Gap Creek
by
Robert morgan

And who could blame her?  "People could be born and they could suffer,
and they could die, and it didn't mean a thing.... The world was
exactly like it had been and would always be, going on about its
business."  For Julie, that business is hard physical labor.

Fortunately, she's fully capable of working "like a man"--splitting and
hauling wood, butchering hogs, rendering lard, planting crops, and
taking care of the stock.  Even when Julie meets and marries handsome
young Hank Richards, there's no happily-ever-after in store.  Nothing
comes easy in Julie Harmon's world, and their first year together is no
exception.

Throughout the novel, Morgan chronicles Julie's trials in prose of
great dignity and clarity, capturing the rhythms of North Carolina
speech by using only the subtlest of inflections.  Clearly the author
has done his research too--the descriptions of physical labor
practically leap off the page.  (Suffice to say, you'll learn far more
about hog slaughtering than you ever dreamed of knowing.) Yet he
resists the temptation to make his long-suffering characters into
saints.  Julie simmers with resentment at being her family's workhorse,
and Hank flies into a helpless rage whenever he feels that his
authority is questioned.  In novels like The Truest Pleasure and

The Hinterlands, Morgan proved his ability to create memorable
heroines.  In Gap Creek, he writes with great feeling--but not a touch
of sentimentality--about a life Julie aptly calls "both simple and
hard."


ALso BY ROBERT morgan Fiction The Blue Valleys The Mountains
Won't Remember Us The Hinterlands The Truest Pleasure Poetry Zirconia
Poems Red Owl Land Diving Trunk and Thicket Groundwork Bronze Age At
the Edge of the Orchard Country Sigodlin Green River: New and Selected
Poems Nonfiction Good Measure: Essays, Interviews, and Notes on
Poetry

R O B E R T M O R G A N

GAP CREEK

a novel

ALGONQUIN BOOKS OF CHAPEL HILL 1999

Published by ALGoNQuiN BOOKS OF CHAPEL HILL Post Office Box 2225
Chapel Hill, North Carolina 27515-2225 a division of Workman Publishing
708 Broadway New York, New York 10003 t t For my daughter Laurel t1999
by Robert Morgan.  All rights reserved.  Printed in the United States
of America.  Published simultaneously in Canada by Thomas Allen & Son
Limited.  Design by Anne Winslow.  This is a work of fiction.  While,
as in all fiction, the literary perceptions and insights are based on
experience, all names, characters, places, and incidents are either
products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously No
reference to any real person is intended or should be inferred. 
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Morgan, Robert,
1944Gap Creek: a novel / Robert Morgan.  p. em.

ISBN 1-56512-242-9

1. Title.

PS3563.087147G36 1999

813'.54--dc21 99-34995

CIP

New ISBN 1 -56512-296-8 10 9 8 7 6I would like to thank Shannon
Ravenel and the staff at Algonquin Books of Chapel Hill for their
crucial help in bringing this book to completion, and especially Duncan
Murrell for his extraordinary persistence, tact, and insight.  -GAP
CREEK One @I know about Masenier because I was there.  I seen him die.
We didn't tell anybody the truth because it seemed so shameful, the way
he died.  It was too awful to describe to other people.  But I was
there, even though I didn't want to be, and I seen it all.

Masenier was my little brother, my only brother, and us girls had
spoiled him.  If Masenier woke up in the middle of the night and wanted
some hot cornbread one of us would get up and bake it.  If Masenier
wanted a pretty in the store in town we'd carry a chicken down to one
of the big houses in Flat Rock and sell it to buy him the pretty.
Masenier got an egg every morning while the rest of us just had grits.
If he wanted biscuits and molasses, Mama or one of us girls would bake
them for him.

I thought Masenier was the cutest boy in the world.  He had these blond
curls that stood out all around his head, and his eyes was blue as the
mountains in the far distance.  He loved to sing and sometimes Papa
would pick the banjo by the fire at night and us girls would sing
ballads like "In the Shadow of the Pines," or "The Two Sisters."  and
Masenier would clap and sing along.  We didn't have music that often
and it was a special treat when Papa got down the banjo.

Now the year I'm talking about was the year after Cold Friday, that day
when the sun never did come out and it never warmed up.  Cold Friday
was the coldest day anybody had ever seen.  It seemed like the end of
the world, when the chickens never left the roost, and it put such a
chill on everything we'll never forget that day.  Papa took his
coughing sickness then and it seemed like he never was well after that.
But it was the year after Cold Friday when Masenier started acting
poorly.

Masenier had always been such a healthy boy, even a little plump, from
all the biscuits and molasses, and his cheeks was pink as wild roses.
He had a pile of white sand out beside the house Papa had carried in
the wagon from the creek.  Masenier made roads and castles and all
kinds of mountains and valleys in the sand.  He even made him a church
out of sticks and set it on a hill of sand, and he stuck little rocks
around it to look like a graveyard.  You might have knowed a boy that
done that was marked in some way.  ALONG IN THE winter Masenier started
to look peaked.  He fell off a lot, and Mama thought it was because the
cow was dry So we borrowed milk from the Millers that lived further out
the ridge.  But the milk didn't seem to help Masenier.  He got paler
and he lost his baby fat.

"What that boy needs is a tonic," Cora Miller said.  And she mixed up a
tincture of herbs and roots that she kept in a cupboard in her kitchen
with corn liquor.  Mama give Masenier a tablespoon of the tonic before
every meal.  The tonic would bring the glow back to his cheeks for a
while.  We thought he was getting better.  And for Christmas he got
four oranges and a poke of peppermint candy.

But it was the day after Christmas when he woke up with the pains.  My
sister Rosie heard him holler out and she went to his bed in the attic.
"My belly hurts," he said.  "Have you got the colic?"  Rosie said.
"Hurts bad," Masenier said.

Everybody knows what you take for the colic is pennyroyal tea, and Mama
boiled some as soon as the stove was hot, even before she cooked any
breakfast.  Masenier sipped the tea, and it seemed to make him feel
better, maybe because Mama put a little paregoric in the tea, the way
you do for babies with the colic.  Papa said, "Too much store-bought
candy will always give a body colic."  BUT AFTER THAT Masenier got the
colic even when he didn t have any store-bought candy.  After the
Christmas candy was long gone he still had the terrible cramps and
would wake up in the middle of the night crying.  Mama would hold him
in her lap and rock him by the fire.  And Papa or one of us girls would
hold him while Mama made pennyroyal tea.  Then after he drunk the tea
with some paregoric he would feel better and might even sleep a
little.

That was a bad winter, not only because it was colder than usual, but
because of the ice storms and the snows.  It looked like the woods had
been chopped down, there was so many trees broke by the ice.  Sleet is
hardest on pine trees, because so much ice gathers on their needles.  I
doubt if there was a pine tree standing whole on the mountain.  And
when it snowed it was a heavy wet snow that broke down more trees and
made barns and sheds and even houses cave in.  The church house at
Poplar Springs fell down.

Because Papa had the cough, my sister Lou and me did the heavy work
outside.  We got in eggs and fed the stock and carried in wood and
water from the spring.  I hated how everybody expected me to do the
outside work.  If there was a heavy job it just fell naturally to me,
and sometimes Lou, like it always had.  The weather was bad so long we
nearly run out of firewood.  I took the axe into the woods and chopped
up a blow-down tree.  And then I hitched up the horse Sally to the sled
and drug in a load.  My hands liked to froze it was so wet and cold.

"Julie can work like a man," Mama said when I brought the load of wood
into the front room.

"Somebody's got to work like a man," I said and dropped the logs on the
edge of the hearth.  My hands got rough from the cold and the hard
work.  I rubbed grease on them at night to soften the calluses and
moisten the dry skin.  I would have liked to keep my hands soft the way
Rosie did hers.  DURING THE TERRIBLE winter when Papa took the chest
consumption, we didn't hardly get off the mountain, and we almost run
out of cornmeal.  If Papa did the least little thing he would start
coughing and get so weak he couldn't hardly set up.  He had always been
such a strong man before that it embarrassed him to be so helpless.
Mama liked to say, "Now you can do without a lot of things, but a
family can't do without cornmeal.  If you run out of meal you don't
have any bread and you don't have any mush.  And you don't have
anything to fry fish in, or squirrels.  When the meat runs out, and the
taters runs out, the only thing that will keep you going is the
cornbread.  You can live a long time on bread and collard greens, if
you have collard greens.  And you can live a long time on bread alone
if you have to, in spite of what the Bible says."

We got down to the last peck of cornmeal in the bin, and then to the
last gallon.  Mama started skimping on the size of the corn pone she
baked every morning.

"Masenier won't get better if he don't have plenty to eat Mama said.
"And your papa won't either."

"Maybe we'll freeze to death before we starve," I said.

"Don't talk that way," Mama said.  "You take some corn down to the
mill."

There was still ice on the trees and snow on the ground.  But I seen
what I was going to have to do.  I resented it, but I seen what had to
be done.  The road was too slick and steep for either the wagon or the
sled.  I couldn't carry enough corn on my back down the mountain and
back up.  Even if my sister Lou went with me we couldn't carry enough
between us.  Lou was the toughest of my sisters.  She was almost as
strong as me.  I saw that the only way to take a bushel of corn to mill
was to sling it over the horse's back and lead her down the mountain.
It would take both me and Lou to lead Sally.  "Lou, you're going to
have to help me," I said.  "Why ain't I surprised?"  Lou said.

Took us all day to get down the mountain, wait for the turn of corn to
be ground, while the men eyed us and told jokes, and then lead Sally
back up the trail.  We got home a little after dark and the sacks was
damp.  But we had enough fresh meal to last a few weeks, until the
weather opened up and Papa was well enough to drive the wagon down the
mountain.  BUT EVEN WITH plenty of cornbread and milk to eat, Masenier
didn't get any better.  He kept falling off no matter how much he eat.
And then he started to get a fever and the night sweats.  He had
terrible dreams that would make him holler out in the night.  He yelled
one time, "There is snakes dancing!"  and when we woke him up he said
there was a pit where snakes was swaying to music.  He looked scared
out of his self  He was so scared by his dream he dreaded to go back to
sleep.  One of us had to set up with him after he drunk his tea with
paregoric.  There was some long nights that winter on into February and
early March.

But it was after the weather broke, after it looked like things was
opening up and Papa's cough was a little better, that Masenier took the
terrible fever.  One morning Mama felt him and he was hot as a coal and
all day he just got hotter.  By evening he was talking out of his
head.

"Mama, why don't you have Gabriel come blow his horn?"  he said.  We
knowed he was a little beside his self  Mama had read him a story from
the Bible the night before.  After it got dark he just ,growed hotter
When a person has a bad fever they just seem to glow.  Masenier was so
lit up with the heat he looked swelled enough to bust.  "What can we do
to bring his fever down?"  Papa said.

"We can rub him in alcohol," Mama said.  We stripped the clothes off
Masenier and rubbed him all over with alcohol.  The room was filled
with fumes and you would have thought it would freeze him to death. But
after all that sponging he was hot as ever.

"I've heard you're supposed to wrap up a body that has the fever," Lou
said.

"He's been wrapped up all day," Rosie said.

"There's nothing else to do but bathe him in cold water," Papa said.

I went down to the spring and got a bucket of fresh water.  It was a
cool night with a full moon, and the water was near freezing.  "This is
liable to give him pneumo ny I said.

"If we can't bring it down the fever'll cook his brain," Mama said.

Now I've heard that somebody in a high fever sees visions and speaks
wisdom.  I've heard you're supposed to gather round a fever patient to
hear a message from heaven.  But while we peeled Masenier's clothes off
and bathed him in cold water, he didn't say a thing that made sense.
When we put him in the tub of cold water he screamed, "It's the haints
with no eyes!"  That's all he talked about, haints with no eyes.

"There's no haints," Mama said to him.  "There's nothing here but us."
But it didn't do no good.  He kept his eyes wide open and jabbered on
about what he could see.

It scares you when a fever keeps going up.  It's like watching somebody
slide toward a brink and you can't stop them.  Masenier was so hot it
burned your hand to touch him.

"We've got to make him sweat," Mama said.

"How do you make him sweat?"  Papa said.

"By wrapping him in quilts and putting pans of hot water under his
bed," Mama said.

"That'll just make him hotter," Papa said.

"Sweating's the only thing that'll cool him off," Mama said.

We got nigh every blanket in the house and piled them on Masenier.  And
we heated kettles of water on the stove and in the fireplace and poured
boiling water in pans, which we slid under the bed.  It got so hot in
the house we was all sweating.  I lifted the covers and looked at
Masenier.  It was like his skin had closed tight and he couldn't
sweat.

"He's going to die if we don't do something," Papa said.

"What else can we do?"  Mama said.

"We can make him drink hot lemon tea," Papa said.

Rosie and me squeezed some lemon juice into hot water and they tried to
make Masenier drink a cup of that.  But he wouldn't wake up enough to
drink anything.  His eyes was closed and he wouldn't rouse.

"Drink some of this, darling," Mama said and patted his cheek.

"Maybe he should drink something cold," Papa said.

"I don't think he can drink anything," Mama said.  She held the cup to
Masenier's mouth, but his lips was closed.

"If we was to pour it down his throat he might strangle," Papa said.

It got to be midnight and Papa wound up the clock on the mantel.  As he
turned the key he looked at Masenier, and you could tell how worried he
was.  Papa was still weak his self from the lung sickness.  "I'll carry
him to the doctor," Papa said.

"You can't carry him to the doctor in the middle of the night," Mama
said.

"I'll carry him down the mountain, and Julie can hold the lantern,"
Papa said.  Papa always did depend on me when he needed something.  If
there was a hard job to be done, it just had to be me that done it.  I
didn't know but what Masenier had a catching sickness.  was near about
afraid to touch him.

"Why does it have to be me?"  I said.

"Because you're the strongest one in the family," Mama said.  "And
because everybody has to do what they can."  Mama always did know how
to make me ashamed when I tried to get out of a job.

"All right, I'll do it," I said, as I always did when they expected me
to do something they didn't want to do.  IT WAS A cold, clear night
with the moon shining when we started out.  We didn't even need the
kerosene lantern in open places, but lit the wick anyway and carried it
like a pail of light down the path in front of Papa.  He toted Masenier
on his right shoulder wrapped in a blanket.  Sometimes Masenier
groaned, but he was so asleep he didn't know what was happening.

When we got to the woods we needed the lantern, and in the hollers
where the moon didn't reach it was black as a Bible.  The woods smelled
different at night, and I kept thinking as we picked our way down the
trail how I could smell rotten leaves and water in the branch.  And I
thought how it was almost time to find sprouted chestnuts, where they
fell in the fall and got covered with leaves and was beginning to
sprout now.  Nothing is sweeter than a sprouted chestnut.  It cheered
me up a little to think of chestnuts.

I heard a dog bark somewhere off in the woods near the Jeter place. And
then something up on the mountain squalled, like a person in terrible
pain.  "What is that?"  I said.  "Nothing but a wildcat," Papa said.

The scream come again, this time closer "Must be following us," I
said.

"Just a wildcat," Papa said, and I could tell from his voice he was
nigh out of breath.

"Here, I'll carry Masenier," I said.

"You carry the lantern," Papa said.  "I'm all right."

But Papa was winded.  He was ashamed to admit it, but he was winded.

"Won't do Masenier no good if you get wore out," I said.

"I can carry him," Papa said.  He kept walking a little further, too
stubborn to admit he was tired, and then he had to stop to catch his
breath .

"Here, let me take him," I said.  I set the lantern down on the trail
and turned and took Masenier from Papa.  Papa was so weak his arms
trembled when he handed the boy to me.  Masenier didn't feel all that
heavy, except he was limp as a sack of flour.  I was afraid to touch
him, but didn't have any choice.  I slung him up against my shoulder
and followed Papa down the trail.  It took us over an hour to make it
down the mountain.  DR.  PRINCE LIVED in one of the big houses down in
Flat Rock.  He was the son of the old Judge Prince that had founded
Flat Rock, and he lived part of the year in Charleston and part in the
mountains.  And when he was in Flat Rock he doctored the mountain folks
same as the Flat Rock people.  Sometimes he rode his horse with a
doctor bag slung behind the saddle out on the ridges and to the far
coves beyond Pinnacle.

I knowed the doctor had a big cur dog that he kept in a fence in front
of his house.  Everybody had seen the cur dog.  I didn't know what we
would do when we got close to the house, for the dog was supposed to be
mean.

Though Masenier had not felt heavy when I took him on my shoulder, his
little body got weightier and weightier as I stumbled down the trail.
It was like somebody was adding pounds to him the further we went.  I
stiffened my back and locked my arm around him and followed Papa
swinging the lantern.  I was still mad that I had to carry him and that
give me more strength.

When we come out of the woods into the open country around Flat Rock,
the moonlight was so bright it seemed like day.  I could almost see the
green in the grass along the creek and the windows of houses made you
think there was lights inside them.  Dew on the fields sparkled like
beads.  I was so tired my arms ached and my legs trembled by the time
we got to the gate of Dr.  Prince's house.

Sure enough, the dog set up a growl and a bark.  He come running from
the porch and stood behind the gate snarling.  He would have eat up
anybody that come through that gate.

"You holler for the doctor' Papa said.

"Let me catch my breath I said, and shifted Masenier to my left
shoulder and called out, "Dr.  Prince!"

The dog set up an even bigger fuss.  And I heard a noise in the
house.

"Hey, Dr.  Prince!"  I shouted.

A light was lit somewhere inside the house and a door opened.  "Who is
there?"  a voice called.

"This is Julie Harmon and her papa.  Masenier is bad sick."

"Is he with you?"  the voice called.

"We carried him down the mountain," I said.

The doctor called the dog back and held him on the porch while we
climbed the steps and went inside.  The cur growled as we passed him.
It was a big fancy house with high ceilings and lots of mirrors and
lamps.  The doctor led us into his study, which was lined with books.
Rich folks' houses always smell like toilet water and some kind of
soap.

We laid Masenier on the table in the middle of the room and Dr.  Prince
brought a bright lamp over and looked at him.  Dr.  Prince had a big
mustache like the German Bismarck.  He pulled the blanket back and felt
of Masenier's pulse.  "How long has he had the fever?"  he said.

"He got hot two nights ago Papa said.

Dr.  Prince bent down and sniffed Masenier's breath and listened to his
heart.  "Could he have milk sick  the doctor said.

"Too early for milk sick Papa said.

"Then it must be typhoid the doctor said.

I was going to say hadn't nobody else on the mountain had typhoid, but
I didn't.  Who was I to argue with Dr.  Prince?

Dr.  Prince went to a shelf and got a bottle of something that looked
like reddish syrup.  "Let's give him a dram of this he said.

I had to hold Masenier's head up and Papa pried his mouth open with his
fingers.  But I don't think Masenier knowed what was happening when the
doctor poured the spoon of syrup in his mouth.  Some dribbled out of
the corners of his mouth, but I guess a little went down his throat.
Masenier was too deep asleep to know the difference.

