The Longest Road by Jeanne Williams Page B

family wasn’t in desperate need of shoes, the children got a penny to spend and Mama might slip a few coins in her “home” box.
    This was a syrup tin with a slit in the top that set on top of the little tablet Mama used to write letters. She used it for another purpose, too, as Laurie found out when she was packing. Daddy must have added the coins to his money because the tin was empty but when Laurie glanced through the tablet, she found the back pages filled with plans of the home Rachel had silently longed for.
    There was a sketch of the whole house, with both vegetable and flower gardens and trees, and drawings of each room with furniture marked in. A room each for Laurie and Buddy; a big kitchen with a Frigidaire and real sink; a screened-in porch with a washing machine and closet for cleaning supplies and the ironing board; a small dining room with a china cabinet and the round table; and a living room with big overstuffed armchairs, a radio, Victrola, library table with a globe; and a spare room. It was unthinkable to have a room that went unused except when there was company so this one had a daybed and dresser and housed a sewing machine and dress form. One door opened to the bathroom, which of course served everyone. A real bathroom with toilets like those at school, a sink, and tub.
    â€œWhite linoleum,” Mama’s girlish handwriting detailed. “Blue curtains. White and blue striped wallpaper and blue towels and bath mat.”
    This glimpse of Rachel, wistful for nice things like any woman though she had never complained, stabbed Laurie then and still did. It gave her a quick flash of Mama as something other than dauntingly good with her heart and mind completely bent on heaven. It made Mama a real person who had wanted a nice home with indoor plumbing and a Frigidaire and washing machine.
    Now she could never have them. No matter what Laurie did, even if she somehow won a million dollars, she couldn’t give Mama anything, never in this world. Wrestling with this final part of death was what hurt worst, realizing that Mama would never smile again or see the cherry tree bloom or sit with Laurie in the night to vanquish nightmares.
    Laurie burned the tablet out by the cherry tree and buried the ashes there, deep, so they wouldn’t blow away. It was a private grave for the woman who’d had secret, human dreams and longings, who had lived inside the wife, mother, and Christian in the cemetery. When grief about this overwhelmed Laurie, she slipped to the barn at her first chance and played Morrigan’s harmonica.
    He had given her songs for every need, and his voice resonated within her as she played the Negro spirituals that seemed to hold all the sorrow in the world along with the will to endure.
    No more weepin’, no more weepin’,
    No more weepin’ after while,
    And before I’ll be a slave,
    I’ll be buried in my grave,
    And go home to my Lord and be free.
    She sang, too, when she was doing dishes or ironing, any work that didn’t need concentration, and soon Belle was singing along with her. “ Goin’ to lay down my sword and shield, down by the riverside, down by the riverside …”
    â€œHoney, why don’t you ever play your harmonica in the house?” Rosalie asked one day. “I heard you when I was feeding the chickens. It sure sounds pretty.”
    Laurie colored. “I-I’m just learning the best I can,” she stammered. “And you’ve got the radio and Victrola with lots better music than I can make.”
    â€œIt’s not the same.” Rosalie gave a decided shake of her head. “Sure, I’m glad to have the radio and hear Will Rogers and the good singers and have records with Louie Armstrong and Cow Cow Davenport and Jeanette MacDonald and Nelson Eddy. But it’s not the same as having someone real playing.”
    â€œGrandpa—”
    â€œHe won’t pay you any more mind than