Let Me Die in His Footsteps

19

IT’S BEEN FIVE minutes, maybe ten, since folks learned Joseph Carl is already dead. Someone gathers Juna and me. A hand cups the small of my back and must do the same to Juna because we move forward together at the same pace and in the same direction. I think it must be Daddy, but the hand is strong and firm and certain. It’s not Daddy.

Our smoky breath comes more quickly, filling the air around us. The hand forces me ahead, faster with each step. It guides us beyond the gallows. Folks, their heads tilted up so they can shout at Sheriff Irlene and the others, stumble aside and allow us to pass. I look up to see who has come for Juna and me, and I trip over one of the many people. The hand grabs the back of my collar and gives a yank, saves me from falling. It’s John Holleran, staring straight ahead. I ask him what is happening. Where’s Daddy? Where are you taking us? He doesn’t answer.

John walks with us until we reach the sheriff’s office. He shoves at the men who shout questions and slaps away the pencils and paper they wave in our faces. Someone asks would we be still a moment for a picture and John knocks a camera to the ground. It shatters at our feet. The door to the small office opens, we stumble through, and it closes behind.

Abigail Watson is the first person I see once inside. She sits in the same chair where Juna had sat the night Sheriff Irlene first arrested Joseph Carl. A silver tray rests on her lap. Joseph Carl’s final meal, except he never ate it and the tray is still full. It’s Mrs. Brashear’s cornbread smothered with beans and a sliced melon. Abigail’s grandparents must have dropped her here and then gone on to the hanging. I stare at the tray and wonder where Mrs. Brashear managed to find melon. What a shame Joseph Carl never got to enjoy it.

By the time I have pulled off my jacket, scarf, and gloves, John Holleran is gone. I swing around, looking for him, call out his name. I look to Abigail, and she points one slender finger at the door. She’s wearing white gloves as she might for Easter or on Christmas Eve. She means to tell me John is gone. When she lowers her hand and places them both back in her lap, I glance around the rest of the room.

While John is gone, Daddy is still here. From the looks of the room, he’s been railing, throwing things, and likely cursing. His hat has been knocked to the floor, his hair sticks to his forehead where he’s sweated, and his chest is pumping like he just finished an uphill climb. He’s upended a lantern, its slender chimney broken in two large pieces. A chair lies on its side, a stack of papers is scattered across the floor as if blown from the desk by a gust of wind, and a three-legged stool now has only two legs. At the sight of me, he reaches for my hand and drags me across the floor.

“No, Daddy,” I say.

He reaches for Juna too, but she is ahead of us and already stands outside the back room. The door is open, and I see the soles of two boots. I pull against Daddy, lean away with all my weight. Juna glances back and then walks inside, where Joseph Carl is laid out on a table, laid out there so Daddy and Juna and I can see for certain he’s dead.

Daddy says we have to see for ourselves and that we have to touch Joseph Carl or he’ll haunt us all the rest of our days. Juna nods as Daddy says this and walks farther on into the room. I don’t move, so Daddy grabs me again, this time with both hands, drags me through the open door, and I wish John Holleran were here.

John won’t come to the house ever again, not even to see Daddy or to ask after what chores need doing. He’ll always remember the sight of me and Ellis Baine’s fingers brushing against the tip of my breast. It’ll make him close his eyes tight, shake his head. He’ll surely have imagined the day he’d see me in that way, standing bare before him. He’ll have dreamed of that moment, thought he’d be my husband and I’d be his wife. He’s never much believed in his mama’s know-how, not like other folks, but it always made him happy to hear her say he and I were marked for a future together. He would wink at me, smile, tell his mama all in good time. But now, the sight of me and the memory of me offering myself to Ellis Baine is the thing that has made John Holleran hate for the first time in his life.

Lying there on that table, Joseph Carl looks smaller than he ever did in life. But the same happened to Dale. So quickly, he faded and withered, and now the same has become of Joseph Carl. He wears a blue flannel shirt buttoned up under his chin and at both wrists. His hair, though unwashed, is smooth as if someone drew a comb through it and flattened it down after with the palm of her hand. He wears a leather belt and dark trousers. After it was over, sometime in the middle of the night, Joseph Carl’s mama came and did this for him. She dressed him and tended his hair and probably wiped his face and dug the dirt from under his nails. I know now. This is why John Holleran had come to Ellis’s house. He wasn’t trailing after me. He had come to tell Ellis that Joseph Carl was gone, but instead he found me.