"You'll have to watch him closely' the doctor said and handed Papa the
bottle of syrup.  "Every fever is different."

"I'm afraid I don't have no money' Papa said.

"You can pay me later' Dr.  Prince said.  It was the way the doctor
said it so quick that told us he was rich and didn't need our money.

"I'll bring you a dollar soon as I sell some chickens Papa said.

"That will be fine," Dr.  Prince said.  He showed us to the door and
held the big cur dog by the collar while we walked to the gate.  I
never did see any of the doctor's servants.

I know Papa was tired before we ever started back up the mountain.  I
was wore out myself in my legs and in my back, and my arms was sore. We
had four miles to walk still, and they was up the mountain .

"Let me carry Masenier," I said.

"We'll take turns Papa said.

"I should carry him now on the flat ground I said.  "And you can carry
him when the trail gets steep."

"We'll both get wore out Papa said.

"I can rest while you're carrying him I said.  I took Masenier from
Papa.  The boy was dead asleep.  His head laid on my shoulder.  I
prayed, Lord, let us get Masenier home.  Don't let him die out here on
the trail in the damp night air.  I had never prayed with such a
will.

It was the prettiest night you ever saw, with the moonlight slanting on
the creek and dew sparkling in the grass.  The mountains rose like
shadows ahead of us.  It must have been three o'clock in the morning,
and the mountains was so still and peaceful you would have thought the
Millennium had come and all our trials was over.  It was the first time
I ever noticed how the way the world looks don't have a thing to do
with what's going on with people.

I locked my arm around Masenier like I never meant to let go, and I
stomped the ground hard to make my steps firm.  If I had to carry him
all the way up the mountain, I could.  I was determined to get this
over and done with.  There was strength in me I had never called on,
and this might be the time I had to use it.

Papa lit the lantern when we got to the woods and started climbing.  It
was so still I could hear our breath and the flutter of flame in the
lantern.  Sometimes a twig or an acorn dripped off the trees.  I had
never seen the woods that quiet.  There wasn't even a dog barking
anywhere, and the wildcat must have found its mate, for I didn't hear
any more squalling.

When you make extra effort a numbness sets in, like your legs are
walking on their own and you're not willing them to.  But as I kept
going a throbbing started in my back, and every step hurt, like I had
cramps in my back and arms.

"Want me to take him?"  Papa said after we had gone maybe a mile.

"I'll take him a little further," I said.  I figured if I could get to
the bench on the mountain where Riley's spring was we could rest and
give Masenier a drink of cold water.  Then Papa and me could take turns
carrying him the rest of the way up the mountain.

"You are going the extra mile," Papa said.

The extra four miles, I thought, but didn't say it.  When you are
straining you have a short temper and a sharp tongue.  Mama liked to
say, "It weakens you to feel proud of yourself."  Better use your
breath to fight against the trail, to fight against the mountain, I
told myself.

We had got a little further up the trail, up to where the beds of moss
growed below the laurel thicket, when I felt Masenier stiffen in my
arms.  I thought he must be waking up and stretching, that the syrup
the doctor had give him was having a good effect.  But his back arched
too stiff and fast.  "Are you awake, little feller?"  I said.  I
started to pat his back, but felt his whole body stirring.

"Is he awake?"  Papa said.

"Must be," I said, for Masenier was twisting in my arms like a baby
that will jump even while you're holding it.  But there was something
wrong, because the stirring continued, and his back kept jerking. "Hold
the light here I said to Papa.

Papa brought the lantern up close and the first thing I saw was
Masenier's face.  His eyes was open like he had seen something terrible
and his mouth was dr awed back in a scream, but no sound come out
except the gnashing of his teeth.  He looked like he had seen the aw
fullest thing and it had scared him to death.  "Is he dying?"  I said. 
"He's having a fit Papa said.  / Maseniers feet was kicking now and his
whole body heaving.  I didn't know what to do.  Should I lay him down? 
Or hurry on up the trail toward home?  Should we turn and go back down
the trail to the doctor's house?

"Put him down here' Papa said, and held the lantern over a bank of moss
beside the trail.  I knelt down and laid Masenier on the ground, and it
was the worst sight to see him twist and kick with both legs.  I'd
never seen anybody have fits before.

"What can we do?"  I said and held his head off the cold moss.  I felt
helpless.  It was like the night was crushing down on top of me.

"Put something between his teeth Papa said.  "So he won't swallow his
tongue."

All I had to put between Masenier's teeth was a corner of the blanket
we had wrapped him in.  I folded it twice and stuck it in his mouth,
which was foaming with spit.  His head jerked as I pushed the fabric
between his teeth.

And then he coughed and coughed again.  I seen he was choking.  I
wondered if he had swallowed his tongue, or was he choking on his own
spit?  I stuck my finger in his throat to pull out the block and felt
something rush up into his mouth.

"He's strangling!"  I screamed.

Papa held the lantern closer and we seen that Masenier was throwing up.
White stuff come out of his mouth and lines of white stuff.  "My god,"
I said.  For I thought he was throwing up milk or some white gravy But
what come out of his mouth was gobs of squirming things.  They was
worms, wads and wads of white worms.  He kept coughing and throwing up,
and more come out.

"He's choking Papa said and reached his hand into Masenier's mouth and
pulled out more gobs of the things.  I shuddered, looking at what he
was doing.  Papa dug out more worms to clear Masenier's mouth and
throat.  And when he stopped, Masenier's mouth was open and his eyes
was open, but he was still.  "Make him breathe I cried and shook
Masenier's chest.

Papa pushed on Masenier's heart and listened to his chest.  "He's not
breathing' he said.  Masenier's mouth was open and his eyes was open in
the lantern light.

"What can we do?"  I said.

We just looked at his little body, and I couldn't think of anything
else to do.  Something twitched in a nostril.  It was another worm that
had found its way out through his nose.  I SET THERE on the cold ground
feeling that human life didn't mean thing in this world.  People could
be born and they could suffer, and they could die, and it didn't mean a
thing.  The moon was shining above the trees and the woods was
peaceful.  I could hear the creek down the ridge gentle as a dove, and
the mountains was still as ever.  The ground under me was solid, but
little Masenier was dead.  There was nothing we could do about it, and
nothing cared except Papa and me.  The world was exactly like it had
been and would always be, going on about its business.

We must have set on the ground several minutes before we got the
strength to pick up Masenier and carry him up the trail.  Papa and me
took turns toting the body, and we got to the house in the first light
of day.  Mama and Rosie was waiting up, with the lamp still burning on
the mantel.  After Masenier died there was just us four girls in the
family, Lou and me and Rosie, and Carolyn the youngest.  Rosie was the
oldest, and Lou was next.  After we lost Masenier Carolyn got spoiled
almost as bad as he had and never did a bit of work around the place.
It was like we had to spoil somebody, and with no brother it was just
natural that Carolyn would be the one.  Mama made Carolyn pretty pink
dresses with lace and ribbons on them.  And she fixed Carolyn's hair in
ringlet curls and a pink bow.  Carolyn looked more like a doll than a
regular child.

Papa's lungs had started to get a little weaker When he got overworked
or soaked in a storm, or chilled by a draft in church, it would take
him in the chest.  He'd get his feet wet mowing along the branch and
before midnight he'd be coughing and spitting into the fireplace.  He
had been a strong man, but the chest consumption weakened him all over
When his lungs hurt he couldn't sleep, and when he coughed none of us
could sleep much either.

The rest of us, except Carolyn, sure worked plenty.  As Mama got older
she sometimes had back trouble and couldn't stand up straight and had
to walk bent over It might have been rheumatism, or something inside
her way down.  But it throwed more work on us girls when she was
poorly.

Rosie didn't mind doing her share of the housework.  She never did like
to work outside in the yard and fields, but she would cook things.  She
liked to sew and to knit.  She could do embroidery and knit socks and
sweaters and shawls.  And she liked crocheting COUIiterpanes and fancy
pieces.  Rosie would help to dust and clean up, but she preferred to be
in the kitchen, or setting by the fire with her yarn and hook with a
cat in her lap.  That needle pulled and pulled and pulled, looping the
soft knots of the vest or throw she was crocheting.  Her bag of thread
and needles, scissors and extra hooks, set on the floor beside her
chair.

But what Rosie liked most of all was cooking.  She always kept a fire
in the cook stove and a pot of coffee warm on top of the stove.  Rosie
would sip coffee while she was rolling out dough for a pie crust or
cooking down strawberries for preserves.  She had her own box of spices
and seasonings on the shelf and she didn't want anybody else to touch
them.  She dried herbs from the little garden on the bank and put the
leaves in bottles and jars like a druggist might.

"I

don't want anybody to touch my herbs:' she said.  "They might mix them
up."

"How do you know they're not already mixed up?"  Lou said once.

"I know by the look and the smell," Rosie said.  She took the cap off a
bottle and sniffed it.  Lou WAS THE only one of my sisters that was
willing to work outside.  I don't think she liked it, but she was
willing to help out.  Like I said, when Papa got sick it fell on me to
take care of the stock and field crops.  But Lou would pitch in and
help.  Biggest job the year round was to bring in wood, for we had to
have fuel for the cook stove and the fireplace.  We had to keep the
house warm when Papa was coughing, and that meant load after load of
wood.

Ever since I was a girl I had worked with Papa to cut firewood.  I
could pull a crosscut saw and chop with an axe.  Since I was a barefoot
girl I had been splitting kindling for Mama.  But I was never good at
splitting bigger chunks and logs.  I had trouble lifting the
sledgehammer, and I always did hate the harsh sound of steel on steel
driving a wedge.

But helping is one thing, and having to do it all yourself is another.
Once Papa started taking to bed for long spells, with his breath too
short to get any air, Mama said somebody had to bring in the wagon
loads and sled loads of wood, had to cut and saw and split and tote it
to the porch where Mama or Rosie or even little Carolyn could reach it.
Though Carolyn rarely touched anything as rough and heavy as wood. The
job just fell to me, without anybody explaining why.  And since it had
to be done, I done it, and kept on doing it.  FOR FIVE WEDNESDAYS in a
row that winter it snowed.  And between the snows it would sleet. And
after every sleet come a thaw where everything started melting. Then
when it turned cold again the water froze, so there was layers of ice
and snow like a fancy cake stacked in the woods.

The snow got so hard and slick the horse couldn't hardly walk on it.
That was the month our cow slid off the pasture hill into the branch
and lost her calf.  The ground was slicker than a pane of glass.

"I don't think the horse can stand up, much less pull the sled ' Lou
said.

"Then we'll have to pull it ourselves," I said.

"I've heard of working like a dog, but never like a horse Lou said.

There wasn't no other way to bring in the load of wood that I could
see, except to pull the sled ourselves.  We toted the axe and saw into
the woods across the pasture where a bunch of trees had been knocked
down by the ice.  I broke a sheath of ice off a log before we begun
sawing.  It was like everything had been painted an inch thick with
ice, and then coated again.

The first thing you have to learn about a crosscut saw is to just pull
it.  You don't ever push it.  The other person pulls it toward them,
and then you pull it back.  If you try to push the saw it will buckle
and wear you out before you get started.  Pa had taught me that.  But
Lou had never done much sawing before.  Every time she pulled the
handle to her, she tried to push it back.  The saw pinched and stuck in
the log and made it twice as hard for me to pull.

"No, no, just let it go' I said.

"I'm trying to help you:' Lou said.

The log was froze and hard to saw anyway.  Fresh wood has a lot of
water in it, and froze wood saws like a rock.  And when Lou pushed on
the saw it was almost impossible to pull it to me.

"Don't try to help me, just help yourself I said.

For a few strokes everything went smooth.  And then Lou started pushing
the saw back without thinking.  "Don't push," I hollered.

After you have held a crosscut saw for half an hour your hands get so
stiff you can't open the fingers.  Your fingers are curled around the
handle and it hurts to let 8 Your fingers ache when you straighten
them.

We cut through the 108 three times in twenty-inch pieces.  My back got
stiff and my fingers hurt.  "Let's rest a little I said.

"We'll get cold if we stop' Lou said.

"I'm burning up," I said.  Sweat was running down my back and around my
temples, though it was below freezing in the woods.  "I hope no man
ever sees us working like this I said.

Lou pulled the saw back to her and gasped, "Why not?"  "Because he
would never think of us as ladies I said.  "We're not ladies," Lou
said.  "I don't want to be looked on like a field hand I said.  "Maybe
that's what some man would want Lou said.  "Not any man I would want:'
I said.  "Now look who's being choosy' Lou said.

We stopped to rest when the log was sawed through.  I stood up and put
my hands on my hips.  "Any man that just wanted a woman who could cook
and bring in firewood would either be a cripple or too old to be any
count I said.

"When is a man too old to be any count?"  Lou said.

"I don't know exactly' I said.  "But when a man gets beyond a certain
age he's no account for a woman."

"And how would you know before you married him?"  Lou said.

"You'd just have to be smart:' I said.  As I rested I could feel the
cold sinking in.

"Or you could try him out Lou said.

"Lou!"  I said.  Lou always did like to say the worst things she could
think of.

"That would be better than marrying somebody who was no account Lou
said.

When I let go of the saw handle my hands was numb at first.  But as I
straightened the fingers and stretched them they hurt like the bones
had been bruised.

I knowed marrying was on Lou's mind.  She was two years older than me
and she had been thinking of getting married since she started walking
home from church with Garland Hughes the year before.  She was sweeter
than a pound cake on Garland, and they went riding in his daddy's buggy
several times, until she heard he had a girlfriend over at Pleasant
Hill that he sometimes went to see, and who was going to have a baby.
After that she wouldn't walk home with him no more.  But the way she
grumbled and took on, you could tell she was still studying about him.
She was mad at Garland, but she hadn't got over him, not by a long
rifle shot.

I might have been as crazy to think about boys and marriage as Lou was
if I hadn't had to work so hard.  There didn't seem to be any end to
what I had to do to help Papa.  Papa said he didn't know what he would
do without me.

"Whatever man marries you will be the lucky one," Papa said to me. "For
you're the best of my girls, the best one,"

That give me a little chill of satisfaction, that Papa would say that
to me.  For he wasn't a flattering man, especially with his daughters.
But I thought, he wouldn't talk so agreeable if a man actually asked
for my hand.  For what would he do without me to help him on the place?
What would he do with nobody to bring in wood or hoe the corn?  I could
hitch up the horse as good as Papa and I could pull fodder and cut tops
off corn.  I even helped him butcher hogs, though he usually got
another man to help him hoist the hog once it was scraped and slide the
gambrel stick up a pole so it hung high enough to be gutted and
dressed.

And because I was so busy, boys hadn't paid much attention to me.  A
girl knows how to invite attention.  But I'd never had the time to
prettify myself and primp, and to study how to be at the right place to
get a man's notice.  Oh, I had thought about it, as any healthy girl
would, and I was pleased just to see a good-looking boy at church or in
town.  And sometimes it give me a thrill just to think of a
good-looking boy.

When I thought of a boy I always thought of somebody I could give in
to.  Not one of these nervous boys that couldn't hardly look at you
without blinking.  I thought of a strong man that knowed what he wanted
and could teach you.  I wanted a body that meant to go somewhere.  I
guess I wanted a man instead of a boy.

But what was the good of thinking about boys when Papa needed me to
help him, and my hands was so rough from holding an axe or shovel or
hoe handle I didn't want any boy to see them, much less hold them and
feel the calluses and swelled knuckles.  Hard work will make the joints
in your hands swell up so your fingers lose their pretty shape.  I
didn't know if my hands would ever get soft again.  They hadn't been
delicate since I was a little girl, since before I started working with
Papa, sawing and digging ditches with a pick and shovel.  WHEN Lou AND
me had sawed ten lengths of wood we loaded them on the sled.  It was
hard to roll the heavy pieces without slipping, but at least they
rolled easier on the ice than they would have in leaves.  You always
load wood on a sled lengthwise, for the stakes on the sides keep it
from rolling off.  The ten sticks was heavy, and I had my doubts
whether Lou and me could pull the sled.

But it was good to take a break from sawing.  We picked up the ropes
tied to the rings of the runners.

"I never thought I would have to be an ox' Lou said, "at least not this
way."

I snickered, but I was already pulling too hard to laugh.  The runners
had stuck in the ice, and first we had to break them loose.  The
sourwood runners appeared to sink down in the ice a little.  I pulled
on one rope and Lou pulled on the other, but we couldn't budge the
sled.  Twice I slipped on the ice and hit my knees.

"It's too heavy," Lou said.

I saw that if we had to take off some wood and pull half a load it was
hardly worth the trip.  "Let's pull sideways," I said.  We jerked the
ropes .o the left, but still the sled wouldn't loosen.  I was
confounded to know what to do.  And then I seen a pole leaning on a
downed oak tree.  I took the pole and pried it under a runner of the
sled.  "Now pull I hollered to Lou.  She give a yank, and the sled
runners broke free.  I dropped the pole and grabbed one of the ropes,
and we started dragging the load through the woods.  We had to lean
ahead almost until our knees touched the snow.  But the sled moved
forward and we kept going toward the house.  IN A HOUSE full of girls
there is always disagreement about the work, about who is to do what.
When Papa was too sick to do anything outside, it seemed natural they
expected me to look after the stock and do the milking, as well as
bring in firewood.  But when Papa took bad sick and didn't get any
better, somebody had to nurse him too, cause Mama couldn't do it all.
And there was things my sisters didn't like to do, that had to be done,
like lifting him onto the chamber pot, and bathing him once a week, and
rolling him over when the bed clothes had to be changed.  Of course
they wanted me to do it, for who wants to watch their own Papa do okie
in the pot, or who wants to wash him all over with a washrag?

But somebody had to, and somebody had to help Mama, and somebody had to
stay up at night.  And Mama had back trouble herself that winter and
was too sore to do much lifting or bending over.  SO IT FELL on me a
lot to stay up with Papa, when his lungs got so bad he couldn't breathe
at night.  After I'd worked all day in the fields I'd get a little
sleep between maybe eight o'clock and midnight, either in bed or
sometimes just dozing by the fire in a chair.  Then I'd rouse myself to
stay up with Papa after all the others had gone to sleep.  A body can
do with a lot less sleep than you might think.  One of the others
sometimes stayed up for a while, or got up at some point in the night. 
But it fell to me to be there for the longest time, on watch, so to
speak.

So I kept a lamp burning in the tiny hours as Papa struggled.  It was
an awful thing to see and listen to, a grown man trying to get his
breath like a child with the croup.  I think that's one reason why the
others wanted to get away from him.  By late March Papa couldn't
halfway take in any air.  He rasped and panted in his throat and
coughed like he didn't have the breath to cough and was going to break
open.  His face turned red and splotched like people with the hectic
do.  TE{E Nl(iHT l'M talking about was windy and late in March.  It had
rained during the day and then turned off cold.  The sarvises and the
red buds was already blooming, but I guess some of their blossoms got
blowed away.  It was so windy air pushed down the chimney and made the
fire flutter and smoke a little.  I don't think the wood smoke helped
Papa breathe no better.  You could hear wind roaring on the mountain
like a thousand waterfalls.  Everybody else had gone to bed, and every
time a gust shook the house the windows rattled.

