with her careful spinning and dyeing of the wool, her squint-eyed mumbling over the lines and numbers on her pencil-drawn pattern, the setting of the woof, and, for nights on end, the back and forth song of the shuttle and tramping of the treadles. His memories sting bittersweet. The taller that bright red, orange, and yellow coverlet grew on her loom, in the intricate pattern she called Jacob’s Ladder, the smaller Mam got until, at the end, she tweren’t hardly more than a shrunken shadow, all eyes and teeth and knobby fingers, tying off the knots.
On the porch, Aunt Lu stops her rocking. “Franklin, tell me that thing the Sheriff said ’bout ’Becca’s nose.”
“He said he didn’t fancy the shape of it.”
“That’s all?”
“Yes, why? She hear somethin’ diff’rent?”
“Who knows? She hain’t talkin’.”
“What d’ye mean?”
“That girl hain’t said a word for days. I seed it on Friday and figured it’d pass. But, it’s been three days now and nary a word, not even to the girls.”
Pap’s answer is the slow deliberate creak of his rocker.
“T’other thing is, she’s taken to coverin’ it and squeezin’ it on the sly, like she’s shamed and tryin’ to make it smaller.”
Pap’s rocker stops. “I’m shamed to say I hain’t noticed none of it.”
Me neither,
Daniel thinks, feeling the awful twinge of his promise to Mam to “look after yer sister.” Pap takes a deep draw on his pipe. “I’ll speak to her tomorr’ mornin’. I ’preciate your help, Lu. These younguns—”
“Miss their mamma.” Aunt Lu finishes it soft. “We all do.” Daniel hears her stand and step lightly off the porch. “ ’Night now,” she calls.
Outside, Pap’s rocker creaks in mournful thought.
Inside his brightly colored coverlet, Daniel sees the humped-up grave on the broom sedge knoll up home. He worries over the effect of the October rains and wonders if the dark earth’s sunk in on itself yet. He expects that, if it has, the sunken spot is filled up with red, orange, and yellow leaves from the autumn hardwoods. With all his heart, he hopes that poor Mam rests peaceful and easy, under “the purties’ coverlet ye ever saw.”
19
Another goddamn stack of them,
Lila bristles as she seats herself at the giant mahogany desk that dominates her father’s study as surely and surly as the old man himself.
He’s been dead and buried two weeks now.
When will the constant, irritating stream of condolence cards and letters end? Wasn’t it enough she’d had to endure the funereal coronation of the old son of a bitch by everyone from two U.S. Senators to the Governor on down? Now, like Chinese water torture, comes the almost daily drip-drip-drip of sugary cards, fawning letters, and flowery tributes.
Lila snatches open the desk drawer, recoils from the smell of old cigar, grabs the Judge’s silver letter opener, emblazoned with the seal of the Great State of Florida, and, one by one, slits the spines of the offending envelopes. The condolence cards go first. They’re acknowledged most easily by her own preprinted message cards—“The family of Judge Howard Hightower thanks you for your kind expression of sympathy in the untimely event of his death.”
Untimely, my ass. Not a minute too soon’s more like it,
Lila thinks as she licks and sticks three-cent stamps and wonders, for the millionth time, whatever possessed her to return to this godforsaken place after she’d vowed
for years
not to.
It certainly wasn’t mother love for the shrill Daughter of the Confederacy who chose now, of all times, to have yet another “nervous breakdown” and retreat to her bedroom with a case of bourbon “for medicinal purposes.”
When was it,
Lila wonders,
that Mamma’s drinking became “nerves,” and her out-and-out bingeing a “nervous breakdown”?
It wasn’t some silly Scarlett O’Hara yearning for the fertile soil surrounding the old homestead. There was no strength to be drawn
On the porch, Aunt Lu stops her rocking. “Franklin, tell me that thing the Sheriff said ’bout ’Becca’s nose.”
“He said he didn’t fancy the shape of it.”
“That’s all?”
“Yes, why? She hear somethin’ diff’rent?”
“Who knows? She hain’t talkin’.”
“What d’ye mean?”
“That girl hain’t said a word for days. I seed it on Friday and figured it’d pass. But, it’s been three days now and nary a word, not even to the girls.”
Pap’s answer is the slow deliberate creak of his rocker.
“T’other thing is, she’s taken to coverin’ it and squeezin’ it on the sly, like she’s shamed and tryin’ to make it smaller.”
Pap’s rocker stops. “I’m shamed to say I hain’t noticed none of it.”
Me neither,
Daniel thinks, feeling the awful twinge of his promise to Mam to “look after yer sister.” Pap takes a deep draw on his pipe. “I’ll speak to her tomorr’ mornin’. I ’preciate your help, Lu. These younguns—”
“Miss their mamma.” Aunt Lu finishes it soft. “We all do.” Daniel hears her stand and step lightly off the porch. “ ’Night now,” she calls.
Outside, Pap’s rocker creaks in mournful thought.
Inside his brightly colored coverlet, Daniel sees the humped-up grave on the broom sedge knoll up home. He worries over the effect of the October rains and wonders if the dark earth’s sunk in on itself yet. He expects that, if it has, the sunken spot is filled up with red, orange, and yellow leaves from the autumn hardwoods. With all his heart, he hopes that poor Mam rests peaceful and easy, under “the purties’ coverlet ye ever saw.”
19
Another goddamn stack of them,
Lila bristles as she seats herself at the giant mahogany desk that dominates her father’s study as surely and surly as the old man himself.
He’s been dead and buried two weeks now.
When will the constant, irritating stream of condolence cards and letters end? Wasn’t it enough she’d had to endure the funereal coronation of the old son of a bitch by everyone from two U.S. Senators to the Governor on down? Now, like Chinese water torture, comes the almost daily drip-drip-drip of sugary cards, fawning letters, and flowery tributes.
Lila snatches open the desk drawer, recoils from the smell of old cigar, grabs the Judge’s silver letter opener, emblazoned with the seal of the Great State of Florida, and, one by one, slits the spines of the offending envelopes. The condolence cards go first. They’re acknowledged most easily by her own preprinted message cards—“The family of Judge Howard Hightower thanks you for your kind expression of sympathy in the untimely event of his death.”
Untimely, my ass. Not a minute too soon’s more like it,
Lila thinks as she licks and sticks three-cent stamps and wonders, for the millionth time, whatever possessed her to return to this godforsaken place after she’d vowed
for years
not to.
It certainly wasn’t mother love for the shrill Daughter of the Confederacy who chose now, of all times, to have yet another “nervous breakdown” and retreat to her bedroom with a case of bourbon “for medicinal purposes.”
When was it,
Lila wonders,
that Mamma’s drinking became “nerves,” and her out-and-out bingeing a “nervous breakdown”?
It wasn’t some silly Scarlett O’Hara yearning for the fertile soil surrounding the old homestead. There was no strength to be drawn
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