Daddy pushes me toward the body, shoves me so I stumble up next to Joseph Carl. Juna already stands there, and at her side stands Abigail. I didn’t see her set her tray aside and walk into the room. Daddy had to drag me, but Abigail must have come on her own. Her grandmother has pulled Abigail’s hair back for this occasion and tied it off with a bow and dressed the child in her best cotton dress. She’s sprouted since last summer, and now the dress is short in the arms and the hem rides a few inches too high, showing her brown boots. Dale was Abigail’s only friend. Now she’ll spend all her days with Abraham. Juna wraps one arm around Abigail’s shoulders, and her other hand hovers just above Joseph Carl’s brow. She looks as if to press her hand to his forehead in search of a fever like I used to do for Dale when he was feeling poorly.

“I wanted to see,” she says, drawing her hand over Joseph Carl’s head, smoothing his hair the same as his mama must have done. “I wanted to see a man hanged.”

She trails that same hand down along Joseph Carl’s cheek, runs a finger over the crease between his lips like I’ve seen her do to Abraham Pace. It makes Abraham groan to have that done to him. He must miss it since he doesn’t come around anymore. Taking Abigail by the hand, Juna makes the girl touch Joseph Carl on the cheek. She doesn’t want his spirit haunting the child. At first, Juna guides Abigail’s hand, but then Abigail slides another step closer and, with both hands, cradles Joseph Carl’s face. Juna smiles, lifts her eyes, and looks at me.

I let myself, made myself, believe Joseph Carl had done it. He told Sheriff Irlene where Dale could be found, and so he had to have been there, had to have seen and done those things to Dale. It was the only way I could bear the trial and the thought of what would come to pass. But I could only prop up that belief for a short while. Seeing Juna stroke this dead man’s cheek and trail her fingers over his thin, pale lips, I know the chill that works its way from my toes into my knees and on up into my stomach is the knowing that Joseph Carl didn’t do the things to Dale that led to him dying, but someone else did.

Juna has made these things happen and made people believe. Even me. This is the reason Daddy won’t look her in the eye or give her a chance to work her way into his thoughts. Juna is smarter than we are, has a way of working things out long before they’ve come to pass. I always thought, hoped, Daddy was cowardly and superstitious for all his fears of Juna. I think now Daddy is the wisest among us.

Maybe what Juna says next frightens me because those eyes of hers are black. Maybe if a person with ordinary brown eyes had said it, my breathing wouldn’t have picked up. It’s the way she speaks softly, as if to a child, as if to the baby who grows inside. It’s the way her lids close and open again slowly and with thought, her not wanting even to disturb Joseph Carl with the sound of her blinking eyes.

But Juna is the one who says it. Juna, with her black eyes who tilts her head in such an odd fashion. Juna says it, and I know she’s the reason Dale is dead. I don’t know why or what she did, but she is a woman who would see her own brother die and an innocent man hang, and I begin to fear for Ellis Baine and John Holleran and even my own daddy.

“Do you suppose,” Juna says, smiling as she cups Joseph Carl’s chin with her hands, “they might hang another?”

JOSEPH CARL’S MAMA wanted him buried alongside his daddy, but folks wouldn’t have it. They gave her two days to mourn her son, and today he’ll be buried at the crossroad into town so the comings and goings of all the many travelers will keep his spirit from rising up. Maybe folks want this, for Joseph Carl to be buried where the dirt piled on top of him will be trampled and trodden each and every day, because they believe he’s evil for what he did, or maybe, like me, they know he didn’t do any of those things. Like me, they know someone else hurt Dale and that someone is likely here among us, and so now they’re the evil ones for wanting Joseph Carl dead, for thinking his dying would make their lives good again. They want the comings and goings to keep Joseph Carl’s spirit at rest so they don’t have to fear they’ll one day get their own comeuppance.