"Papa, would you like me to heat up some water, so you can breathe the
steam?"  I said.

"Won't .. . do .. . no .. . good," Papa gasped.  He had spit up blood
earlier and there was a bloodstain in the corner of his mouth.

"Want me to heat some rocks and put them under the bed?"  I said.

He shook his head.  It was like after the long struggle all winter to
throw off the weakness in his chest, he had just give up.

Wind hit the house like the breath had been knocked out of somebody,
and I heard something fall in the attic.  It was dark except for the
lamp on the table by the bed.

Papa coughed so hard it looked like his eyes was going to pop out.  A
cough raised his back up and run through his body in waves.  As he
tried to cough he stared straight up like he was looking a hundred
miles away.

"Would you like some syrup?"  I said.  "Mama has made some soothing
syrup out of honey and liquor with a little paregoric in it."  Papa
shook his head, but I got the bottle anyway and poured a tablespoon for
him.  "No .. . use," he gasped.

"You got to quit coughing," I said.  "You're going to choke."  I held
the spoon to his lip and tipped some into his mouth.  But he coughed,
and the syrup flew back out.  I tried again, but he coughed that out
too.

The thing about somebody with chest sickness is they don't have any
lung left to breathe with.  Their chest is so eat up there's nothing to
take in and hold air.  And the lungs think if they cough they can get
rid of the congestion and take in more air.  But the coughing don't do
no good.  And more coughing just makes it worse.

Now I was getting scared.  The light of the lamp was glaring and
everything looked sharp, just like itself, and more like itself than
usual.  I shuddered with the fear of what was happening.

What can I do?  I thought to myself.  I'm powerless to help Papa.  I
was scared as I bent down over Papa's bed and tried to make him drink
some of the warm water with lemon juice in it.  I knowed he was
thirsty.  He was dried out from coughing and from breathing so hard. 
He tried to drink, but he had to cough as soon as the liquid touched
his throat. The warm water and lemon juice sprayed out on the bed.  I
had to wipe it off his face and the bed clothes.  And then I tried
again.

It hurt to see him so hungry for air, and so parched for liquid, and
unable to take either.  I held the glass to his lip and he coughed
again, and lemonade dribbled on his chin.  His lips was chapped, the
way sick people's lips get.  They cracked and bled when he coughed.  It
was hard to tell what was blood coughed up and blood from his lips.  It
reminded me of Masenier choking when he coughed.  It made me sick to
watch him.

Papa had been the strongest kind of man all his life.  He had been able
to lift two two-hundred-pound bags of fertilizer when he was young.  He
had once lifted a loaded wagon while his brother fixed the wheel.  He
could carry a deer out of the woods after shooting it.  Now his chest
was sunk in and pitiful.  His arms was wasted, though his hands was
still big and rough.  It broke my heart to look at him.

There is a smell that lung sickness gives people.  It's the smell of
blood and congestion and fever.  It's the smell of blood mixed with air
that hangs over a bed and fills a sickroom.  It's the smell of old
blood, and blood that is fresh and already old.  It's the smell of a
festering wound.

Papa raised off the pillow trying to get his breath.  He gasped like he
was trying to swallow the whole world to get some air in his mouth,
since there was no room in his lungs.  He was sweating with effort to
suck in more air.

"Lord' I said without even thinking, "please let Papa get his breath. I
can't bear to watch him die."

Papa gulped two more times and his head fell back on the pillow, like
he had got some air into his chest, like he was relaxing little.  His
body settled down under the quilts like somebody getting ready to go to
sleep.  He had fell off so much he didn't look like a grown man in the
bed.  He resembled a bent old woman.

"Lord, let Papa get some rest I prayed.  I never had been one to pray a
lot on my own, but I found myself saying the words without even
thinking.

I tried to think if there was anything else I could do for Papa. 
Surely if I thought hard enough, I could find something helpful.  All I
wanted was for Papa to make it through till daylight.  I knowed that
most people die between midnight and dawn.  I went to put another log
on the fire, one of the logs Lou and me had cut and drug through the
ice.  The wood was too green to burn perfect, and that made the fire
smoke a little.  I had a few sticks of old pine, which I'd brought in
for kindling, and I throwed them on the fire too.

When the new log caught it popped like a cap pistol and hissed as if
there was a snake in the wood.  Then it popped again.  And I seen this
green flame rising out of the log, and realized it must be fruit wood.
It was a persimmon tree, not an oak, we had cut up.  No wonder the wood
was so hard, harder than oak.  There was some blue in the flames too,
but mostly it was bright green.  Now I have never believed in ghosts
and portents more than other people.  I usually don't even listen when
people are telling ghost stories.  But Mama had told me a long time
ago, and Grandma had told her, that a green fire in a fireplace means
something is ending and something else is beginning.  A green flame is
a sign, like a green shoot in spring, or the green light that takes
over the sky sometimes after a storm.

I watched the green flame prance and strut and spread its wings.  The
fire twisted and beckoned as if it meant for me to follow.  The fire
spread on the wood like fingers on a keyboard.  The log popped and
hissed and then started to whine.  And the wood begun to moan, like
somebody that was grieved.  I listened for a little bit to the
mournfulness and then I shuddered and turned away.  I didn't have time
for such stuff.

And that's when; knowed I couldn't stand to watch Papa die.  I had been
there when Masenier died, and I had seen it all because I had to,
because I had to help Papa carry him down to the doctor's house.  And
now Papa was dying, and I was the one forced to watch him.

"I won't do it I said out loud and stomped my foot on the floorboards.
I guess I was as much scared as angry.  I had had to clean up Papa and
I had had to set up with him, and I had had to wait up with him instead
of sleeping.  And I had sawed down and hauled in and split the very
logs that was keeping the house warm and burning the green portent.
Everything that was hard fell to me, and everything nobody else wanted
to do fell to me.  - "I won't do it' I said again and stomped to the
window.  Wind shook the frame and trees roared on the mountain like
giant animals.

"What won't you do?"  somebody said.  It was Mama standing in the
doorway holding a lamp.

"I ain't going to do this no more I said.

"What do you mean?"  Mama said.

I didn't say nothing else.  I couldn't think of what I wanted to say.
There wasn't no words that fit how I felt.

"Somebody has got to stay up with Papa Mama said.

I started to say I wouldn't watch Papa suffer no more, but I couldn't
bring myself to say it.  I had always done what Mama had told me to,
and Papa had told me to.  I had always done what was expected.  I
grabbed my coat from the peg by the door.

"Where you going?"  Mama said.

"I'm going to split more wood I said.

"In the middle of the night?"  Mama said.  "We've got plenty of
wood,"

"All the wood you have is what I brought in I said.  I couldn't say to
her I would rather die myself than watch Papa die.

"It's too dark Mama said, "and windy."

Rosie appeared in the door with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders
like a shawl.  "Where is Julie going?"  she said.

In the kitchen I jerked the barn lantern from its nail and lit the
wick.  I made the flame high as it would go and closed the glass globe
before stepping out into the wind on the back porch.  I shivered as the
blast hit my face and swirled up under my dress.  The flame shuddered
in the lantern but didn't go out.  The gust felt like lips blowing cold
air all over me.

The woodpile and woodshed was around the side of the house.  I set the
lantern down on the chips not too far from the chopping block.  There
was half a moon overhead and clouds churning and chasing their selves
around its light.  The ridges looked like black waves raring up.

From the woodpile you could see the lighted window of the front room
where Papa was.  I turned away from the house so I could get my night
eyes.  Didn't want to see what was going on there.  I had never refused
what Mama had told me to do before, but I couldn't help myself this
time.

The lantern throwed its yellow glare over the chips on the ground.  The
chips appeared to be floating like some kind of foam.  I thought there
was one chip there for every single lick of the axe on the chopping
block.  The chips was different colored, maple, oak, pine and hickory.
The chips had stayed there like echoes from every chop.

Lou and me had piled the sections of logs in the woodshed, and I took
one out to the chopping block and set it on its end.  Wind pushed into
my face except when I bent over.  If a 108 is less than eight inches
thick you can usually split it without a wedge.  I raised the axe up
into the wind and swung where I thought the wood was, but the blade
glanced off.  The light only showed the outline of the piece of
persimmon.  I raised the axe again and it sunk into the meat of the
wood and wouldn't let go.  Took me several yanks to pull the blade
loose.

"Julie!"  somebody was calling in the wind.  I looked around but didn't
see nobody on the porch.  There was only the light in the window of the
front room.  I lifted the axe again and sunk it even deeper into the
wood.  This time the log split, the splinters tearing from each other
right down the middle.  It was a satisfying sound.  I brought the axe
down again, and with a crackle the wood separated into halves and fell
apart.

"Julie!"  somebody called as I turned around toward the house.  But
there was nobody in sight.  The voice seemed to come from out of the
woods, or maybe up on the ridge.  Maybe it was just the wind, but it
sounded like somebody accusing me.

I laid the two halves of the split stick aside and got another piece
from the woodshed.  The torn wood smelled fresh and sour.  I could
smell the sap on the axe blade.  I set up the new log and got the wedge
from the woodshed.  Much as I hated to split wood, here I was doing it.
I didn't know what else to do.

Instead of going to the porch for the sledgehammer I just used the back
of the axe head to pound the wedge in.  When the wedge was set I
brought the axe down hard, but my aim was off, and the wedge jumped out
of the log to the ground.  I hated the ring of steel on steel.  It was
a ring of pain, of bones breaking.  There is a sourness of doom in the
ping of steel driving steel.

I was so mad I kicked at the chips before picking up the wedge again.
The iron was cold as a fish.  But this time I set the wedge deeper
before swinging down on it.  The wood cracked and I knocked the wedge
loose and set it again.  When the log fell in two I split each half
again.

"I won't do it I said under my breath, and the wind sucked my words
away.  When the moon went behind a cloud I found I had got my night
eyes a little.  In the splash of lantern light I could see the ground
and the log I had set up.  As I got into the motion of splitting I
found I could feel my way to the wedge with the back of the axe head. 
I hit the steel and hit the steel and hit it again.  And the pieces of
log fell apart like cracking shingles.  As I worked I missed less and
less.

"I won't do it' I said again.  I was beginning to sweat, and my dress
was sticking to my back under the coat.  The wood fell apart like I
knowed where to touch the nerve at its center with the blade.  I aimed
for the heart of a cut end and hit it.  The wood cracked itself, and
cracked again.

"Julie!"  a voice called in the wind, but I ignored it.  It was maybe
three in the morning, and I had a lot of wood to split yet.  AFTER ALL
THE logs was busted open and ready to be carried in, I got a piece of
pine from the woodshed to hack for kindling.  It was fat, knotty pine
I'd gathered on the ridge above Papa's new ground Holding the axe close
to the head I shaved off some splinters from the brittle piece and then
split it into slivers.  I needed little pieces to start fires in the
cook stove and fireplace in the morning.  The pine wood glittered in
the lantern light like sugar or some yellow crystals.  Some of the
splinters was no bigger than matchsticks.  And some was the size of
knives and forks.  I piled the kindling in a neat little heap beside
the lantern.

My eyes was wet, but it was not from sweat.  There was tears running
down my cheeks as I started splitting another piece of seasoned pine.

"Julie," somebody said in the wind, but the voice was close by.  I kept
hacking at the wood with the axe, though I couldn't see too well.

"What are you doing?"  the voice said.  It was Rosie, who had come up
behind me still wrapped in the blanket.

"I'm getting in wood, since nobody else will do it I said.

"At four o'clock in the morning you're splitting more wood?"  Rosie
said.

"Somebody has got to keep the house warm for Papa I said.

"Papa is dead Rosie said.  "You might as well come back in."

"I'll come in after a while I said, and hit at the stick of pine again.
In the lantern light I seen my tears drip on the axe.  Three After
Papa's death things hadn't changed as much as you might think.  For
Papa had been sick a long time, and I was already doing most of the
outdoor work, me and Lou, and sometimes Mama helped.  You didn't get
Rosie much out in the fields or woods.  She was a house worker.  When
things had to be done in the fields or woods, Mama would complain, and
then she would tell Lou and me to go do it.  But it was up to me to see
that things got done.  In any house somebody has to take the burden.
Mama would say, "Julie, don't you think it's time to plant the taters
and I'd say, "Mama, I've done dropped the taters yesterday, and I'll
plant corn today."  She had never got over the death of Masenier, and
then Papa died, and it seemed to leave her wore out, like she didn't
feel up to trying no more.  Wasn't anything for me to do but take over
and get out and do the work, whether I liked it or not.

There was this Spanish oak that had fell in a storm the winter before,
on the bank of the road.  It fell in the wind on the night Papa died,
but I had been too busy in the fields all summer to cut it up.  So it
laid there and dried out and seasoned a little, which made it easier to
saw.

The first time I saw Hank I was too embarrassed to speak.  But that was
just because I was took by surprise.  Because it was the last thing I
was expecting, to fall in love.  It was late summer after Papa died in
early spring, and Mama and me was sawing the Spanish oak right on the
bank of the road where it comes up from Crab Creek.

I reckon there's nothing awkwarder in the world than the sight of two
women in long dresses at either end of a crosscut saw.  It was still
hot and my hair had come unpinned when I wiped the sweat off my
forehead.  My face was hot and there was big rings of sweat under my
armpits.  I was so busy working I didn't hear the horse until it
snorted and kind of cleared its throat.  And when I looked up and
brushed a strand out of my eyes, I saw this wagon hitched to a chestnut
mare.  The wagon stopped and this man, really almost a boy, a big,
strong boy, stood in the bed holding the reins.

"Howdy," he hollered to Mama, not paying much attention to me.

"How do," Mama said, standing up.  She had took to saying "How do," the
way Papa used to.

I can say without doubt the man in the wagon was the handsomest I had
ever seen.  His hair was black and he had this high rounded forehead.
And already he had a soft mustache that hung around the ends of his
mouth.  He was tanned dark from working in the fields all summer.  But
the thing that caught my notice first was his shoulders.  He had the
straightest, widest shoulders, and you could tell how powerful he was,
and how much he could lift.  It was the way he was made, and not that
he was such a terrible big man.

"I'm looking for the Willards that are selling sweet taters he said.

"You ain't there yet Mama said and pointed on up the road.

"Figured I had a ways to go the man said.

"Where you coming from?"  Mama said.  It was not what shw would have
said when Papa was alive.  She said it the way Papa would have.

"All the way from Painter Mountain the man said.  "I'm Hank
Richards."

"I'm Delia Harmon Mama said.  "And this is my daughter Julie."

"Pleased to meet you the man said and tipped his hat.

That was when I felt myself get red in the face.  The sweat run down my
temples, and I felt myself blushing all over.  Because it wasn't till
that second that I remembered I didn't have any shoes on.  I was saving
my shoes for winter and I didn't want to wear any heavy work shoes if I
was just going to be standing in the leaves and sawing.  And it was so
much cooler to go barefoot.  But at that instant I knowed I didn't want
Hank Richards to see me barefoot, like a little girl or a pauper It was
bad enough that he had seen me pulling a crosscut saw.

I wiped the hair off my forehead and tried not to look at him.  And
trying not to show I was moving, I worked my feet into the leaves.  My
dress was long and I hoped the may apples on the bank would help hide
my dirty feet.  It was like I was caught naked, though there wasn't
anything bare except my face and hands and feet.

"I was sorry to hear about your man Hank said.

"We have to believe the Lord knows what he s doing Mama said.

"Hard as it is Hank said and shook his head.  I could see he was
talking like a grown-up man, which he wasn't used to doing.  And he was
talking to Mama for my benefit, or at least partly for my benefit.  I
seen he had stopped for my benefit too, for he must have knowed
perfectly well where the Willard place was.  I was so pleased at the
thought I must have blushed even more.

But I seen that Hank wasn't going to speak to me.  He was just going to
talk to Mama so I could get a good look at him, and he could steal
glances at me, and I could hear his talk.

"Mr.  Harmon was a mighty fine man," he said and shook his head to show
he understood how hard it was to make sense of things that happen.  "He
worked as long as he could Mama said.

"He was a man you could count on Hank said and spit tobacco juice over
the side of the wagon.  The horse stepped sideways and he hollered,
"Whoa there."

"I'm pleased to meet you:' Mama said.

"I don't get up this way too much Hank said.

"You ought to come to church here sometime' Mama said.  "We're having a
singing a week from Sunday."

"Might do that Hank said.  "I might just do that."

"Come to church and then come on home with us for Sunday dinner' Mama
said.  She said it just like Papa would have.

"I'd admire to do that Hank said and looked right at me.

"Do you like to sing?"  Mama said.

"Better than I like to eat peaches Hank said.

"Come by some evening and we'll raise a song around the fireplace,"
Mama said.

Hank lifted the reins and rippled them across the mare's back.  It was
time for him to go on.  He had stopped in the road and talked as long
as was polite.  "You all come see us he said.

"We don't never get as far as Painter Mountain' Mama said, "unless
we're going to Greenville."

"You're welcome if you do," Hank said and tipped his hat, first to Mama
and then to me.  And as he did he looked right at me, right into my
eyes, and I felt a jolt go through me like lightning from the back of
my neck to my groin, and my knees trembled.  I was so thrilled I looked
right back at him.  I couldn't look away.

Now a look can tell you more than hundreds of words, if it's the right
look at the right time.  A look can go through your face and eyes right
inside you.  The look Hank give me lifted me off my feet and burned
into my heart.  I was a girl that never had been around boys much, been
too busy working and worrying about Papa.  I guess Papa had been the
man I had been in love with, in a way, more than any other person.

But I don't know why Hank's look stung me so deep at that instant.  We
don't ever know why we fall in love with one person as opposed to
another.  Let's say I was just a healthy girl that once Papa died was
ready to fall in love.  You can say it any way you want to, and it
still comes out to mean the same thing.

I looked right back at Hank, and I couldn't take my eyes away from him.
I'd never done anything so bold before, but I couldn't help it.  The
look may have lasted only a second, but it felt like we was fixed on
each other and couldn't break loose.  I'd never felt so scared or so
inspired.  Hank's look filled me with something that was sweeter than
the sweetest sleep when you are tired.  He flicked the reins again and
the horse stepped up the road.  I watched the wagon creak and rattle on
the rocks, and Hank's straight back where he stood holding the reins.

"There's a young man that's proud of his self Mama said when he was out
of hearing.

"I reckon so' I said.  Mama looked at me and seen how I was blushing. I
never could hide a thing from Mama.  And she must have seen that look
Hank and me had traded.

"Don't go getting ideas Mama said.  "You're not but seventeen, and you
know we need you on the place."

