I’d decided to deal with their resistance up front, before I wasdown on my hands and knees taking snapshots of the tiny, old graves.
Now, however, there wasn’t a stir from any of the mobile homes. Only the smell of green peppers and onions cooking.
There wasn’t a sound, not even a barking dog or a television set.
I stood for a moment gazing down the road at the rows of neat mobile homes, swatting mosquitoes away from my face. Then I walked over, unlatched the gate, and stepped inside the graveyard.
Out of a natural reverence for the dead, I stopped for a moment. I studied the well-groomed graveyard, the little headstones. The only sign of life was a brown spider scurrying over the headstone of Eyelet Combs, born June 1, 1969, died December 25, 1969.
I stood there, imagining Miss Lucy Bell Childs holding tiny Eyelet, who would have been wrapped in some sort of handmade clothes. Lucy Bell probably sewed something special for Eyelet’s final moments aboveground. I wondered how Eyelet looked, what uniqueness she had brought into the world. Then the thought of how short and tragic the lives of all twelve of these babies were made me shiver in sadness.
Miss Lucy Bell’s helplessness as she nursed poor, dying Eyelet and each of the other eleven infants while watching their lives slip away must have been overwhelming. I remembered Annie Mae Gregory’s remark that Miss Lucy Bell hated being called a midwife.
As I stood thinking, I saw in my mind’s eye an oldwoman in a black dress that draped her from neck to ankles. Her snow-colored kinky hair would have been covered with a large white handkerchief, a custom of women in this area whenever they didn’t want to wear a hat to church. Her shoes would have been black, polished to a high gleam.
Her scent would have been of lavender extract. Miss Lucy Bell would have given each dead child its last bath in spiced water so as to present it as a sweet-smelling odor to its Maker.
I imagined her standing with tiny, lifeless Eyelet Combs in her arms. Lucy would quote a scripture, sing a song, pray.
I imagined the deep sadness in her face. A surge of compassion swept through me. To Miss Lucy Bell, this pretty, quiet place was more than a cemetery; it was a shrine of her atonement for begrudging her mission of bringing these poor babies into the world. And perhaps for being the carrier of some germ that had cut their young lives so short.
Something moved. I looked toward the trees. Nothing. “Oh, well,” I said to myself, “Mama sent me to take pictures. I’d better hop to it.” I swatted another mosquito on my neck, then pulled Mama’s Olympus camera from its case.
It must have been a half hour later when I became aware of the sound of blowflies and the smell of fresh-killed flesh. This new, unpleasant scent came from the woods. Barely visible at the edge of the trees, I saw a figure. A large, hulking man with a straggly beard.
And then, without warning, he was gone. For a second, I wasn’t quite sure I’d seen him at all. But I knew who it was.
Nightmare was trying to scare me, getting his kicks again by provoking the same kind of fear in me that he’d aroused when I was driving to Cousin Agatha’s house. But this time I wasn’t going to be intimidated by some half-witted boogeyman.
I was crouched, shooting angles of the final resting place of an infant who had died just three days before the death of Eyelet Combs. The name on the tombstone was Tony Tabard, born July 1, died December 22. Then I heard rustling in a nearby bush. I stood. But there was no sign of the hulking man who seemed to be shadowing me. I decided the sound I’d heard was just some small creature foraging in the underbrush. So I jumped and nearly dropped Mama’s camera when Nightmare said, very close to me: “What you doing in Grandma Lucy Bell’s graveyard? Who are you?”
Even though I’d expected him to show up, I froze. I scanned the landscape as if I was searching for a place to
Now, however, there wasn’t a stir from any of the mobile homes. Only the smell of green peppers and onions cooking.
There wasn’t a sound, not even a barking dog or a television set.
I stood for a moment gazing down the road at the rows of neat mobile homes, swatting mosquitoes away from my face. Then I walked over, unlatched the gate, and stepped inside the graveyard.
Out of a natural reverence for the dead, I stopped for a moment. I studied the well-groomed graveyard, the little headstones. The only sign of life was a brown spider scurrying over the headstone of Eyelet Combs, born June 1, 1969, died December 25, 1969.
I stood there, imagining Miss Lucy Bell Childs holding tiny Eyelet, who would have been wrapped in some sort of handmade clothes. Lucy Bell probably sewed something special for Eyelet’s final moments aboveground. I wondered how Eyelet looked, what uniqueness she had brought into the world. Then the thought of how short and tragic the lives of all twelve of these babies were made me shiver in sadness.
Miss Lucy Bell’s helplessness as she nursed poor, dying Eyelet and each of the other eleven infants while watching their lives slip away must have been overwhelming. I remembered Annie Mae Gregory’s remark that Miss Lucy Bell hated being called a midwife.
As I stood thinking, I saw in my mind’s eye an oldwoman in a black dress that draped her from neck to ankles. Her snow-colored kinky hair would have been covered with a large white handkerchief, a custom of women in this area whenever they didn’t want to wear a hat to church. Her shoes would have been black, polished to a high gleam.
Her scent would have been of lavender extract. Miss Lucy Bell would have given each dead child its last bath in spiced water so as to present it as a sweet-smelling odor to its Maker.
I imagined her standing with tiny, lifeless Eyelet Combs in her arms. Lucy would quote a scripture, sing a song, pray.
I imagined the deep sadness in her face. A surge of compassion swept through me. To Miss Lucy Bell, this pretty, quiet place was more than a cemetery; it was a shrine of her atonement for begrudging her mission of bringing these poor babies into the world. And perhaps for being the carrier of some germ that had cut their young lives so short.
Something moved. I looked toward the trees. Nothing. “Oh, well,” I said to myself, “Mama sent me to take pictures. I’d better hop to it.” I swatted another mosquito on my neck, then pulled Mama’s Olympus camera from its case.
It must have been a half hour later when I became aware of the sound of blowflies and the smell of fresh-killed flesh. This new, unpleasant scent came from the woods. Barely visible at the edge of the trees, I saw a figure. A large, hulking man with a straggly beard.
And then, without warning, he was gone. For a second, I wasn’t quite sure I’d seen him at all. But I knew who it was.
Nightmare was trying to scare me, getting his kicks again by provoking the same kind of fear in me that he’d aroused when I was driving to Cousin Agatha’s house. But this time I wasn’t going to be intimidated by some half-witted boogeyman.
I was crouched, shooting angles of the final resting place of an infant who had died just three days before the death of Eyelet Combs. The name on the tombstone was Tony Tabard, born July 1, died December 22. Then I heard rustling in a nearby bush. I stood. But there was no sign of the hulking man who seemed to be shadowing me. I decided the sound I’d heard was just some small creature foraging in the underbrush. So I jumped and nearly dropped Mama’s camera when Nightmare said, very close to me: “What you doing in Grandma Lucy Bell’s graveyard? Who are you?”
Even though I’d expected him to show up, I froze. I scanned the landscape as if I was searching for a place to
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