As he did the day Joseph Carl was hanged, Daddy pushes us to the front of the crowd. Already he’s been drinking, though the chill of early morning still hangs in the air. He bumps up against people as he forces his way through, the smell of whiskey poured from a jar parting folks as much as Daddy’s hands and arms. Sheriff Irlene, wearing a long beige overcoat, her husband’s black boots peeking out from under her skirt as she moves among the onlookers, motions to two of her men and points in our direction. The men navigate the crowd, saying excuse me and pardon me as they go. They stand nearby, one on each side of Daddy, Juna, and me, maybe to protect Daddy from himself or maybe to protect the other folks.

Overhead, the sky has opened up, lifted high. And the sun is bright like only it can be on an autumn day. The chill in the air should awaken folks. It usually makes a man walk a bit livelier, stand a bit taller. Instead folks huddle against the cold, pull blankets around their shoulders, hug themselves but not others. There isn’t a single Baine among the crowd, not even Joseph Carl’s mama. There are men again holding shotguns at the ready to keep the family away.

“Bury him upside down,” someone shouts as four men appear, a slender pine box hoisted onto their shoulders.

“You all mind yourselves,” Sheriff Irlene calls out, waving a finger across the crowd. The men carrying the pine box keep coming. “We’ll have a Christian burial,” she says.

All the folks who came from across Kentucky and across the country have gone on home. They left behind trampled grass, piles of charred wood from their fires, empty longneck bottles. A few of the newspapermen have stayed and stand together at a safe distance from the crowd. One of the fellows taps his tablet with the blunt end of a pencil. He flips it around and starts to scribble on his lined paper when another fellow and yet another hollers out for Joseph Carl to be buried upside down.

When we settle at the front of the crowd, Sheriff Irlene’s men matching us step for step, Juna and I stand together, our shoulders touching, our heads bowed. I wrap my arm around her, want her to be happy, feel she is loved, because I’m afraid now of what she’ll do next. She liked the sight of Joseph Carl lying there on that table, the life gone from him. It made her smile and use her hands in the most tender of ways. I’m afraid she’ll want to do it again.

Like the gallows pounded together with threepenny nails, the box the men carry smells of freshly cut, sweet pine. Daddy staggers around the narrow, deep hole cut into the ground, sometimes swaying so close that one of Sheriff Irlene’s men must grab onto Daddy’s coat sleeve and yank him back to right. The men surely used picks along with their shovels to dig a hole so deep as this one. They’ll have hit limestone and broken through to be sure Joseph Carl is buried good and deep.

“Flip him,” another voice shouts and then another.

They want Joseph Carl buried upside down so if his spirit does awaken and try to claw its way out, it’ll find itself upside down and, as such, claw deeper into the ground.

“Turn him. Flip him.”

Sheriff Irlene continues calling out that there is no need for such things. She smiles each time she must say it and looks from the crowd to the newspapermen still standing together near the trees. They are all scribbling now and talking among themselves, likely wondering what is to be gained by burying a man upside down.

As people step aside to let the men carrying Joseph Carl pass, I see John Holleran. On the other side of the hole, he stands with his mama. They’ve placed themselves behind all the others who want to get a good look-see. John’s head is tipped as if he’s speaking to his mama, probably asking is she sure she wants to stay. He’ll take her on home, he’ll be saying. No need for all this.

Because John’s head is bowed, his hat hides all but a corner of his mouth and his chin. He wears the blue wool jacket that once hung so often from the back of one of my kitchen chairs, usually the one nearest the stove. The jacket is nearly worn through at the elbows. I told him once I’d stitch a few patches for him, but I never did. I lean left, pressing against Juna to get a better look at him. He lifts his head, and his eyes settle on mine. I would guess he lets out a long, slow breath. The crowd shifts, and he is gone from sight.

“Won’t do you no good,” Mary Holleran shouts. I know her voice even though I can’t see her. “Flipping that boy won’t change what’s been done.”

I still can’t see John, though I imagine he’ll have tugged his hat low over his eyes. He’s never believed much in the know-how, but others in town will think about what Mary’s said for a good long time. Maybe for the rest of their lives. They’ll think of Joseph Carl buried here at the crossroad, his body flipped upside down, and know that sometimes a thing done can never be undone.