"Wouldn't dream of it' I snapped.  But I wasn't thinking about what I
was saying.  I was watching Hank's straight shoulders as he rode
through the spotlights and dapples of sun that come through the oak
trees, and I was wondering if he had seen my bare feet.  I wiggled my
toes in the leaves.

"Take hold of that saw' Mama said.  "We've got to finish this 108."

"Yes ma'am," I said.  THE VERY NEXT Sunday Hank come to church on the
mountain.  He wore a gray suit of clothes, like he was from town.  He
must have just bought the suit, for it looked brand-new.  I saw him
standing outside the church when we arrived.  The other young men and
boys was slouching on one side of the door and Hank was standing on the
other by his self  The Willards always said they wouldn't let boys from
any other community come to court girls on the mountain.

Hank touched his hat as I walked past him up the steps.  I didn't know
if I should speak to him or not, since that would tell all the other
boys he had come courting me.  I glanced at Hank and walked by quick,
but I had seen that look in his eye, like there wasn't nobody in the
world except me and him.  Something thrust up in my heart like water
busting from a fountain.

All through preaching I could feel Hank's eyes on the back of my head
and neck.  He had come in and set down on the last bench with the
backsliders and sinners and most of the boys in the community.  I
reckon they elbowed and shoved each other, and throwed lit matches in
each other's laps during service like they always did.  They didn't get
a bit of good out of preaching, and the rest of us ignored them.

Soon as service was over I dreaded to go outside, for I didn't know
what would happen.  Would the Willard boys get in a fistfight with
Hank?  Would they let him get away?  I knowed they was rough, mean boys
and I was afraid for him.

But soon as I come out the church door following Mama and Rosie, there
stood Hank with his hat in his hand like a peddler.  "How do he said to
Mama.  "How do, ma'am."

As I stepped by him he said, "Miss Harmon, may I have the honor of
walking you home?"  He said it just like he was a lawyer, an educated
person from town.  Everybody in the churchyard was listening.  I
couldn't think of what to say "Why sure," wouldn't sound right, and
"Yeah" wouldn't sound polite.  All the other girls, and the Willard
boys, and Mama and Rosie, and the preacher, was watching.  Nothing I
could think of to say sounded right.  So I just nodded and Hank held
out his arm for me to take.

As we walked out of the yard I could feel the pressure of all eyes on
me.  It was like a high wind coming at my back, pushing the cloth of my
dress against my skin.  I don't know if I was blushing or not.  In the
bright sunlight it didn't matter.

Don't ask me what we talked about walking down the road toward our
place.  I was just aware of holding on to Hank's strong arm.  I think
he talked about playing the banjo, and about how to make a banjo out of
the skin of a cat.  I think he asked if I sung alto or soprano, and I
told him alto.  He said he'd thought so.  Mama and the other girls
walked along behind us so we didn't have a chance to kiss, even if we
had wanted to.  People in those days didn't kiss anyway unless they was
already serious.

We walked up that road and I thought about what those Willard boys
might try to do.  And I thought about how Lou and Rosie would tease me.
And I thought about how even if Hank never did come back I would always
remember how he had walked me home.  A handsome boy from Painter
Mountain had walked me home from church.

Back at the house Hank took his hat off and set on the porch talking to
Carolyn while the rest of us helped Mama put dinner on the table.  Mama
had cooked her chicken before church and kept it warm in the oven. Mama
asked Lou if she would take the bucket to the spring for some fresh
water.  It was a good thing I had killed and plucked the chicken that
morning, because we didn't always have chicken on Sunday.  I had hoped
Hank might show up at church, and come home with us.

When we finally did set down to eat, Mama asked Hank to say the
blessing.  He set at the head of the table where Papa had set, and
bowed his head.  "Lord:' he said, "for what we are about to receive
make us truly thankful, and for the struggles of this life make us
strong and worthy, and for the beauties of the world make us humble and
grateful,"

It was an eloquent blessing, unlike any I had heard before.  I looked
at Hank just as he raised his head and caught his eye for a second.  He
didn't wink, but it felt like he had winked.

Everything went all right at the dinner until I had to go to the
kitchen for the coffee.  The chicken and rice and peas and peaches was
good.  And the cornbread was hot and just soft enough.  Hank eat plenty
of everything.

"Mr.  Richards, you should have brought your mother' Mama said to
Hank.

"Ma wouldn't go anywhere but Painter Mountain to church on a Sunday,"
Hank said.

"She would certainly be welcome Mama said.

"Have you ever rode the train?"  Carolyn said.  Carolyn had not been
able to take her eyes off of Hank since he got to the house.

"I took the train all the way to Chattanooga one time, looking for a
job Hank said.

"Did you sleep on the train?"  Carolyn said.

"It's not polite to ask too many questions Mama said.

"I didn't sleep in a berth Hank said, "but I took a nap in my seat." We
all laughed.

"Have you ever been to Greenville?"  Rosie said.

"I go every year, me and my brothers, to sell hams and molasses Hank
said.

"I would love to ride the train to Mount Mitchell Carolyn said. 
Carolyn was wearing one of the pink lacy dresses Mama made for her, the
one that had smocking on the front.

Finally Mama said for me to go get the coffee off the stove, and she
asked Rosie to bring in the coconut cake she had made.  Rosie loved to
make coconut cakes, even when she was a girl.  And nothing goes better
with coffee than coconut cake.

There was still a fire in the cook stove and the coffee was boiling.  I
took the pot off the stove and carried it to the dining room.  But as I
got close to the table I wondered if I should pour the first cup for
Mama, who was a woman and the oldest person at the table, or for Hank,
who was our guest at Sunday dinner.  I couldn't make up my mind, and
that flustered me.  I took a step toward Mama and then stopped .

"Julie, pour some coffee for Mr.  Richards Mama said.  That settled it,
but the damage was already done.  My hand was shaking when I held the
heavy coffeepot over Hank's cup.  Coffee come out of the spout too fast
and splashed out of his cup and on his knee.  He jumped when the hot
coffee touched him, and I must have screamed as I stepped back.  I hit
the buffet as I jerked around and the pot fell to the floor, throwing
out a scarf of smoking coffee.

"Oh, Julie Mama said.

Hank stood up and knocked the drops of coffee off his pants.  "It's
nothing he said.

"Are you burned?"  I said.

"Not a bit he said.

Mama run to the kitchen for towels, and I helped her wipe up the
spilled coffee.

"I'll wash your pants I said to Hank.

"It's just a spot he said.

I finished mopping up the coffee and carried the pot and wet towels to
the back porch.  Through my carelessness I had ruined everything.
Everything!  I figured Hank would just get his hat and go, as soon as
it was polite.  He would get away from all us girls gawking at him, and
Carolyn flirting, and Mama calling him Mr.  Richards.  I knowed there
was a lot of girls prettier than me closer to Painter Mountain, girls
not so clumsy and nervous.

But I was wrong.  Hank did get his hat, but he said, "Julie, show me
where the spring is.  I need a drink of cold water after that fine, hot
dinner."

There was no way I could refuse to show him where the spring was.  I
wiped my hands on a dry towel and hung it on the nail by the stove.

"Somebody can bring a bucket of fresh water from the spring:' Mama
said.

"I want to drink it cold from the ground Hank said.

It was the brightest day you ever seen outside, bright as only early
fall can be.  The grass and leaves on the trees and even the bare dirt
appeared to sparkle.  I don't know if it was the light, or the fact
that I was falling in love, that made everything shine.  The world was
lit in a new way, and I was lit up in every finger and toe and part of
me.

Our spring was down the hill behind the house, below the big walnut
tree.  The spring was hid by laurel bushes so it was always in shade.
It was the boldest and the coldest spring on the mountain.  Water
pushed out from the sides of the spring, boiling up the white sand on
the bottom and stirring the flecks of mica.  There was little lizards
around the edges of the pool, showing how pure the water was.

Hank took the coconut shell off the stick by the spring and dipped out
a drink.  He offered it to me and I shook my head.  He drunk the water
slow, like he was savoring the flavor and the coldness.  "This here
water tastes like it comes out of rock Hank said, "like it's been
running through rubies and emeralds."

It was pretty the way he put it.  "I wish I had a ruby; I would give it
to you Hank said.  "I don't need no ruby' I said.

Hank dipped up another drink, and then replaced the coconut shell on
the stick.  "Now my mouth is sweet:' he said.  He looked into my eyes
and stepped closer.  He took my hands and raised them, first one and
then the other, to his lips and kissed them.  Nobody had ever kissed my
hands before.  Then he put his hands on my elbows and pulled me closer
to him.

"You are an unusual person," he said and looked right into my eyes.  I
couldn't think of any way I had been unusual except to splash coffee on
his britches, but I didn't say that.  He leaned closer and nudged my
lips with his lips.  It tickled, and made my lips tingle.  He rubbed
his lips sideways across mine, and I thought how gentle and careful he
was, for such a big, strong man.  I wondered if Mama or Rosie or one of
my other sisters was watching us from the back porch.  And then I
remembered the laurel bushes was between us and the house.  Hank
pressed his lips to mine and the feeling was sweet, sweeter than the
fresh water from the spring.  Then he nibbled at the edge of my lip, at
my upper lip and the corners of my mouth.  He run the tip of his tongue
along my upper lip.  It was a feeling I'd never had before.

When Hank put his lips full against mine and placed his arms around my
shoulders, I felt I was being gathered up in a spin and cut off from
the air and light around me.  It was like his arms made a separate
world around me.  His arms and lips and the feel of him against me made
us apart from the woods and spring and bushes.  We was our own world
just by being together.

The feeling of the kiss went all over me.  The kiss went through my
arms and legs to the tips of my fingers and toes.  That was the
strangest part.  Hank kissed my lips and run his tongue around my lips,
and I felt the sweetness in the back of my head and down my back.  So
this is what kissing is, I thought.  And I thought, This is not me.
This is better than me.  This is better than I deserve.  And thought,
No, this is what I have been waiting for; this is what the future is
going to be like.

Hank kissed me and we turned around like we was dancing real slow.  We
stepped around, but I wasn't hardly aware of stepping.  I felt the
trees and laurel bushes and the spots of sunlight was all circling.
Everything was turning as Hank kissed me.  My eyes was closed and I
floated with the turning.

When Hank took his lips away and breathed, I caught a breath too.  I
took a breath and opened my eyes.  And looking over his shoulder at the
woods I seen somebody standing among the bushes above the spring.  It
was the oddest feeling, to open my eyes after my first kiss, after an
otherworldly kiss, and see somebody staring at us from among the oak
trees.  It was like waking up from a sweet dream and finding somebody
studying you.

I knowed it was one of the Willard boys.  I think it was Clarence.  He
must have been watching us all that time.  I couldn't know how long he
had been watching.  But if he was watching us, the rest of them must be
watching us too.  There might be half a dozen Willards spying on us.

"I want you to be careful I said to Hank.  I didn't mean to spoil
everything by telling him we was being watched.

"Careful about what?"  he said.

"You just be careful as you go down the mountain I said.

And then I heard a squirrel bark.  But it wasn't a regular squirrel.
The bark was too steady, and a little too loud.  It was one of the
Willards making the noise, teasing us.  And then I heard a bobwhite
call, and though it sounded like a bobwhite, the call was too loud.  It
was another one of the Willards answering the first.

Hank must have seen the worry on my face, for he started to listen.
Just then a turkey gobbled further up the ridge.  "There's a lot of
varmints about he said and laughed.  "Don't you leave here by yourself
I said.

Hank pulled his coat back and showed me a pistol stuck in his belt.

"They may have guns too I said.  I knowed the Willard boys carried
pistols with them, especially Webb.  Sometimes on Sunday afternoons
they would walk along the road with a .22 and shoot at rocks and
cans.

"Don't you worry' Hank said.  "Worry never made anybody live a second
longer."

We walked around the edge of the yard and Hank held my hand.  I think
he wanted whoever was watching to see us together.  I showed him the
garden where the tomatoes was so ripe and many they had broke down the
vines.  And the summer squash had got so big they looked like yellow
geese laying in the weeds.  The tater vines was dead and the bean vines
had turned yellow.

We walked to the edge of the cornfield where Lou and me had already cut
the tops and pulled the fodder.  "Who did all that work?"  Hank said.

"I did some:' I said.  "And Lou helped, and Mama did some."

Hank looked at me and run his finger along my cheek.  "You will make
somebody a good wife he said.  I couldn't look into his eyes.  I
couldn't hardly bear for him to look at me.  For I knowed that more
than anything in the world I wanted to be married to Hank Richards.  I
wanted to live in a house with just him and me, and I wanted to help
him work in the fields and raise chickens and pick apples to dry in the
sun for winter.  It seemed too much to hope for that I could be with
him day after day, day and night.  It was too perfect to think on.
Nothing ever worked out that perfect in this world.  And if I wanted it
too bad it would never happen.  The world was made so people never got
what they wanted most.  Or maybe they wanted most what they couldn't
never get.

"You will make somebody a good husband," I said.  I hoped he didn't
think I had cut all the tops in the cornfield by myself.  I was a
little ashamed of all the hard work I had had to do.

"Who is going to help you kill hogs?"  Hank said.  We had ambled close
to the hog pen and the mud of the pen sent its stench over into the
sweet smell of the garden.

"I guess Lou and me and Mama will do it I said.

"I could come up and give you a hand Hank said.

"You don't have to do that I said.

"You'll need help lifting the hog Hank said.

I didn't protest, because I wanted him to come whenever he would.  And
I didn't want him to think I was able to kill a hog and cut it up all
by myself.  We walked by the grape arbor where the bees was busy on the
ripe Concords.

"Did you ever make wine?"  Hank said.

"Papa used to make blackberry wine for his rheumatism," I said.  "But
nobody else ever did drink any."

"Pokeberry wine is better for rheumatism," Hank said.  "It warms the
joints and soothes them."

When we got to the front porch Mama come out and said she had made a
fresh pot of coffee.  She asked Hank did he want any.

"That would be perfect," he said.  "I've got to leave soon, but a cup
of coffee will set me up for the road."

Mama brought out two mugs on a tray and we set on the swing on the
front porch.  I never had coffee except in the morning, but took the
cup just to be sociable.  Maybe it was because I was excited and in
love, or maybe it was because I wasn't used to drinking coffee in the
afternoon, but after a few sips it felt like lights was going through
my veins to the ends of my fingers.  And the yard and front porch got
even brighter and clearer.  Everything was so clear it hurt my eyes to
look at it.  And Hank was so handsome with his black hair and downy
mustache and brown eyes and high forehead, it sent a pain through me
just to glance at him.

I thought I heard Carolyn giggle inside.  She must have been watching
us through the window.  She was nearly fourteen, and too big to giggle
like that.  But she was spoiled and I reckon she was jealous because
Hank had come to see me and not her.

"What if I was to ask you--' Hank said.  But just then there was a
whippoorwill call on the hill above the road.  Since whippoorwills
never call till after dark, it didn't fool us.  It was one of the
Willard boys all right.

"That bird has got its clock wrong Hank said.

"If you was to ask me what?"  I said.

There was a dove call, slow and mournful, from the same place the
whippoorwill had called from.  "Those birds are singing up a regular
chorus Hank said.

"Those birds ought to be jailbirds:' I said.

Next it was a mockingbird on the hill, sounding like the other birds,
and a rain crow and a robin.  And then a fox barked up there too.  "The
woods is full of noise," Hank said.

"If you was to ask me what?"  I said again.

There was another bobwhite call, and a fox bark, and then a wildcat
scream.  "What if I was to ask you to be my wife?"  Hank said.  I
couldn't believe what was happening.  I had only walked home with Hank
the first time that morning.  Some girls had to wait months, even years
to get engaged.  I had first laid eyes on Hank less than week before,
and here he was asking me to get married.  It felt like was dreaming it
all.  AFTER WE KISSED and held hands and looked into each other's eyes
for what must have been an hour, ignoring the birdcalls from the hill,
and Carolyn's giggles behind the window, Hank said he had to 8 .  if he
was to get off the mountain before dark.  He didn't want to be caught
on the mountain after nightfall.  "Might step on a snake he said.  "I'm
afraid for you I said.

He kissed me on the forehead.  "Just do what I tell you to do he
said.

"What do you want me to do?"  I said.

"I want you to hold my hat," he said.  He took off his wide brimmed
black hat, and he went to the front door and thanked Mama for the
dinner.

"I hope your pants ain't ruined Mama said.

"A spot of coffee won't ruin good cloth Hank said.

"You come back and see us soon Mama said.

"I'll do that Hank said.

Out in the yard Hank handed me his hat and told me to stand by the
front gate and hold it for him.

"Where are you going?"  I said.

"I'll be back he said and winked.  And taking off his coat and tucking
it under his arm he headed down the trail to the outhouse.  The
outhouse was hid behind the arborvitae, and it was right at the edge of
the pine woods.  I heard the door of the outhouse slam.  I smiled,
thinking how delicate Hank had been about mentioning where he was
going.

I held the hat and stood there beside the boxwood by the gate.  Mama
had swept the yard and sprinkled sand on it, but chickens had already
tracked the sand and stained it.  I would have to carry more sand from
the branch for next Saturday.  Shadows was getting longer across the
yard, and I felt the coolness of evening in the air.  A crow cawed in
the pines on the hill.  A dog barked down the mountain.

After a few minutes I started to wonder what Hank was doing in the
outhouse.  Was he sick?  Had a spider bit him?  It was embarrassing
that he had gone there and was staying so long while I held his hat by
the road.  I looked at the soft felt hat.  It must have been a seven
and three-quarters size, for Hank had a large head.  Mama come out on
the porch and said, "Is he gone?"

I shook my head and pointed toward the outhouse.  Rosie and Carolyn
come out on the porch behind Mama and looked toward the arborvitae.  I
hoped Hank wouldn't step out and see them all looking at him.

I held the hat and looked down the road, but didn't see anybody.  And
then I looked up the road and saw the road that way was empty too.
There was a dove call on the hill, and then another bobwhite call.  I
looked at the hat in my hand, and I looked toward the arborvitae.  And
then I smiled, because I knowed Hank had already slipped away into the
trees and was far down the mountain.  I was even more thrilled than I
had been, to think he was safe, and that he had been so clever.

"Well, what happened to him?"  Mama said.

"He's done gone," I said.

"He'll have to come back for his hat Carolyn said.  "A gentleman don't
go anywhere without his hat."

Shadows was already reaching across the yard.  There was crow calls
from the trees on the hill.  I tossed the hat up in the air and caught
it.  It was the happiest day of my life.  MARRIAGE WAS DIFFERENT from
what I ever expected.  Like all girls I imagined something wonderful,
and it was wonderful, in most ways, but in different ways from what I
had thought.  Mama had always said that marriage is like everything
else: it is work, hard work.  As I expected, Mama was angry when I told
her I was engaged.  "You don't hardly know that boy," she said.  "How
well am I supposed to know him?"  I said.  "Well enough to know his
mama's name," Mama said.

