes on teaching.
I have high regard for Washington, too. But I also admire Abraham Lincoln. I keep that respect to myself, since Grandpa fought in the Confederacy against Lincoln’s army.
My toes wiggle inside my shoes with anticipation of walking on ground that Lincoln trod. It’s just over a month away.
Grandpa comes by again at suppertime.
“What did Freddie say about Hank Crutcher?” Daddy asks.
“He must be feelin’ right poorly,” Grandpa says. “She ain’t come back yet.”
Mama steps outside, where the sun fixes to dip into the valley. “I’d brew tea for the angels to have her here before dark.” She twists a loose strand of hair around her finger.
“No need to fret,” Grandpa says. “A woman don’t git ta be Freddie’s age unless she kin take care of herself.”
I wish Mama were more like Grandpa, but she twists that hair around her finger until bedtime. I reckon when six babies die in your arms, worry comes as natural as breathing.