The people nearest John and his mother drift away. When it seems certain Mary has nothing more to say, two more men join the four, and then two more, and the eight of them flip the casket. Another two cradle the box with thick leather straps that will take the weight without snapping. Two more join in, each grabbing hold of an end, and the four of them spread themselves evenly between the two straps. Half on one side of the hole, half on the other. The rest of the men walk away, and the four who remain brace themselves, holding the straps with two hands, digging the heels of their laced-up boots into the ground, leaning back to use their weight. They could be children playing tug-of-war. The ladies shield their eyes with kerchiefs. Children crouch at the hole’s edge, press two hands into the dirt, each of them leaning over it a little farther than the last, one getting hauled away by a hand that grabs hold of him by his collar.

As the men inch their way forward, the box tips and wobbles, first left and then right.

“Careful now,” Sheriff Irlene says. Her own children, the younger ones, stand with their grandmother under the same tree as the men from the newspapers. Sheriff Irlene waves at her mother to take the children on home. “Lower him with care,” she says.

One half of the men lean and pull while the other half give slack. The box levels, and they continue inching forward. When it hits ground, the men drop the straps of leather as if they were hot in their hands, and three of the four walk away. They straighten their jackets with a tug at their collars and shake their heads because that was a thing they damn sure never thought they’d be doing. The fourth fellow tugs at a strap. When one hand isn’t enough to yank the strap clean of the box, he grabs hold with two and again uses his weight. When it still doesn’t come free, he tosses the end into the hole. One by one, fellows step forward, grab an end, and toss it into the hole.

The same preacher who wouldn’t speak at Dale’s grave, the man who has preached to our family all our days, gives Joseph Carl his parting words. It’s a verse or two and no more. Folks bow their heads, fold their hands, draw their coats and blankets in tight around their shoulders even though the cool breeze that started the day has died off and the sun now shines full on the hole and the crowd gathered around it. Orange and gold leaves crackle overhead. Here and there, they flutter to the ground, spinning, floating, softly landing. When the preacher says amen, the word travels through the crowd and folks turn to make their way back home.

No one speaks to Juna like they did the morning of the hanging. I catch a few staring at her midsection, surely wondering if it’s true about the baby growing inside and wanting to tell their own one day that they saw the child in the beginning.

As the crowd thins and folks walk toward home, I drop Juna’s hands, though I squeeze them first and tell her I’ll be right back. The spot where John Holleran and his mama had been standing is empty. I turn toward the road I know they’ll travel to go on home, and I see the back of them, walking among a few others. I wouldn’t have thought myself a person who would hurt another so bad. Worse still, I wouldn’t have thought myself a person who would do that and still be thinking of Ellis Baine and hoping one day he’ll see me and want me. I have never thought myself such an unkind person.

I lay a hand on Juna’s arm, a signal it’s time to go, but she doesn’t move. She wore her hair down this morning even though I told her it would be best if she’d bind it and cover it over. Being as it was a solemn day, I thought there would be something almost obscene about the beauty of her hair when it catches the sun. Falling down to near about the center of her back, it glows. No other way to put it. Folks can’t help but stare, even though she’s not new to them, even though they don’t want to look. They’re afraid to look. They’re afraid of those black eyes. But she’s wrapped up in a kind of beauty most folks will only see once, maybe twice in their lives. They stare because they can’t resist.

“Time we go,” I whisper.

Still Juna doesn’t move, so I look where she’s looking.

Daddy has sobered enough to make it safely to the other side of Joseph Carl’s grave, and he is standing with Abraham Pace. Abigail Watson stands between the two men, and every so often, she dabs at her eyes with a kerchief. Daddy has stretched one hand up to rest on Abraham’s shoulder and is leaning into him, probably as much to steady himself as to have a private conversation.

If it were at all possible, though I know full well it isn’t, Abraham looks to have grown a head taller. His jaw looks to have squared off at a sharper angle, and his brow hangs heavier over his eyes. But it isn’t Abraham who’s grown; it’s Daddy who’s shrunk. He has a way of balling himself up when he’s drinking regular, almost like he’s wanting to altogether disappear.