I didn't say nothing.  I never was good with talk when somebody was
upset.  Besides, there was nothing I could say to convince Mama.

"When are you getting married?"  Lou said.  "Next month," I said.

"Where are you going on your honeymoon?"  Carolyn said.  She was always
reading stories in magazines about courtship and honeymoons.

"I don't know yet," I said.  "He has only just asked me."

"I'll say' Mama said.  "You only met him last week."

"I'll bake you a coconut cake," Rosie said.

"Who is going to do the work around here?"  Mama said.

"The crops is already in this year' I said.  "It's not like Rosie and
Lou and Carolyn is helpless."

"This is a fine come off Mama said, "after your Papa died in the
spring.  And you not much more than a young un  But I don't think Mama
was as mad as she acted.  Or if she was she got over it.  Maybe she
seen the advantage of getting one of her girls married off.  Or maybe
she seen there was nothing she could do to stop it.

"I

just hope he's a good man Mama said, "though he's really just a boy."

"He's eighteen years old I said.

"That's what I mean:' Mama said.  "You're both just younguns."  Now the
week before we was married Hank rented a house over the line in South
Carolina.  It was way down a little valley called Gap Creek, and it was
the farthest I had ever been from home.  Hank said he wanted to live
there because it was a pretty place, and because it was cheap, and he
had work where they was building a cotton mill at Lyman.  He had worked
before as a carpenter and mason's helper and he already had a job lined
up at the site in Lyman, helping to make brick.  I thought later he
moved to South Carolina to get away from his ma, because when I got to
know her I could see why he would want to.

We got married on a Saturday, nearly a month after we first met, and we
stayed that night at Mama's house.  I felt embarrassed to be spending
my first night as a married woman in my own house, but Mama knowed what
to do.  Since there wasn't no extra bedroom she told Hank to sleep on
the couch in the living room, and I stayed in the bedroom with Lou and
Rosie and Carolyn like I always had.  I didn't get hardly any sleep
that night, and Lou giggled and teased me.

"Do you reckon Hank is lonesome out on the couch?"  she said.

"Shhhhh," I said and pretended to be sleepy.  The next day we walked
down to Gap Creek.

Like any bride, I thought my husband was wise and on his way to riches.
And when I seen the valley of Gap Creek I thought it was one of the
prettiest places in the world.  The house wasn't so fancy, but the
narrow valley with steep mountains on either side looked like a picture
out of a magazine.  The valley floor was flat, winding peaceful back
into the steep mountains.  It was still green in the slender cove,
though it was already fall on the higher slopes.

The worst thing about the house was that Mr.  Pendergast, who rented it
to us, lived there his self  He lived in the bedroom at the front of
the house, and our rent was the meals I fixed for him and the washing I
did for him.  He was a crusty old widower and I seen I was going to
have to humor him.  I was just a young bride and Hank took me down
there to start housekeeping in that little place, and to cook for old
man Pendergast.

Mr.  Pendergast was a short man with a huge head of gray hair and hair
growing out of his ears.  He always looked at you with a squint when he
talked.  "Don't you worry about me' he said the night we arrived, when
I come in with all my clothes tied up in a pasteboard box and a
pillowcase, after walking all the way from Mount Oliver, "I don't eat
hardly nothing, and I'm so quiet you'll never know I'm around."

He showed me where the kitchen was and where all the pots and pans was.
His wife had died three or four years before, and he had let the house
go the way most men would.  Every inch of the floor needed to be
scoured and scrubbed.  You never seen such filth as was built up around
and behind the cook stove  I seen it would take me a week to get the
place cleaned up so it didn't turn your stomach.

"What do you like for breakfast?"  I said.

"Just fix me some biscuits and gravy' Mr.  Pendergast said, "and maybe
a poached egg,"

I had heard of poached eggs, but I had never made a poached egg.  I'd
have to ask Hank what a poached egg was.

"We won't have no bacon until we kill the hog Mr.  Pendergast said.
"But it's almost time for hog killing."  LATER WHEN WE went to bed that
first night I was almost afraid to move in the attic bedroom, for the
floorboards creaked and the bedsprings creaked.  And I was afraid Mr.
Pendergast was right below us listening to every sound we made.  The
floorboards groaned and the bedsprings moaned when we got in.  "Shhhh I
said to Hank.

"Pendergast is deaf as a fencepost," Hank said, not even lowering his
voice.

"Even a fencepost can hear this bed creak I said.

After Hank blowed out the lamp we laid in the bumpy bed in the room
smelling of old wood and smoke.  Hank turned over to face me and the
springs banged on the slats of the bed.  I giggled cause I was a little
nervous.  But I wasn't scared or worried like so many brides are
supposed to be.  I had thought all my life about this first night in
our own house, and now that it was here I was more worried about waking
up Mr.  Pendergast than anything else.

"Shhhh," I said again.

When Hank put his lips to my ear it felt so odd and good it made me
shiver.  And when he put his finger on my nipple it felt like funny
bones all over my body had been touched.  When he run his hand over my
shoulder and under my armpit and down to my belly, I thought little
sparks must be jumping off my skin in the dark.

I felt something pulling my nightgown up over my knees and over my
thighs and over my belly.  I giggled and the bed creaked as Hank moved
over me.  And then I felt something hot and wet in my belly button, and
I knowed it was Hank's tongue going in and out and round and round the
navel.  He licked the little hairs around my navel and stuck his tongue
in the hole.  I hoped there wasn't any lint in there.

It was all so strange and different from what I had imagined.  I didn't
hardly know what was happening.  It was like the world had been tilted
and turned in some way.  And time had stopped, or slowed down.  Time
had been turned on its side and moved in a curve.  When Hank got on top
of me and rocked the bed, I felt numb with his weight, and I heard the
headboard of the bed knock on the wall.  I thought of Mr.  Pendergast
below listening.  I wondered if this was it.  Was this what everybody
talked about and thought about so much?

Stop, I wanted to say.  You stop that.  But I couldn't.You quit that, I
thought of saying, but I didn't.  As Hank rocked faster the bedposts
scooted on the floor a little.  What he was doing hurt a little, but it
felt good too.  A sweet hurt, a hot sweetness.

"Oh I said.  And I thought, You'll have to stop this.  We can't go on
like this, for I was getting short of breath.  And Hank was getting
short of breath.  Stop that, I thought.  Or maybe it was: Don't stop.
Don't stop now.  Don't stop.

All the colors started running through my head in the dark.  Purples
and greens and yellows and blacks.  They blended into each other and
poured over each other.  And the colors was like milk, so soft and warm
and pouring over and into each other.  And the colors was swelled,
bigger than I had ever thought they could be.  The colors was melodies,
like shaped note singing.

Now quit this, I thought.  We've got to stop or we'll wake up old man
Pendergast.  We'll wake up the chickens in the henhouse and we'll wake
up the horse and the hog in the pen.  We'll even wake up the stars over
the mountains, and the birds roosting under the eaves of the barn.  But
the colors poured on behind my eyes, the purples and blues, the salty
colors like orange and yellow.  Yellow is salty as butter and popcorn.
Yellow was swelled up and buttery And there was a golden brown that was
saltiest of all.

And I felt a sneeze coming down there.  It was the best feeling, of a
sneeze coming right out of my middle and swelling through me to get rid
of what I was holding back.  And I sneezed quick, and again.  It was
the sweetest cachoo, and cachoo, so deep and full it hurt too.

Hank was shoving too and pushing with his feet against the foot of the
bed like he was running while laying down or dancing while laying down.
And there was a wrench of boards and a squeal of nails pulling out. We
fell and slammed onto the floor.  It sounded like the house had fell
down, but I knowed what had happened, even though it was dark and I
couldn't see.  That old bed had pulled apart and the foot board had
fell away The springs and mattress had slid onto the floor.

I was laying on the floor, and I knowed Mr.  Pendergast must have woke
up beneath us.  But I giggled a little and Hank put his head on my neck
and giggled too.  We was both tired out, and it felt good just to lay
still.  I listened to see if Mr.  Pendergast was moving around below.
But all I could hear was my own breathing, and Hank's breathing.  And
then something crashed, and I could tell it was the headboard of the
bed falling over on the floor.

"Lord a mercy' I said in the dark.  I thought I heard somebody laughing
below, but I couldn't be sure.  It might have been a screech owl off in
the woods, or wind in the eaves.  MY FIRST TROUBLE with Mr.  Pendergast
come the next morning when I fixed his breakfast.  Hank got up early to
go to the mill at Lyman where he was helping to tend the brick kilns. I
fixed him some biscuits and butter and jelly to take in his lunch pail.
After he was gone I went ahead and boiled a saucepan of water to fix
Mr.  Pendergast's poached egg.  Hank had said a poached egg was just a
slightly boiled egg.  Rosie would know how to do it.

When the water was bubbling and rolling I put an egg in for what I
figured was a minute.  But I didn't have an egg timer or clock with a
sweep hand.  So I just had to guess.  And then when I took the egg out
of the water and put it on the table beside Mr.  Pendergast's plate, he
had still not come out of the bedroom.  I kept waiting and finally eat
my own breakfast of grits and gravy and drunk a cup of coffee.  I
finished and still Mr.  Pendergast had not appeared.  I got up and
heated more water to wash the dishes, and after I had finished washing
and drying the plates there was still no sign of him.  I put the
biscuits back in the oven and soon the grits was cold and getting a
skin.  Could Mr.  Pendergast have died in the night?  A chill went
through me down to my tailbone.  Had he heard the bed fall down in the
night and was too embarrassed to come out?  Had he got up early and
left?  Or could he be expecting me to serve him breakfast in bed?

I put the dry dishes on the shelf and got the broom and swept the
kitchen floor.  The fire was dying in the cook stove and I put a couple
more sticks in.  By then it was daylight and I could see the early sun
turning the tops of the mountains copper.  I heard a noise behind me
and turned.  There was Mr.  Pendergast with his hair uncombed and his
overalls with only one gall us buckled.  He drug his feet as he walked
to the table.

"I'll pour you some coffee I said.  I got the pot off the stove and
hoped the coffee was still hot.  The fire was blazing up again, but it
might not have heated the pot yet.

Mr.  Pendergast took a sip of the coffee and put it down.  "This coffee
is cold he said.

"I'll heat it up again," I said.  I took the cup and poured the coffee
back into the pot.

"A man can't drink cold coffee Mr.  Pendergast said.

I took the pot of grits off the stove and put it on the table beside
his plate.  He took the serving spoon and dug into the grits and seen a
skin had dried on them.  "When did you make these, last night?"  he
said.  "I'm sorry," I said.  "I made them for Hank at six."  "I
wouldn't feed them to a hog Mr.  Pendergast said.

"I can make you some more," I said.  I got more sticks of wood out of
the box and put them in the stove.

"Don't bother' NIr Pendergast said.  "I'll just have biscuits and an
egg "

I took the biscuits out of the oven and put them on the table.  The jam
and molasses and butter was already on the table.  Mr.  Pendergast
looked at the egg and said, "I thought I said a poached egg."

"I can make you another one I said.

Mr.  Pendergast cracked the egg on the edge of his plate and started
peeling it, then stopped.  "It's not half boiled he said.

"I tried to boil it for a minute I said.

"I can't eat this he said.  He looked at me like he blamed me for
everything wrong in the world.  He dropped the egg on his plate like he
had touched a rotten tater.

When the coffee was hot I poured Mr.  Pendergast another cup, but I
couldn't hardly stand to look at him.  He hadn't told me when he was
going to get up, and he hadn't told me how to poach an egg.  But I
didn't want to argue with him, because it was his house and was going
to have to live there.

I put more water on to boil, but Mr.  Pendergast said, "Forget about
the egg.  I'll just eat biscuits and molasses."  He set at the table
like he had been offended and he didn't even want to look at me.  I
stood by the stove wondering where I could go.  It was his house, but I
had to take care of it.  I didn't have anywhere to go except up to the
bedroom to make up the bed.  But the bed had fell apart and would have
to be put back together.  And after that I could sweep the front room
and the porch.

I left Mr.  Pendergast at the table eating hot biscuits and drinking
coffee and climbed the stairs to the bedroom.  The bed was in pieces,
and the quilts and sheets all tangled up.  To let in the light I pushed
back the curtains.  Everything was going wrong.  Except for the memory
of the night, I wished I was back home on the mountain.  I almost
wished I could go out and work in the fields or woods, like I was used
to doing.  At least Mama and Rosie wasn't as hard to please as Mr.
Pendergast.

I thought of packing up my things in the cardboard box and lighting out
for home.  It would take all day to climb the mountain to North
Carolina and then on up to the ridge.  It was a pleasing thought,
except when I got there I would have the same old work, and the shame
of a failed marriage.  Rosie and Lou would laugh if they seen me
trudging up the road with my things in the box.  And Mama would shake
her head at the sadness of it all.  And I would have to go back to
cutting firewood and planning to butcher the hogs.

It was the thought of the work that cleared my head a little.  If was
going to have to work so hard anyway, I might as well be working for
Hank and myself.  I might as well work where I was, now that I was down
on Gap Creek.

I set the headboard up against the wall and got the sides out from
under the mattress.  I seen the bed could be fitted together again, but
where the post had cracked it was going to have to be nailed.  If it
wasn't nailed, the bed would just fall down again.  I looked at the
crack in the light from the window and seen it had been made a long
time ago.  Whoever had set the bed up had knowed it would come crashing
down as soon as the frame was shook.  And I was certain it was Mr.
Pendergast who had set it up without nailing the crack.  He must have
been waiting in the night to hear the bed crash.  And it was him
laughing I had heard after we fell on the floor and everything was
quiet.

I marched down the steps and turned toward the kitchen table to ask
where there was a hammer.  But Mr.  Pendergast was gone.  His coffee
cup and greasy plate and knife and fork was there, but he had
disappeared.

"Where is a hammer?"  I called, but nobody answered.  I looked on the
shelf at the back of the kitchen, and then on the back porch where all
kinds of tools hung on nails.  I didn't find a hammer, but discovered a
hatchet that had a hammer back.  And after a little more looking I
found a half-rusty nail under a ball of binder's twine.  AFTER NAILING
THE bedpost so it would hold the side, I put the bed together.  It was
an old bed and would creak no matter what you done to it.  But I made
it as firm and tight as I could.  Since Hank and me would be sleeping
there every night, I wanted to make it as quiet as possible.  Mr.
Pendergast might be downstairs listening every night, but at least the
bed wouldn't fall again.

When I got back to the kitchen Mr.  Pendergast was setting beside the
cook stove whittling on a stick of kindling.  He shaved curls off the
piece of pine into the kindling box.  He scratched with the knife on
the white wood and hollowed out with the tip of the blade.  It was a
little figure of a person he was cutting.  I didn't want to speak to
him again, because I thought he would say something short.  He would
take advantage of anything nice I said and give me an order to do
something else.  He seen I was just a young girl that had never been
away from home.  He seen I was at the disadvantage of being married and
in a new place for the first time in my life.  I figured it was better
not to say anything.

"I got some clothes that needs to be washed," Mr.  Pendergast said.  He
opened the door of the stove and throwed shavings into the fire.

I hadn't thought of doing a wash on my first day on Gap Creek.  At home
we had just washed on Mondays.  And then I remembered that this was a
Monday.  We had got married on a Saturday and walked down to Gap Creek
on Sunday.  "Where is your clothes?"  I said.  "In the bedroom, behind
the door' Mr.  Pendergast said.

It was already nine according to the mantel clock.  When I washed
clothes I liked to heat water early in the morning.  I'd have to build
a fire and carry water from the spring.  I looked in the front bedroom
where Mr.  Pendergast slept and you never seen such a mess.  His
clothes was scattered everywhere.  The room looked like a rag pile. The
bed probably hadn't been made up in months.  Clothes was piled on the
bureau and on the nightstand.  The room smelled of pneumo ny salve and
camphor I reckon Mr.  Pendergast had rheumatism and rubbed the liniment
on his joints.  But there was a smell of dust also, and clothes that
hadn't been washed in a long time.

I looked behind the door and there was a pile of clothes up to my
waist, overalls and shirts, underwear and socks, heaped up and spilling
over when I pulled the door back.  Mr.  Pendergast must not have washed
clothes in months.  It would take three armloads just to carry the
clothes out to the backyard.

I marched out of there and right back to the kitchen.  "Where is the
wash pot  I said.

"I like a little starch in my shirts he said.

I stepped out to the back porch and looked in the yard.  Like in any
backyard, there was a woodshed and a smokehouse, a clothesline, a path
to the toilet on the right, and a path to the spring on the left.  And
further out there was a barn and hog pen  The wash pot was on the trail
to the spring.  And there was a table and a wooden tub on the trail
next to the pot.  I looked around the porch and found washboard and a
bucket.  And by the water bucket was a cake of Octagon soap.

I grabbed that bucket and carried several gallons of water from the
spring and poured them in the pot.  And then I got some kindling and
wood from the shed and started a fire under the pot.  There was a
little wind, and the fire whipped around from side to side.  But I put
on more pine to make it blaze up.

It took me four trips just to carry Mr.  Pendergast's clothes out to
the wash table.  With my arms loaded I tried not to smell all that sour
cloth and soiled long handles.  But when you have a filthy job the only
thing to do is jump in and get it done.  Won't hurt your hands to get
dirty; you can always wash them.  The quicker I got the clothes in the
boiling water the quicker I would be done.  I tried not to even look at
the dirty clothes, but dumped them on the table and went back for
more.

"Don't boil my linen with the overalls Mr.  Pendergast said as I passed
through the kitchen.  I could see now he was whittling the figure of a
naked woman from the piece of pine.  He was picking with the point of
his knife at the rounded shape of the buttocks.  "Don't want the linen
to fade he said.  I didn't even answer him.  He lived in such filth and
never washed or cleaned up, and here he was worried about his clothes
fading.  Anything I said would just show him how angry I was, and I
didn't want to quarrel on my second day on Gap Creek.  It was not what
I had thought the beginning of married life would be.

As soon as the water was boiling, I dumped in underwear and
light-colored shirts.  I heated the water extra hot to scald away the
filth and grease in the clothes.  Nothing will purify and sterilize
like boiling water.  The water bubbled and churned up into foam and
flattened into spreading scars.  I dumped the dirty long handles in and
stirred them with the troubling stick, then let them boil for a minute
and lifted them out with the stick and dumped them smoking on the wash
table.  I dipped two buckets of boiling water and mixed it with cold
water in the tub.  And then I took the washboard and the cake of
Octagon soap and started to scrub every piece of underwear and every
shirt.  I rubbed them up and down, up and down, on the washboard, and
the soapy water steamed up into my face.  My hands got red from the
soapy, hot water.

There is something chemical about the heat of washing, like the fire
burns away filth and the soap turns the dirt into something clean The
bitter soap melts grease and soil.  The slick soap eats away filth and
oily stains.  Much as you hate it, doing washing makes you feel you're
starting out new.  You have put your face in the smoke and steam, and
your hands in the dirty slick water.  And then you lift the pieces out
and rinse them in fresh water and wring them out in the wind.