While Daddy is doing the talking, Abraham is doing the nodding, and every so often, he looks off in our direction. A few folks still linger. The fellows talk about the tobacco they’ll be cutting shortly. Not such a good crop as they were hoping for. Too damn dry. The whole country like to blow away. The ladies, the few who remain, talk about the potluck at church this Sunday. Mrs. Ripberger touches me on my forearm and asks would I care to bring something fresh-picked. It’s kind of her to act as if we’ll be at that potluck, kinder still to act as if we’d be welcome. Something fresh-picked would be easier for you, don’t you think? I tell her yes, much easier. I’ll be happy to. And as Daddy keeps talking and Abraham keeps nodding, the last of these folks go on home too. We’re left alone, just us five and two colored fellows who will cover Joseph Carl over once we’re gone.

“I think this’ll be good,” I say to Juna. “This could be real nice. Daddy will be making amends, don’t you think? Inviting Abraham back. He’ll be a real fine daddy to your little one. And Abigail, she’ll be like an aunt, or a big sister maybe. They’ll be your family.”

I say it like I mean it, but what I really mean is if Abraham takes Juna back, she’ll move into his house, she’ll be his wife, and she won’t live in my house ever again. I have yet to ask her if those things Ellis Baine said about her and him are true. I haven’t asked because I know they are. Her not saying it out loud makes it somehow easier to bear. I can think about a new baby coming into our lives instead of imagining Ellis Baine with Juna. I can dream about the way a new baby will smell and feel and rinsing her soft hair clean and patting her dry and dressing her in pinks and yellows the likes our house has never seen. As long as Juna doesn’t say it and I don’t have to hear it, I can go on. Abraham Pace taking her away will make it easier still.

When Juna doesn’t answer me, I lean forward and look up into her face. She’s still staring at Daddy and Abraham like if she stares hard enough, she’ll hear what’s being said. As if feeling my eyes on her, she turns to me, and there is a look about her I’ve never seen before. Her eyes, wide and black as they are, have somehow changed. They’re looking not quite at me but instead over my shoulder somewhere, not entirely able to focus. It’s fear. I’m seeing fear in Juna’s eyes.

Daddy gives Abraham one last pat on the shoulder, nearly falling to the ground as he does it. Next to me, Juna’s body, always hard and lean, stiffens as if she’s bracing for something. I try to move her along, but she won’t move. As Daddy passes us by on his way up the hill toward home, he says Abraham will have her. He’ll have Juna but not until he gets a look at the baby. If it’s to his liking, he’ll have her.

“That’s good,” I say. “It’s behind you now. Behind us all. You and Abraham, you’ll be a fine family. He’ll be a fine father. Abraham will be a very fine father.”

“Yes,” Juna says, her eyes following Abraham and Abigail as they walk toward town.

Because of the way she draws a deep breath in through her nose and lets it out long and slow through her mouth, and because of the way she shakes her head ever so slightly, I might say she looked to be feeling sorry for Abraham.

“He would have been,” Juna says. “I’m guessing Abraham would have made a real fine father.”

MY EYES ARE open. The ceiling above me is black. The air has turned from crisp and cool to dry and cold. The shutter is closed. No light seeps around its edges, which means it’s still dark outside. But the sound of the wind seeps in just fine. There was a time, probably before my mother died, that it was a comforting sound to hear the wind outside and to be safe and warm inside. The fire crackled and sparked. The flue worked as it should. We added blankets on the coldest nights. But the wind is louder now, closer. There are more holes, I suppose, more cracks and crevices.

This time of year, the wind rolls in from the north. It rushes down the hill, wraps around our house, whips us from side to side. Daddy isn’t so handy, and because John Holleran still doesn’t come around, that wind makes a whistling sound when it blows in through the holes in the roof that haven’t been fixed. If something woke me, it was something loud enough to rise above the noise of all of this. I still myself, try not to breathe so I’m sure to hear it, whatever thing woke me.

Juna doesn’t sleep in here anymore. She’s grown too large and says it’s easier to sleep sitting up. Every night, we pull the cushioned chair up to the fire and she props her feet on a wooden box Abraham Pace made for her but wouldn’t deliver himself. He says he can’t see her until there’s a baby too. Like me, he’s caught between wondering if Juna is as evil as folks say or as ordinary as the rest of us. He figures the baby will tell him which to believe.