I took each piece of Mr.  Pendergast's clothes out of the rinsing tub
and twisted it hard as I could.  The water squirted out and the cloth
was merely damp as I hung it on the line, in the cool breeze.  The line
run along the trail to the spring, and I hung the clean underwear and
shirts and socks along the big thread.  And after that hung the
overalls so they looked like people walking as they flapped in the
breeze.

"Have you washed my socks?"  Mr.  Pendergast called from the back
porch.

"Done washed them I said.

"Don't you lose none Mr.  Pendergast said.

"Wouldn't think of it," I said.

When the washing was done I felt a little better.  For even Mr.
Pendergast and his grumpy manners couldn't keep me from getting things
done.  I didn't know what to say to him, but if washing his stale
clothes was part of my job, then I had done it.  If waiting on him was
part of my married life, then I had got it started that morning.  I LET
THE FIRE die down and emptied the two tubs in the grass by the trail.
The washing hung on the line like a whole army marching in the
sunlight.  Where the underwear hung and the shirts hung it looked like
angels and not soldiers.  But they didn't make any noise.  The sun
behind the cloth made them blinding.

I carried the bucket and soap back to the porch and Mr.  Pendergast was
standing on the back steps watching me.  With the tip of his knife
blade he was putting the finishing touches on the sharp little breasts
of his naked woman.  I glanced at the figure and looked away.  I didn't
want him to see me studying the carving.  He held the pine woman up to
the sunlight, and I could see how rounded her behind was and how big
her breasts was.  The face was still rough, but the shape of the body
had been smoothed by the knife to look like real sculpture.  When I
glanced at the figure I seen Mr.  Pendergast was looking at me and
grinning.  His face had flushed a little.  hurried past him.  It was
time to fix dinner.  MY HANDS WAS soft and water-sobbed from the
washing.  I wished I had some lanolin to rub on them, but I didn't. The
skin on my fingers felt tender as a baby's as I loaded wood into the
cook stove wanted to bake some cornbread and sweet taters for dinner. 
But first I would have to ask Mr.  Pendergast where the sweet taters
was kept.  I hated to ask him anything, since my best idea was to avoid
him.  I was pretty sure the taters was in a hole or cellar somewhere,
but I didn't have time to go searching.  Not if I got everything done
by dinnertime.  Once I got the fire snapping in the stove, I looked out
on the back porch and seen Mr.  Pendergast still holding his doll and
scratching at the face with his knife.  "Where is the tater pit?"  I
said.

He looked around slow at me and grinned.  "You're standing right over
it," he said.

I didn't want to ask him where the steps to the cellar was.  I would
just find them for myself.  He watched me as I walked out into the
backyard and looked to the right of the house.  I didn't see any door
or steps there.  I looked on the left side of the house, and at first
didn't see anything but weeds and the chimney.  And then I saw a door
like a lid on a trunk.  The door was covered with tin and when I lifted
it back, sure enough, there was steps going down to the cellar.

The steps was made of logs and covered with dirt, and they went right
down into the dark under the house.  I wished I had a lamp or a
lantern.  "Go ahead, ain't nothing to be afraid of Mr.  Pendergast
said. He had come up behind me.

Cobwebs hung from the door frame.  I went down the steps and stooped to
avoid the dirty webs.  It was so dark inside I couldn't see a thing at
first.  But the smell was sharp.  It was the smell of old wood and damp
ground that hadn't seen the sun in a long time.  It was a smell of dead
things, of dead beetles and dead mice, and the pee mice leave on nests
of straw and string.  Something buzzed by my ear, and I tried to slap
it away.  A moth fluttered to the door behind me.

I seen the gleam of eyes in the dark, but knowed it must be lids on
mason jars.  And something moved at about the level of my eyes, on a
shelf, like a mouse or a snake sliding over dry ground.

"Don't you see the taters?"  Mr.  Pendergast called from outside.

"I can't see a thing," I called back.

"On your right," he yelled.

I stepped aside on something slick and soft.  And then I seen the
taters.  They looked like twisted swollen bodies with tails.  I grabbed
up half a dozen and put them in my apron.  Before leaving I looked
around the cellar again.  As my eyes adjusted to the dark a little seen
shelves loaded with jars of canned stuff, quart jars and pint jars,
jelly and green beans.  Some of the stuff looked like it had bleached
or faded from being in the dark too long.  Something that looked like a
snake head was poking out of one of the jars.  A tongue flicked in the
dim light.  I turned toward the door and banged my head on the lintel.
A cobweb caught in my hair

"Did you see my pet snake?"  Mr.  Pendergast said as I climbed the
steps.

The sunlight burned my eyes and I wanted to brush the cobwebs away. But
I didn't want Mr.Pendergast to think I was scared.  "Didn't see no
snake I said.

"He's a cute little feller," Mr.  Pendergast said, "about three feet
long "

I hurried past him with the taters in my apron.  I didn't want him to
think he could get my goat.  To MAKE coRNs READ to make good cornbread,
I had to have some buttermilk, and I knowed the buttermilk would be in
the springhouse.  I took the water bucket to fill and rushed out to the
springhouse.  It was a low log building over the branch.  The floor was
water, except for a row of stepping stones from the door.  And in the
water set jars of milk and pitchers of cream, butter inside tin pails.
As I was bending down to get a jar of buttermilk I seen something
watching me from the corner of the building.  It looked long as a furry
snake.  But I knowed it must be some kind of animal like a weasel.  It
was long and its eyes sparkled.  It was looking at me from a little
face that was pointed.  I stamped my foot and it slipped away under one
of the logs of the sill.  It must have been a mink, for it was too
black and long to be a weasel.  WHEN HANK COME home that evening I
could see he was tired.  He had walked all the way to Lyman and he had
worked all day at the brick kiln and then he had walked back.  His face
looked burned a little from the heat of the kiln where he had kept the
fire blazing.

I had been ignoring Mr.  Pendergast all day, ever since breakfast, and
I went on ignoring him after Hank come home.  Hank went out to milk the
cow and when he brought the warm milk in I strained it into one of the
earthenware pitchers.  I figured the milk would keep colder in a
pitcher than in a mason jar.  I tied a cloth over the top of the
pitcher and was going to carry it out to the springhouse when Mr.
Pendergast come into the kitchen.  Maybe he forgot Hank was there.  I
don't know.  He said, "No no no, don't put all the milk in the
springhouse like a fool.  You've got to save some to clabber, if you
want any butter."

Hank had just washed his hands and set down at the table.  "You hadn't
ought to call her a fool," he said to Mr.  Pendergast in low voice I
hadn't heard before.

Mr.  Pendergast wheeled around.  "Somebody has to give orders around
here," he said.

"You don't give Julie orders," Hank said.  He stood up and shook his
finger at Mr.  Pendergast.

"This is my house," Mr.  Pendergast said.

"And she is my wife," Hank said.  "Don't nobody give her orders but
me."

I started to say don't nobody give me orders, but I figured I better
keep my mouth shut.

Mr.  Pendergast looked like he had been caught by surprise, like he
wasn't used to arguing with another man.  "I ain't used to a girl that
don't know nothing," he said.

"If you don't like the way she does things you can find somebody else
to live in your dang-blasted dirty house," Hank said.

Mr.  Pendergast turned like he was going to walk away, and then he
looked at me by the stove.  He started to say something, but didn't.

"We can pack up and get out of here tonight," Hank said.  "You can find
somebody else to clean up your nastiness."

"Now hold on," Mr.  Pendergast said.

"We can take our things and head back up the mountain," Hank said.  He
thought he had the advantage over Mr.  Pendergast, and it was advantage
he was going to use.  It was the first time I ever seen Hank do that.
"Now hold on Mr.  Pendergast said again.

"We can do a lot better than live in this place on Gap Creek ' Hank
said.  His voice trembled, but I didn't know if he was really that mad.
Mr.  Pendergast heard the tremble in his voice.

"You can go if you want to:' Mr.  Pendergast said.

"I won't have you giving Julie orders Hank said.  "And I won't have you
interfering with us."

"I'll do what I damn well please in my own house," Mr.  Pendergast
said, his mood changing.

I seen Hank was caught, because we couldn't leave after living on Gap
Creek only one day.  We didn't have a place to go.  He had thought he
had the advantage of Mr.  Pendergast, but it turned out he didn't.  I
waited to see what he would say.

"If Julie has to look after this place we shouldn't have to pay for any
groceries Hank said.

"You don't have to pay for no groceries' Mr.  Pendergast said.  "But
I'll damn well say what I please in my house."

"You just be careful who you say it to," Hank said.

"And you watch out who you're talking to Mr.  Pendergast said.  But Mr.
PeDdergast and Hank had to stop, because even though they was mad,
neither could afford to quarrel anymore.  Mr.  Pendergast probably
couldn't find nobody else to look after his house and cook for him, and
Hank and me didn't have anyplace else to go.  Hank went back outside
without saying another word and Mr.  Pendergast set there looking at
the table in front of him, and he set that way till supper was ready.
IT WAS THE next week while I was doing the washing again that I heard a
voice around the front of the house.  I ignored it at first, thinking
maybe it was a crow calling across the creek or a fox barking in the
woods.  Sometimes a sound will carry a long way when the wind is
right.

"Piieendergaaassss!"  somebody called.  Something was wrong with the
voice.  It sounded all stretched and twisted.  "Piieendergaasss!"  it
said again, as if the person hollering couldn't talk plain.

As far as I knowed Mr.  Pendergast was in the house, setting at the
kitchen table where he had eat breakfast.  Surely he could hear the
voice if I could.

"Piieendergaaassss!"  the man yelled, as if he was strangling on the
name as he said it.

I started to run around the house to see who it was, but something
about the voice made me not want to go.  We didn't get many visitors
there on Gap Creek.  I hurried to the back door and looked in the
kitchen, but Mr.  Pendergast wasn't setting at the table.  I tried to
adjust my eyes to the dim light but didn't see him anywhere.

"Mr.  Pendergast I said, a little louder than a whisper.  I didn't want
whoever it was calling to hear me.

"Piieendergaasss!"  the man yelled from the front yard.

I started toward the living room to look through the window and see who
it was, but almost run into Mr.  Pendergast in the doorway.  He was
standing stooped over with his finger to his lips.

"They're calling for you I said.

"Shhhhhh Mr.  Pendergast said.  He looked like he was trying to shrink
into his self

"Piieendergaasss, I know where you arrrrrre," the voice hollered.

"Who is that?"  I said.  It didn't make sense for Mr.  Pendergast to be
hiding in his own house.  I stepped toward the window to look out.

"Don't let him see you," Mr.  Pendergast hissed.

"What does he want?"  I said.

"Piieendergaasss, you ooooowe me," the man shouted.

"It's just Timmy Gosnell," Mr.  Pendergast said, "on one of his
drunks."

There was a bang on the porch, like a rock or piece of iron had hit the
planks and rolled till it slammed the wall.  I had a cold, sour feeling
deep in my belly.

"Can't you ask him to leave?"  I said.

"He's drunk," Mr.  Pendergast said.  "And when Timmy's drunk he's
crazy."

"Piieendergaasss!"  the man screamed.  "You got to make it
riiiighghghttt ."

I leaned over to where I could look between the curtains.  The man in
the yard wore a long black coat with no buttons.  His overalls looked
like they was hanging on him by only one gall us  His hat resembled a
ragged bird perched on his head, and there was a cut on his forehead.
He leaned as though he was bracing his self against a hard wind and
shaded his eyes and stared at the window.

"Piieendergaasss!"  he yelled.

"Ain't you going to talk to him?"  I said to Mr.  Pendergast.

"Won't do no good Mr.  Pendergast said.  "You can't talk sense to Timmy
Gosnell when he's drunk."

The man in the yard picked up a rock and flung it at the door.  The
bang made my heart stop for a second.  I had not been around drunk men
very much.  Papa only took a little blackberry wine for his rheumatism.
And when one of the Willard boys got drunk and come around the house
Papa always persuaded him to go on home.

"Piieendergaasss," the man hollered, "when you die smoke will come out
of your graaaaaavvveee!"

"What does he mean?"  I said.

"He thinks I never paid him for some ginseng Mr.  Pendergast said.  "I
paid him, but he was too drunk to remember."

Another rock hit the front door.  The bang made something in the marrow
of my bones ache.  It was awful to stand in your own living room and be
hollered at.  "I'm going out there I said.

"Don't you go Mr.  Pendergast said.  "Timmy can be ugly when he's
drunk."

Lurching from one foot to the other Timmy Gosnell climbed the steps to
the porch.  There was a stick Mr.  Pendergast used as a walking stick
leaning against the door jamb, and the drunk man picked it up and
banged on the door.  It made a terrible racket, and the licks seemed to
shake the foundations of the house.

"Go way!"  Mr.  Pendergast hollered.

"Ssssssmoke will come out of your graaaavvveee!"  the drunk man yelled.
He beat on the wall like he was punishing the house.

"Ain't you going to do nothing?"  I said.  My breath was short and my
ears humming.

"You ooooowe me' Timmy Gosnell screamed.  He rapped on the wood like he
wanted to wake the dead on the faraway hill.  I couldn't take any more
of the rapping.  The noise tore something inside of me.  I marched to
the door and flung it open.  The drunk man staggered back in surprise
and dropped the stick.  He shaded his eyes to see who I was.

"You ain't Pieendergaasss he said.

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself," I hollered.  I was so mad, and
scared, I was trembling.  I could smell the drunk man in the breeze. He
stunk like soured fruit and foul rags and pee.  He shaded his eyes and
looked at me sideways, squinting.

"Are you Piendergaasss's whore?"  he said.

"You get away from here," I said.  I picked up the walking stick like I
was going to hit him with it.  I felt like swinging the stick right at
his grizzled face.

"Piieendergaasss is a coward," he said, "letting a wo-wo-woman take up
for him."  "You get away from here!"  I hollered.

The drunk man looked at the door and he looked at me, and he looked up
the road.  He acted like he couldn't remember where he was, or what he
was doing.  He looked at the ground like there might be a clue there.
Then he reached into the coat pocket and pulled out a bottle.  He
jerked out the stopper and took a drink, then put the bottle back in
the pocket.  "Piieendergaasss!"  he hollered.

"Go on now, get I said.  But I was shaking as I held the stick and
watched him stagger back to the road.  I didn't know what I would do if
he lunged at me, or swung at me.  He stopped once and started to say
something, then swept his hand like it wasn't any use and went on.  I
watched him lurch and reel all the way to the bend in the road .  WHEN
HANK GOT home I told him what happened, and he was so mad his face
turned white before it got red.  He wheeled around at Mr.  Pendergast.
"You mean you let him throw rocks at the house?"  Hank said.  "He
didn't break nothing I said.  "And you let Julie go out to deal with a
drunk man?"  Hank said.

"I begged her not to go Mr.  Pendergast said.  "I told her it wouldn't
do no good."

"I told him to go away, and he went I said.

Hank was so mad he walked up and down in the kitchen, slamming his fist
in his palm.  "I wish I'd been here he said.

"You can't talk sense to a drunk man Mr.  Pendergast said, "not to
Timmy Gosnell."

"Not if you hide in the house you can't Hank said.

"It didn't amount to much," I said.  I was sorry I had told Hank about
it.  "Next time I hope I'm here," Hank said.  "I hope you are Mr.
Pendergast said.  But I hoped Timmy Gosnell never did come back to Mr.
Pendergast's house.  And I noped that Hank would not be there if he
did.  "That man needs somebody to knock him sober," Hank said.  "And
you're just the man to do it Mr.  Pendergast said.

F.

Ive Hank had told me at the time we got married that his mama, Ma
Richards, would be coming down for a visit.  She was going to get a
ride down from Painter Mountain, and she was going to stay for several
weeks.  I had never met Ma Richards, and I was looking forward to her
visit, for I had not seen many women since we moved to Gap Creek.  It
was getting up toward late fall by then, toward hog-killing time.

One day Hank got a letter from his ma, scribbled with a pencil on
tablet paper.  "Hank, you come up here and get me on a Saturday," it
said.  "I'll be ready by ten o'clock."  That was the whole letter.

"How're you going to get her?"  I said.  For Hank didn't even have a
horse, much less a buggy or wagon.  He walked to work every day to the
mill at Lyman.  Mr.  Pendergast had an old mare with a bad foot, but
Hank doubted if she could make it up the mountain and back.  Tnere was
an old buggy in the barn, but it was buried under dust and harness and
other junk.

"You're going to have to write your ma and tell her you can't come:' I
said.  "She'll understand:'

"She's expecting me," Hank said, like there wasn't a choice.

We dug the buggy out from under the hay and trash and dusted it off.  I
got a bucket of warm water and a rag and washed the whole thing.  There
was a shaft broke, and Hank whittled a new one out of a hickory pole
and smoothed it with a piece of glass.  He took the wheels off and put
grease on the ends of the axles, then replaced spoke in one of the
wheels.

"Now all you need is a horse," I said.

"I have a horse Hank said.  He caught Mr.  Pendergast's mare out of the
pasture and showed me the sore on her right front foot.  It was a place
with pus coming out, right on the frog of her hoof.  "She'll just have
to go slow' he said.  "And besides, I'm going to put a sock on her
foot."

"What do you mean a sock?"

Hank took a piece of leather and put cotton inside it.  Then he tied
the leather around the mare's foot.  It looked like she had a swelled
hoof.  I DIDN'T EXPECT to be nervous because Ma Richards was coming for
a visit, but I was.  After Hank left before daylight to go to Painter
Mountain, I started thinking of all the stories I'd heard about
mothers-inlaw.  I had heard a hundred tales about how mean they was to
girls that marry their sons.  And I never had made a lot of friends
with women anyway.

All day while I waited for Hank to come back with his ma, I thought
about what I was going to say to her, and what she would think of my
cooking and housekeeping.  I had fixed up the bedroom upstairs next to
ours, cleared out all the dust and rags and cardboard boxes, and went
up to the attic to look for a single bed.  Mr.  Pendergast said the bed
was there, but when I climbed up to the loft there was such a mess I
couldn't see the bed at first.  There was fruit jars and old chairs,
and cobwebs hanging from everything.  There was some roots hanging from
rafters that I thought was ginseng.  But everything was covered with
dust.

When I finally found the little bed I had to scour it with soap and
water.  And I washed the floor in the little bedroom and the one window
and hung curtains there.  Mr.  Pendergast watched me and didn't say
much.  Since the quarrel with Hank the second night, he had been a
little quieter, though he still liked to snap at me from time to time.
Some days he didn't get out of bed until after noon.  When he set at
the table in the kitchen while I was working, he complained that he
didn't have no relations but his stepchildren, and they never come to
see him.

"How long has it been since Mrs.  Pendergast died?"  I said.

"Four years," Mr.  Pendergast said.  "And I ain't seen my stepyounguns
since the funeral."

I was not good at waiting for somebody When I'm waiting I get flustered
and hot and think about all the things that could go wrong.  And the
more nervous I am, the more I worry and get aggravated.  When I'm
waiting time slows down till it mocks me.  When I keep waiting for
somebody to come I feel like I'm going to fall to pieces.  The only
thing to do is not wait at all, but to get on with whatever you're
doing.

After I fixed up the bedroom for Ma Richards, I killed a chicken and
plucked and dressed it for supper.  And while the chicken was frying, I
baked some biscuits and made an apple pie out of Northern apples from a
tree beside the pasture.  I was worried about my cooking because Rosie
had always done the cooking at home.  I never really had learned to
cook except what I taught myself.

I set the table and Mr.  Pendergast come into the kitchen and set down
by the stove when it got dark.  I left the chicken on the stove with a
lid on to keep it from drying out, and took the biscuits out of the pan
and put a cloth over them to keep them warm.  The clock said it was
past six.  "Maybe they been killed Mr.  Pendergast said.  "Bad luck to
say such things I said.

I heard a noise outside and run to the window.  But it was somebody
else going by in a wagon.

"Won't do no good to watch for them," Mr.  Pendergast said.

"What will do some good?"  I said.

"They may have run off the mountain," Mr.  Pendergast said.

Instead of waiting for his supper, Mr.  Pendergast got the jar of
molasses and had his self some hot biscuits with butter and molasses. 
It was one of his favorite things to eat.  I just hoped he didn't eat
up all the biscuits before Hank and Ma Richards arrived.

"We always look forward to people coming," Mr.  Pendergast said, "then
look forward to their leaving."

Finally it was near seven o'clock when somebody opened the door, and
there was Hank in the lamplight and this little dried-up looking woman
beside him.  Because Hank was a big man I expected Ma Richards to be
big too.  But she was built like a banty hen, with black eyes and a
sharp chin.  Her head was tied up in a scarf and she stalked into the
room like she was claiming it for her own.

"I'm cold and I'm so hungry my backbone has rubbed a blister on my
ribs," she said.  She walked around the kitchen looking at shelves and
at the stove and bread safe.

"We're mighty proud to have you come," I said.  I didn't know whether
to hold out my hand or not.  She looked at me and said, "You're not as
tall as I expected."  I had just thought how short she was, but I
didn't say nothing.

"This is Mr.  Pendergast," Hank said.  Mr.  Pendergast stopped eating
and wiped his hand on his pants.  But when he held it out Ma Richards
didn't take it.

"Are you the Pendergast that was run over by a horse?"  Ma Richards
said.

"That was my brother," Mr.  Pendergast said.  "He's been dead twenty
years."

Ma run her finger along a shelf and then looked to see if there was
dust on it.  She lifted the lid of the pan of chicken and steam come
out of the pan.  "Why don't we have something to eat?"  I said.

"I'm so cold I need a cup of coffee," Ma said.

"It won't take but a minute to boil coffee," I said.

"Is the beans already ground?"  Ma said.

"No, but won't take a second to grind them," I said.  "If you can wait
that long."

"Good, for I don't like stale coffee," Ma said.  Ma acted so demanding
and uppity I couldn't hardly believe it.  I wanted to tell her she
should have brought her own coffee, but I held my tongue.

Hank and Ma set down at the table with Mr.  Pendergast.  I took a
lantern out on the back porch and ground some coffee beans.  After I
come back in and started the coffee to boiling I set down at the
table.

"A woman should always be ready for her guests," Ma Richards said.  She
put butter and then molasses on a biscuit.  "She should know what they
will need," she said.

"I'm sorrg' I said.  I don't know why I said I was sorry.  It just come
out.  I guess I was too mad to say how I really felt.  I'd had
everything ready for over an hour.

"We was late because an axle broke Hank said.

"We're lucky we wasn't killed," Ma Richards said.  She held a spoon up
and looked at it in the lamplight.  I was glad I had polished all the
silver.

"I had to patch it up with a hickory stick," Hank said.

"Never been so scared in my life," Ma Richards said.  "We was on the
edge of a cliff when the buggy wheel broke.  Where did you get that
buggy?"

"It belonged to my pa," Mr.  Pendergast said.

"Are you sure it wasn't your grandpa?"  Ma Richards said and laughed.
Mr.  Pendergast laughed with her.

After I set down at the table, with Ma Richards at the end where I
usually set, Hank said a longer blessing than usual.  And it was more
politely said too.  "Lord make us truly thankful and worthy .  ," he
begun.  I thought how careful he was around his ma.  She was such a
tiny woman, and yet Hank acted like a little boy trying to please
her.

"I'm so upset I don't think I have any appetite' Ma Richards said when
the blessing was over I passed her the platter of chicken and she took
a drumstick.  She held it up in the lamplight and looked at the crust,
which had got damp from waiting so long in the pan.

"A crust won't stay crisp if there's too much flour on the skin ' she
said.

I was going to say it was waiting so long in the pan that made the
crust soggy, but I stopped myself.  I didn't want to sound like was
arguing with Ma Richards.  She was not only my mother-in-law, she was
my guest.  And I was just learning to cook.

Ma took a biscuit and sliced it.  The biscuit had got a little soft
from waiting under the cloth also.  Ma held the biscuit half up in the
lamplight.  "A biscuit that ain't cooked long enough will never be
crisp:' she said.  I felt my face get hot.  Ma Richards was testing me
in front of Hank and Mr.  Pendergast.  I wasn't going to let her get my
goat.  I passed her the rice and the green beans.  I passed her the
butter and molasses.  I seen the coffee was boiling and got up and
poured her a cup.  I asked Mr.  Pendergast if he wanted any

"Couldn't sleep for a week if I had coffee for supper," he said.

"Anybody with a clear conscience can sleep," Ma Richards said.

Mr.  Pendergast started to answer but then couldn't seem to think of
what to say.  He couldn't admit his conscience wasn't clear, and he
couldn't argue that it was.  Ma had made a statement that was
unanswerable.  I set down at the table again and helped myself to the
rice.

Ma Richards took a sip of her coffee like she was testing it.  "Is this
the house where a woman died of TB?"  she said.

"That was my wife Mr.  Pendergast said.

"I heard she was sick a long time," Ma said.

"Nigh on to three years."

Ma looked around the kitchen like she expected to see Mrs.  Pendergast
still there, in one of the dark corners.  "I hear germs from TB will
stay in a house for years:' she said.

"No germs has bothered me Mr.  Pendergast said.

"What room did she die in?"  Ma said.  She sipped the coffee and took a
bite of biscuit and molasses.

"The front bedroom," Mr.  Pendergast said, "where I still sleep."

"You've been a lucky man' Ma said.  She took a bite of her chicken then
put the drumstick back on the plate and spread more molasses on a
biscuit.

"How did your husband die?"  Mr.  Pendergast said, his mouth full of
chicken.

Ma Richards looked at Mr.  Pendergast like he was accusing her of
something.  She spread the molasses careful and then took a bite of the
biscuit.  "Died setting on the porch," she said.  "He was helping me to
churn and just pitched forward into the yard.  The churn spilled all
over the place and chickens run to peck the clabber."

"Died of a stroke?"  Mr.  Pendergast said.

"Died of a stroke or a heart attack," Ma Richards said.

"Must have eat wrong," Mr.  Pendergast said.

"He eat what I fixed him," Ma said, "which was plain, wholesome
fare."

"I had a warning that Pa was going to die," Hank said.

"What kind of warning?"  Mr.  Pendergast said.

"My brother Russ and me was setting on the milk gap waiting for Pa to
come back from mill' Hank said.  "It was getting late, where the air
has got gold in it, and it was time for Pa to be home.  We was looking
down across the pasture and I seen Pa coming up the slope.  Except he
wasn't wearing overalls, but a new suit of clothes.  And I thought, He
must have been to town and bought a new suit."

"Was you dreaming?"  Mr.  Pendergast said.

"Russ seen him too," Hank said.  "If it was a dream we was both
dreaming it.  We watched Pa walk across the pasture, and when he got
close enough to speak I was going to say how come you have got a new
suit.  But just when I opened my mouth he was gone."

"Where did he go?"  I said.

"He just disappeared Hank said.  "Both Russ and me had seen him, and
then he just vanished in the evening air."

"And you never seen him again?"  Mr.  Pendergast said.

"We looked around all over the place," Hank said.  "And after a few
minutes we seen Pa coming across the pasture again.  Except this time
he was wearing his overalls and his old black hat and carrying the sack
of corn on his shoulder."

"And he didn't know nothing about the suit of clothes?"  I said.

"We asked him about the suit, and he thought we was just fooling him
Hank said.

"And you never did explain it?"  Mr.  Pendergast said.

"We never could figure it out Hank said.  "But a few weeks later Pa
died all of a sudden.  It was a portent, but we didn't know how to
cipher it."

"The Lord sends us a warning," Ma said, "but we ain't listening."

"There was a portent before Pa died' Hank said, "and one after."

"What do you mean after?"  Mr.  Pendergast said.

"Uncle Calvin seen Pa after he died," Hank said.  "I low could he see
him?"  Mr.  Pendergast said.

"After Pa was dead and buried, Uncle Calvin seen him in church at
Sunday service, setting in his usual seat," Hank said.  "He was setting
in the Amen Corner and he was singing like he always did ."

"Did he speak to him?"  Mr.  Pendergast said.

"After the service he was gone," Hank said.  "Except Uncle Calvin seen
him there the next Sunday, and the next.  But after three Sundays he
didn't see him again."

"It was a sign Ma Richards said.

"A sign of what?"  Mr.  Pendergast said.

"A sign of how much he hated to leave us, even to be with the Lord," Ma
said.  "It was a sign he will always be watching over us."  Ma took her
handkerchief out of her sleeve and dabbed at her eye.  Then she
replaced the handkerchief and begun to butter another biscuit.

"I think the dead are watching us all the time Mr.  Pendergast said.

"Of course they are:' Ma Richards said.  "That's why we should be
careful what we do and what we say.  They are with the Lord and
watching over us.  At least some are with the Lord."

"We don't know a tenth of what there is to know' Mr.  Pendergast said.
"Why we don't even know a sixth."

The kitchen was so hot I had to go outside.  I went out to the back
porch to get the pie I'd put there to cool.  Soon as I opened the door
I felt the cold wind.  It was good to get out of the kitchen, but I
hurried back in with the apple pie and took off the lid.

"That wind has ice in it," Ma Richards said.

"If it comes a freeze we should kill the hog Mr.  Pendergast said.

"It would have to be a Saturday for me to help:' Hank said.

"You help me butcher the hog, I'll split the meat with you:' Mr.
Pendergast said.

"I'll help you out," Hank said.  "And Julie can too."  He sounded just
like Papa or Mama back at home.  If there was heavy work it just
naturally fell to me.  But we sure needed the meat.

"I can help," I heard myself say IT WAS ON a Monday that I helped Mr.
Pendergast kill and butcher his hog.  Hank had to work at the brick
kiln in Lyman, or he would have stayed and done the heavy work.  The
killing had to be done when there was a freeze.  Then after the meat
was salted down in the smokehouse it didn't matter if the weather
turned warm again.

"You shouldn't ask a girl to help butcher hogs," Ma Richards said that
morning.

"I always helped Papa," I said.  "Wasn't nobody else to help."  I
didn't like to butcher hogs, but if it had to be done I might as well
go ahead and do it.  And I didn't want to take any advice from Ma
Richards.

"Hog killing's no work for a girl Ma said, like she expected that to be
the end of it.  She was used to giving orders and having her sons obey
them.  Hank didn't argue with her so I didn't either.

"Maybe you could wait till Saturday' Hank said to Mr.  Pendergast.

"The weather may have warmed up by then' Mr.  Pendergast said.

"I can help today:' I said, and didn't even look at Ma Richards.

Hank had to leave at daylight, and I got up to fix grits and gravy and
eggs.  I packed a dinner bucket full of biscuits and boiled eggs, and
before Hank left Ma Richards opened the bucket to see what was in it.
"A man working all day has got to have some belly timber' Ma said, and
she looked at me when she said it.

Soon as we eat our grits and gravy and Mr.  Pendergast eat his poached
egg, he took his rifle out to the hog pen  He had laid down scalding
boards by the wash pot the day before.

"Be easier to shoot the hog by the scalding boards Ma Richards said.

"If you know how to lead a filthy hog you're welcome to do it ' Mr.
Pendergast said.

There was a frost that made the grass white as shavings of coconut.  I
had put on a coat and gloves.  My breath smoked in the first light of
dawn.  Puddles had a paper of ice on them.  In the cold, still air you
didn't smell the stink of the hog pen till you got close beside it.  Ma
Richards stayed back in the kitchen.

I didn't look while Mr.  Pendergast shot the hog in the head.  Instead,
I started a fire under the wash pot and piled on wood to make it hot. 
I carried several buckets from the spring and filled the pot.  And I
sharpened two butcher knives, and two paring knives for the scraping. A
small thin blade is always better for scraping the hair of a hog.

A shot cracked in the first light and when I got to the pen Mr.
Pendergast was tying a string to one leg of the hog laying on its side.
He had slit the throat and dark blood was pooling on the mud.  There
was nothing for me to do but wade into the filth and tie another rope
to the other hind leg.

It took both me and Mr.  Pendergast pulling on the ropes to drag the
hog over the froze ground to the scalding boards.  The way a hog is
soft and quivery it spreads on the ground and is hard to drag.  The
water in the pot was beginning to boil and send a column of steam up
into the sky There was no wind, and the steam and smoke rose straight
up into the air.  I dipped a bucket into the water and splashed it over
the hog.  The carcass spread out its fat on the boards, and the water
smoked wherever it splashed and spilled onto the ground.

After I had scalded one side and scraped it clean we rolled the hog
over.  The body shook like jelly, and the eye stared blue in the first
sunlight.  I dumped several more buckets of water on the hide and bent
over to shave away the hair that was left.  I always hated the stink of
hog bristles and scalded skin.  It's a stench of half-boiled flesh and
wet hairs.  I scraped and cleaned the knife on the corner of a board,
and scraped some more.  Mr.  Pendergast stood by the fire and watched.
I seen that by "helping," he had meant for me to do the work.  He
seemed so short of breath, maybe there wasn't much else he could do.

Now after a hog is scraped comes the real work.  What goes before is
just the start.  With the hog scalded down and shaved, I took a butcher
knife and slit the shanks of the back feet so there was room between
the bones and the tendons.  Then we drug the hog over to a pole leaning
in the forks of an apple tree.  I fitted a gambrel stick over the pole
and stuck the sharpened ends through the slits in the hog's hind legs.
It took both me and Mr.  Pendergast to push the gambrel stick up the
pole, sliding wood on wood until the hog was hanging off the ground.
Then I tied the gambrel stick to the fork of the tree, and it was time
to get to work.

Taking a sharpened butcher knife, I drove it into the fat of the hog's
belly, but not too deep.  I didn't want to cut any of the guts inside.
I'd always hated butchering hogs, and here I was married and doing it
again.  Slicing through the skin and fat I brought the blade right down
the hog from one end of the belly to the other And then with the axe I
chopped through the breastbone.  Hot guts started falling out, and I
had to push them back until we got the tub underneath.  Then with my
sleeves rolled up I raked the smoking guts into the tub, the slick
coils of entrails, intestines like blisters and bubbles of manure with
big worms inside, as well as liver, heart, lungs, stomach.  I took the
axe and finished splitting the chest bone and then raked out the rest
of the innards.

It took both me and Mr.  Pendergast to lug the tub into the garden to
bury the guts.  They had a sickening smell of blood and manure.  I had
blood up to my elbows.  "Never seen a woman work like you Mr.
Pendergast said.  "Work ain't nothing but work," I said.  Now THE NEXT
job was to cut off the head.  I knowed Hank liked fried hog brains, so
I meant to save the brains.  I took the butcher knife and carved off
the head down to the spine, and then I chopped through the bones with
the axe.  The head was so heavy I could just barely carry it over to
the wash table.  The skull would have to be cracked later.

The sun was high over the ridge and making everything gold by the time
I started carving up the carcass.  First I had to cut off the
shoulders, which you can leave whole, like hams, and put in the
smokehouse.  Next you have to section the belly and back into middlings
and loins.  With the axe I hacked through ribs and backbone.  Bits of
fat and blood and bones splattered on my clothes.

"Look at you somebody said behind me.  It was Ma Richards, who had
brought a dishpan out to the wash table.  I thought how easy it would
be to swing the axe at her.  But I was quick ashamed of such a thought.
I had to watch myself, cause I got riled while working hard.

"We'll need every pan and bucket in the house," I said.

For the fine work of cutting ribs and tenderloin along the back I got a
saw from the barn and sawed up the ribs in sections about four inches
long.  But instead of sawing up pork chops I sliced out the tenderloin
so it could be fried in thin pieces without the bone.

The last job, except for salting the hams and shoulders and ha coIl was
to separate the fat from the meat underneath.  With a paring knife I
carved off the streaked bacon we would need for cooking.  And I sliced
the fat into sections between six inches wide and a foot long.  My
hands got so greasy they wouldn't hardly hold knife.  I heaped up three
tubs with chunks of fat.

"I'll start dicing up the fat as soon as somebody brings it in the
kitchen," Ma Richards said.

"I can't carry no bucket of fat Mr.  Pendergast said.

It took both me and Mr.  Pendergast to wrestle the tubs and dish pans
of fat to the kitchen table.  It appeared dark as a cave in the house
after the blinding sunlight.

Mr.  Pendergast got a box of salt from the smokehouse and we sprinkled
down the hams and shoulders and slabs of bacon before we carried them
to the shelves of the smokehouse.  We crusted the meat on every side
with salt.  When we was finished I looked at the mess around the
scalding boards.  The fire was smoldering in the sun and swatches of
scraped hair was scattered on the grass.  There was blood and bits of
fat and skin on the table.  Bloody buckets and tubs and knives laid in
the grass.  I could still smell the guts and scalded skin.

My hands was greasy and bloody.  I walked down to the branch and washed
up as best I could.  It was time to carry the tenderloin and ribs into
the house.  It was time to render the lard and make sausage.  I had
been working since before daylight, and it was way past dinnertime.  MA
RICHARDS HAD put three canners on the kitchen table, and she had
started dicing up the tubs and dish pans of pork fat.  "I'd about as
soon die as render any more lard," she said.  Her hands was already
shiny with grease.  "I can do it myself I said.  "Don't be so proud." 
Ma said.  "It'll take us both to finish by dark."

I was going to tell Ma it wasn't exactly pride that made me work so
hard, but I didn't.  "I'll fry up some tenderloin and make grits for
dinner," I said.  One of the pleasures of hog killing was to have fresh
meat.  I was hungry I throwed more wood in the stove and sliced some of
the tenderloin into a pan.  Then I put on water to boil for grits.  Mr.
Pendergast wandered into the kitchen.  "Ain't we going to have dinner?"
 he said.