There it is. An animal maybe, suffering something. Or a moan of some sort, a whimper. I sit up. It’s louder, or I’m hearing it better for having righted myself. It’s a moan, and there’s crying too, and the way the sound is growing louder, the cry will soon become a sob. It’s a strange sound, and crying isn’t altogether strange to me. But that’s the cry of a man.

Ellis Baine is gone. Juna made Cora Baine send him away. Soon the other brothers will go too. Cora Baine came to the house two weeks ago and stood on our porch, a gray scarf covering her hair. When Juna stepped into the doorway, Mrs. Baine stared at the swell in Juna’s stomach. Keeping one hand tucked under the shawl wrapped around her slender shoulders, she reached out with the other as if to lay it on Juna’s stomach.

“She’s my grandbaby,” Mrs. Baine said. “You said so yourself.”

Juna swatted Mrs. Baine’s hand away. “Your boys will kill me,” she said, “and this child too.”

The floor is cold on my feet, even through my wool socks, and the floorboards rattle because the wind crawls through the hollowed-out space under our house. I lift onto my toes as if someone or something might hear my footsteps. The door’s latch is cold in my bare hands, almost too cold. Using a single finger, I push, and the draft rushing through the house is enough to open the door.

Mrs. Baine thinks it was her idea to make her boys go. She must have loved them once. When they were boys, not men. They would have been like Dale. Not so tender and sweet as Dale, but they would have had soft cheeks and slender, smooth lips. They would have hung from her neck like Dale used to hang from mine. Maybe they’ve turned out too much like Cora Baine’s husband, and somewhere during those years of growing up, they stopped being her boys and started being reminders.

Juna’s baby was a way of starting over, and if there was one boy Mrs. Baine still loved, it had been Joseph Carl. She said she’d level a gun at her sons before letting them near Juna or that sweet child. Folks say Ellis was the first to leave. They say he wanted to go, couldn’t stay here knowing he was crossing over his own brother every time he made his way into town. Like Joseph Carl, he took a train. He went away so far, he had to take a train.

“You didn’t really love him anyways,” Juna said to me after Mrs. Baine left that day.

The front room is as dark as my bedroom. The fire has gone out. Since Juna sleeps there now and since she’s all the time up and down throughout the night, it’s her job to tend it. My job is to fill the wood box every night, taking over for Dale.

I still find bits of him around the house. Under his bed, I found a stray sock, the one with a hole in it he was supposed to mend. I told him even a man should know how to do a bit of mending, at least enough to get by. There was also the core of an apple, dried up and left to rot because he never liked the core even though Daddy said that was the best part and would have whipped Dale for throwing it away. I boxed up the most of him-his shirts and britches, boots and coveralls. But the bits of him keep popping up.

The sobbing is steady now but muted as if by a hand over a mouth. I hold the door open so the same draft that pulled at it doesn’t push it closed. There is another sound. Quiet words, loving words. A mother talking to a child. A whisper.

“I’m here.” It’s Juna. “Right here, Daddy. Calm yourself. Can’t you see?”

And then I notice the thing I should have noticed straightaway. Daddy’s light is out. The lantern we keep burning, all night, every night, is dark.

I listen for Daddy’s answer but hear only more muffled sobs. And then a single cry rises up. It’s nearly a scream, and I slap a hand over my own mouth.

“Daddy, stop,” Juna says. “I’m right here. Clear as day. You can see me. You can see, Daddy. I’m looking right at you.”

“But I can’t.” Yes, that’s Daddy. “I can’t see you. I can’t see nothing.”

Juna’s voice lowers. I can hear she’s still talking but can’t make out what she’s saying. It’s a murmur, almost a hum. I’d like to think she’s speaking sweet words, but I know she’s not. Something always simmers just beneath everything Juna does and says, something that tickles the back of a person’s neck or makes the heart pound quicker. Some part of Juna always lies in wait.

Daddy’s sobs slow. Juna continues to whisper. She wants Daddy to promise her. Promise he’ll do as she asks. Promise he’ll take care of her. Promise her. He can make it all good again. Just promise me. Promise me, is all. The sobs turn into words, Daddy saying yes to Juna. Yes, Juna. Yes.

A tiny speck of yellow floats in the dark room.

“You have to promise me, Daddy,” Juna says. “Promise you’ll make things good again.”

Daddy has been drinking ever since Joseph Carl was lowered into the ground. Every day, from the moment he opens his eyes to the moment he closes them. Other men cut our tobacco, hung it to dry. They propped open the barn doors to keep the air moving. Closed them when the air turned damp. And when Daddy still didn’t come, they stripped the tobacco, sorted it, took it to town.

One Sunday in early winter, Mrs. Ripberger, who had asked that I bring something fresh-picked to the potluck, delivered the money our tobacco brought at auction. Mr. Ripberger drove her in his black truck and waited outside, the engine running. She came with canned asparagus and cloth bags filled with seeds for next year’s garden.

“We missed you,” she said, remembering we never came that Sunday afternoon. “It ain’t much, but it’ll see you through.”

From the truck came a quick blast of the horn, but before Mrs. Ripberger turned to go, she handed me a box, cradling the bottom that had nearly given way.

“Clothes for the little one,” she said, drawing out a thin cotton undershirt that looked as if meant for a doll. “Some is for boys; some, girls.”

As Juna sat at the kitchen table, her hands hanging at her sides so they didn’t happen upon her bulging stomach, I sorted those clothes. We should wash them, I told her. We’ll wait for a sunny day so we can dry them on the line. Some for boys. Some for girls. But I think she’ll be a girl, don’t you? I’m certain of it.

There was plenty of mending to be done among all those tiny clothes-loose bits of lace dangling from a collar, buttons that drooped and needed a stitch or two to tighten them up, snaps that were missing their other half. And as I sorted and folded and stacked the clothes on the kitchen table, I found myself hoping Abraham Pace would see something in Juna’s baby he didn’t like or that worried or frightened him because I wanted Juna’s baby here with me.

Every dream I ever had was gone. Ellis Baine was gone for good. He would never tire of his cavorting and see me and want me. We would never ride off in a train like Joseph Carl once did and live where wheat grew taller than a man. Every dream was gone except for this new dream of mine, the dream of a baby girl living in this house, filling it up with all the sweetness I imagined a little girl brings with her when she comes into the world. We would clean this house and fix this house like we’d never bothered for just ourselves.

We’d break open the walls, put in a window or two. Maybe John Holleran would come back if I asked nice and pretended I never knew a man named Ellis Baine. And the baby would sweeten up Juna. She was softer and rounder and plump in all those places a man does love. She’d keep her sweetness even after the baby came and the softness melted away. The baby girl, who would wear these clothes so tiny they looked to be meant for a doll, would soften up every one of us. She’d soften up our lives, and so I had a new dream for myself.

In the front room, the speck of yellow swells. The glow trembles and grows larger. That’s Juna’s hair falling over one shoulder. She’s leaned over Daddy’s bed. The circle of light grows larger. That’s the curve of Daddy’s back. He has drawn himself up into a ball, his knees bent and pulled up to his chest, his arms probably wrapped around them. Still stroking Daddy’s forehead with one hand, Juna reaches the other toward the lantern. I can’t make out what she’s doing, but because the light keeps growing and its glow keeps spreading, I know she’s turning up the flame. And I know she’s fooling Daddy.

“Now?” Juna says. “Can you see me now?”

A few more sobs turn into a bout of coughing. Juna keeps whispering and stroking Daddy’s head. She’s telling him to quiet himself. She will make things better now. She has bound him to a promise in exchange for his sight.

Every day, before the last drink takes him, Daddy tells us don’t forget my light. Don’t you forget. He’s feared it all his life, waking up in the dark and never seeing light again. The whiskey, it’ll do that to a man. He’s feared it all his life.

Daddy’s coughing and crying and carrying on slow and fade until he’s altogether quiet. The lantern throws as big a light as it’ll throw. Juna keeps stroking Daddy’s head, and in no more than a few minutes’ time, his breathing turns deep and slow. He’s gone on back to sleep. I take my hand off the door and step back in the bedroom, lift up on my toes again, and without once taking my eyes off the closed door, I crawl into bed.

Daddy says it’s because we’re nothing more than animals that we find ourselves shying away from a thing and not wanting to turn our backs on it without knowing why. He’s always saying this is the thing that’ll save God-fearing folks. Instinct, he’s all the time saying. Nothing more than animals. And I think Daddy is right because something in my animal nature is warning me not to turn my back.