"Won't be but a minute I said.  There was just a little cold coffee in
the pot and I throwed it out in the backyard.  While the meat was
frying and the grits boiling, I ground some more beans on the back
porch.  I was so tired my arms felt a little numb.  I just wanted to
set down and rest.  It would be only two or three hours before Hank got
home and was ready for his supper.  But I would be working long past
that, rendering the hog fat down into lard.

When you're tired it's like all the force in the world works against
you.  Takes extra effort just to do little things.  You feel it takes
willpower just to breathe.  If Ma Richards said something snide, I
didn't know but what I'd bust into tears.

"They's streaks in this fat Ma Richards said.

"A streak won't hurt the lard Mr.  Pendergast said.

"It's a waste of bacon Ma said.

"We've got plenty of bacon I said.

"It's a waste; that's all I'm saying," Ma said.

"I'll try to do better next time I said, as dry as I could.  The
tiredness made me slow and calmer than I expected.  I turned over the
slices of tenderloin and stirred the grits.  The coffee started to
boil.

"Nothing smells better than fresh tenderloin' Mr.  Pendergast said. The
fresh meat, as it crackled and turned brown, smelled sweeter than any
pastry.  Fresh meat has a perfume of its own.  The steam that went up
from the pan of tenderloin filled the kitchen with a golden flavor,
mixed with fumes of the boiling coffee.  The smells made me a little
light-headed, and out of myself.

When I cleared a space at the table and put the grits and tenderloin
there, Mr.  Pendergast brought a chair from the corner and set down.  I
poured three cups of coffee and put down three plates with knives and
forks.  Mr.  Pendergast helped his self to a slice of tenderloin.  I
put butter on the table and set down myself.

"Only heathens eat without asking a blessing' Ma Richards said.

"You say the blessing," I said to her.  As far as I knowed Mr.
Pendergast wasn't a praying man.  At least I had never heard him pray.
Some men will pray out loud and some won't.

Ma bowed her head and closed her eyes.  "Lord, make us thankful she
said.  "Forgive our forgetfulness and unworthiness.  Punish our faults,
but forgive our sinfulness, for we are all black sinners inside.  And
forgive the folly of youth, and the foolishness of old age."

There was no doubt Ma was referring to my youth and folly in her
prayer, but you can't argue with what a body says in a prayer.  What
they say in prayer is between them and the Lord.  I passed the
tenderloin to Ma and then took a slice for myself.  I had browned the
meat till it was gold and crisp on the outside, but white and tender on
the inside.  The meat was so tender it almost melted when you bit down
on it.  I put butter on the hot grits and stirred it in.  I had warmed
some biscuits left over from breakfast in the oven and sliced one of
them and put butter on it.

"Nothing's better than grits and tenderloin," Mr.  Pendergast said. And
it was true.  The fresh meat went perfect with the taste of grits and
butter.  I poured a little milk into the coffee and took a sip.  The
coffee taste was different from the sweetness of the meat and grits and
went just right with them.

"This coffee is too strong Ma Richards said.

"You can put some milk in it Mr.  Pendergast said.

Ma stirred butter into her grits and took a bite, but she didn't say
nothing.  I thought she kind of grunted with the pleasure of the taste.
She cut off a piece of tenderloin and put it in her mouth, but still
she didn't say nothing.

I took a sip of coffee and felt the brightness of the coffee in my
belly and in my veins.  The grits and butter and meat and biscuits was
making me warm inside.  But the coffee made the air in the kitchen seem
shiny and cool, and even the buckets of fat looked clean.

"I never got enough tenderloin Mr.  Pendergast said.

"Tenderloin is better with gravy," Ma Richards said.  But she kept
eating the grits with butter

"Tenderloin is good with anything Mr.  Pendergast said.

I got another helping of grits and a second slice of meat.  It was hard
to believe this golden flavor had been the smelly hog just a few hours
before.  I tried to forget the smell of scalded hair and skin.

"Best hog meat is fattened on acorns:' Mr.  Pendergast said.  "When
hogs run loose they tasted better."

"I don't remember tenderloin tasting better than this," Ma Richards
said.

"We could gather acorns and bring them to the hog I said.

"It would take a week to pick up a bushel of acorns," Mr.  Pendergast
said.

"They used to kill pigeons and feed them to hogs Ma Richards said.
"Back when there was millions of pigeons come through every year Of
course that was before my time."

"Before my time too," Mr.  Pendergast said.  He had grease on his chin,
but he didn't stop to wipe it off.

I felt like eating was the best thing there was.  People eating
together felt bound to each other, like it says in the Bible about the
breaking of bread.

"I went all the way through the war without any pork to speak of," Ma
Richards said.

"I did too, except that we would steal a hog from a farm we was passing
Mr.  Pendergast said.

"That's why we didn't have meat Ma said.  "The bushwhackers stole our
hogs."

"We wasn't bushwhackers," Mr.  Pendergast said.  "The army had nothing
but a little cornmeal to give us."

Since I was a little girl I'd heard stories about the Confederate War.
I wanted to think about something more pleasant.  "Times is better now'
I said.

"Times was worse after the war was over' Ma said.  She helped herself
to more grits.  "When Fate come back from the army and we got married,
we didn't have a dollar between us.  We took up housekeeping in the
cabin on Painter Mountain without a horse or cow.  For a long time I
cooked soup in the wash pan  We had to borrow Fate's daddy's horse just
to break a garden.  I had to make coffee in the water bucket.  And
everybody else was near about as poor."

I had not heard Ma talk so much.  It was the sweet tenderloin and grits
and coffee making her feel better than herself.  Her tongue was
loosened and softened.

"For ten years after the war you couldn't find a nickel Ma said.
"People traded work and paid each other in kind.  I finally got me half
a dozen hens and it was their eggs I traded for coffee and sugar.  We
didn't have nothing else but what we raised.  When Dave come along we
still didn't have a cow.  By the time Hank was born the worst was
over."

"Hank said he was born little I said.

"Didn't weigh much more than two pounds Ma said.  "He come almost two
months early.  It's a miracle he ever lived," She took another slice of
tenderloin and a sip of coffee.  And she buttered a biscuit.  "Nobody
expected him to live.  I don't reckon he ever would have except for the
sugar tit

"What kind of sugar tit  I said.

"It was just a rag dipped in milk or dipped in honey we'd let him suck
on.  I'd soak it in a little chicken broth and let him suck it.  That's
what kept him alive.  He was the littlest of my younguns, and he growed
up to be the biggest man."

"I've knowed it to happen with dogs Mr.  Pendergast said.  "The
runtiest of the litter will grow into the biggest of the pack."

"The Lord has his own way of doing things Ma said.

"Hank sure don't look like a runt I said.

"I spoiled Hank because he was so little Ma said.  "I fed him better
and never made him work hard as the other boys.  That's why he growed
up so big."

"Hank works hard I said.

"He works hard, but he don't finish what he starts," Ma said.  "He
loses his temper too easy.  The hard work is staying with a job till
it's done."

I wanted to stand up for Hank, but I didn't know what to say Ma
Richards had knowed him longer than I had.  And I didn't want to argue
while we was eating.  "Hank is working mighty hard at the brick kiln,"
I said.

"And we're working mighty hard at hog killing Ma Richards said.

I don't know what brought us together in such a fine fellowship unless
it was just the tenderloin and grits and coffee, and maybe the work of
hog killing.  But it was like we formed a special kinship in the
kitchen, at the table piled with tubs and dish pans full of pork fat.
Maybe it was the tiredness that made me a little light-headed, and the
prospect of all the work ahead.

"If there's anything better than fresh tenderloin the good Lord kept it
for his self Mr.  Pendergast said, like it was something he had said
before.  But like all familiar sayings, it had truth in it.

"The good Lord made the world so we could earn our joy," Ma said.  "But
it's no guarantee we'll ever be happy."

"There's no guarantee of anything except we're going to die," Mr.
Pendergast said.

"Let's start rendering lard," I said.  IT WAS TIME to get to work.  The
sun was halfway down the sky and Ma had only started dicing up the fat.
I carried our plates out to the back porch where I'd wash them later.
And then I got a paring knife and sharpened it on the stone Hank kept
beside his razor strop.

You cut up fat by slicing it in slabs.  And the slabs you put on a
board and slice ten times one way and then ten times the other.  That
way you end up with little boxes of fat that will cook down quicker
than big chunks.  With the knife as sharp as I could make it, I started
cutting.  I dr awed the blade through the white jelly flesh again and
again.  And soon as I had the little pieces cut I scooped them up and
dumped them in the canner.

After the canner was mostly full I set it on the cook stove which was
already hot.  Then I throwed more wood in the stove and started cutting
up more fat.  I figured there would be three full canners to render
down.  That would give us maybe ten buckets of lard and enough
cracklings for crackling bread all winter.

Now when hog fat begins to heat up the little cubes start to sweat.
They get bright with oil drops and glisten as they melt.  The oil just
melts out of them and the pot steams and bubbles as it comes to a boil.
Ain't nothing dangerous as rendering lard because of all that hot
grease on a stove.  A pot gets tipped over it will burn you up.  If the
grease falls in the fire it will explode.  You know the saying' The fat
is in the fire.  Fat'll flare up like kerosene.

But the main thing I worried about was getting burned by the grease.
For sometimes a canner of rendering lard would spit out a gob and burn
you.  Or if you knocked the pot it would splash out faster than boiling
water and burn you alive.  I had been rendering lard every year with
Mama and I knowed how uneasy boiling grease was.  "SET THE CANNER
further back on the stove," Ma Richards said.  All the good feeling
from the dinner table was gone from her voice.  "I've got to leave room
to set the other one on," I said.

"You won't need room if that tips over on you," Ma snapped.  She had
changed back to her old self.

Instead of answering I started carving up more fat at the table.  I
sliced twenty times this way and twenty times crossways.  The fat
sliced easy as clotted cream or thick jelly My left hand was so slick
with grease I couldn't pick up anything but the blocks of fat.  I raked
the knife across the board harder than I needed to, to show how
determined I was to get the job done and ignore Ma.

There was a little blood on the fat and on the board also, and I hardly
noticed when I felt a nip at the end of my middle finger as held a slab
down to slice it.  But when I saw the bright blood on the white fat I
knowed I'd cut myself.  A drop fell from the end of my finger, and then
another.  "Oh no I said.

"What have you done?"  Ma said.

"Just a nick," I said.

"Don't get blood on the lard fat Ma said.

I grabbed a dishcloth and wiped the grease off my finger.  I'd cut a
place on the tip about the size of a pinhead.  But it kept bleeding
bright red drops.  I cleaned off the left hand with the cloth and tore
a strip from a fresh linen rag.  I bound up the finger as best I could
to stop the bleeding.

"That's what comes of being in a hurry' Ma said.

"I'll have to be more careful," I said.  I wasn't going to take the
time to get mad at Ma, and I wasn't going to stoop to the level of her
snideness.  With the bandage on my finger I finished slicing up the
second pan of fat and then lugged the heavy canner to the top of the
stove.  But as I slid the container onto the stovetop I pushed it too
far to the right and hit the canner already there.  The boiling fat
rocked like a wave had been sent through it.  I backed away and seen a
tongue of boiling lard spit up and over the rim as the wave sloshed on
the side of the canner.  The flung grease hissed on the stovetop and
turned to crackling bubbles and smoke.  But there must have been enough
grease so that some of it busted into flame, for I seen fire on top of
the stove.  That might not have amounted to nothing, except the rocking
and sloshing continued in the canner and the hot oil spit out again and
leapt right into the flames.  With a whoosh the fire flared on the
stovetop.  I think it would still have been all right and just burned
there sizzling on the metal except little more grease sloshed out of
the pot and the fire caught onto that and followed the splash back into
the pot.  That was when the fire blazed up in the canner itself.  All
the hot oil caught at once and the flames jumped to the ceiling,
lighting the kitchen.  "Oh my god Ma said.

I looked around for something to throw on the flames.  There wasn't a
blanket or quilt anywhere.  There wasn't anything bigger than a dish
towel.

Now a grease fire is a worse kind of fire than usual.  A grease fire
hisses and jumps from one spot to another.  There was grease all over
the stove and all over the kitchen.  The flames darted from one spot to
another.

Ma run out to the back porch and got the water bucket.  I'd heard that
throwing water on boiling grease is the worst thing you can do, and I
hollered for her to stop.  But she flung the bucket of water right onto
the flaming pot.  You would think cold water would put a fire out, but
the dousing exploded in a hiss and made the boiling lard splash in all
directions.  The flames followed the leap of the splash.  The water
just spread the fire.  Flames landed on the second canner of fat and on
the dish pans full of fat on the table.  The whole kitchen seemed to
turn to flames before my eyes.  The curtains on the wall caught fire,
and heat blistered my face.

"We'll have to get out," I yelled to Ma.  I pulled her toward the back
door.  Smoke was already so thick you couldn't see much but the flames
in the kitchen.

Mr.  Pendergast come running in with another bucket of water.  I guess
he must have been to the spring.  "Don't throw no water' I hollered.
But he flung the water right on the fire, making even more smoke and
steam.

"I've got to get my money' he shouted.

"What money?"  I said.  It was so hot I could barely stand in the
doorway

"My pension money' he yelled.

"You come back," I said, and grabbed at his arm.  But he had already
jerked away He dropped to the floor and crawled under the smoke.  I
knelt down where I could see, out of the worst smoke, and watched him
work his way to the right of the stove.

"Get back here I hollered.

"You better stop him!"  Ma screamed.

I knowed Mr.  Pendergast kept a can of kerosene sometimes used to start
fires behind the stove, but I had forgot about it.  He reached into the
corner behind the wood box and brought out a pint jar.  And I think he
would have made it out except for this explosion that flared up behind
the stove.  It must have been the kerosene catching fire.  I screamed
as the flames covered Mr.  Pendergast up.

"Let him go," Ma shouted.  But I couldn't just leave Mr.  Pendergast
laying there in the fire.  I had to try to help him.  He was screaming
and the fire seemed to be right on top of his head.

"Take his foot' I hollered to Ma, but she was already out the door and
on the back steps coughing and trying to get her breath.  "Grab hold of
his foot," I said.

I took hold of Mr.  Pendergast's feet and yanked as hard as I could,
and he moved a little.  I was coughing too and felt smothered from the
smoke.  I jerked harder and got Mr.  Pendergast halfway out the door.
And then Ma took one of his feet and helped me pull him onto the
porch.

Mr.  Pendergast's hair was burning, and part of his shirt was burning.
I didn't have nothing but my apron, and I put my apron over his hair
and snuffed out the flames.  I burned my hands a little, but got the
fire out.  And just then Ma brought a bucket of water still warm from
the wash pot and throwed it on his shirt.  We rolled Mr.

Pendergast over on the wet porch and seen how bad his face and forehead
was burned.  The skin looked black on his forehead and scalp where his
hair had been.  His eyebrows was burned off and the skin on his cheeks
looked red and peeling, and bloody in places under the soot.

I was thinking we had to put something on his face and on his back
where his shirt had burned.  What you put on burns is butter or lard or
some other kind of grease or oil.  There was butter in the spring
house, but the lard was burning up in the kitchen.  And then I thought,
No, I'd better try to put the fire out first.  If I can I've got to
save the house.  I stood up and looked in the door.

"You stay out of there," Ma Richards hollered.  "Nothing you can do.

Smoke poured out the door and out the windows.  You couldn't see
nothing in the kitchen.  I couldn't even see any flames.  That made me
think nothing was burning but the lard, and maybe that could be put
out.  I looked around the porch and seen a pile of tow sacks by the
hoes and shovel and mattock.  They had been used I guess for taking
corn to mill or carrying leaves to put in cow stalls.  I grabbed up
eight or ten sacks and run to the wash pot

"What are you doing?"  Ma Richards called.

"Putting out the fire," I hollered back.  I plunged the sacks into the
pot and pulled them out streaming warm water.  With my arms around the
dripping sacks I run toward the back door.

"You stay out of there Ma yelled.

I leaped up the steps and run past Mr.  Pendergast into the smoking
kitchen.  The smoke was so thick I couldn't see much.  Bending close to
the floor I walked to the stove and throwed wet sacks on.  Mr.
Pendergast come running in with another bucket of water.  I guess he
must have been to the spring.  "Don't throw no water," I hollered But
he flung the water right on the fire, making even more smoke and
steam.

"I've got to get my money," he shouted.

"What money?"  I said.  It was so hot I could barely stand in the
doorway.

"My pension money," he yelled.

"You come back," I said, and grabbed at his arm.  But he had already
jerked away.  He dropped to the floor and crawled under the smoke.  I
knelt down where I could see, out of the worst smoke, and watched him
work his way to the right of the stove.

"Get back here," I hollered.

"You better stop him!"  Ma screamed.

I knowed Mr.  Pendergast kept a can of kerosene sometimes used to start
fires behind the stove, but I had forgot about it.  He reached into the
corner behind the wood box and brought out a pint jar.  And I think he
would have made it out except for this explosion that flared up behind
the stove.  It must have been the kerosene catching fire.  I screamed
as the flames covered Mr.  Pendergast up.

"Let him go," Ma shouted.  But I couldn't just leave Mr.  Pendergast
laying there in the fire.  I had to try to help him.  He was screaming
and the fire seemed to be right on top of his head.

"Take his foot," I hollered to Ma, but she was already out the door and
on the back steps coughing and trying to get her breath.  "Grab hold of
his foot," I said.

I took hold of Mr.  Pendergast's feet and yanked as hard as I could,
and he moved a little.  I was coughing too and felt smothered from the
smoke.  I jerked harder and got Mr.  Pendergast halfway out the door.
And then Ma took one of his feet and helped me pull him onto the
porch.

Mr.  Pendergast's hair was burning, and part of his shirt was burning.
I didn't have nothing but my apron, and I put my apron over his hair
and snuffed out the flames.  I burned my hands a little, but got the
fire out.  And just then Ma brought a bucket of water still warm from
the wash pot and throwed it on his shirt.  We rolled Mr.  Pendergast
over on the wet porch and seen how bad his face and forehead was
burned. The skin looked black on his forehead and scalp where his hair
had been.  His eyebrows was burned off and the skin on his cheeks
looked red and peeling, and bloody in places under the soot.

I was thinking we had to put something on his face and on his back
where his shirt had burned.  What you put on burns is butter or lard or
some other kind of grease or oil.  There was butter in the spring
house, but the lard was burning up in the kitchen.  And then I thought,
No, I'd better try to put the fire out first.  If I can I've got to
save the house.  I stood up and looked in the door.

"You stay out of there," Ma Richards hollered.  "Nothing you can do:'

Smoke poured out the door and out the windows.  You couldn't see
nothing in the kitchen.  I couldn't even see any flames.  That made me
think nothing was burning but the lard, and maybe that could be put
out.  I looked around the porch and seen a pile of tow sacks by the
hoes and shovel and mattock.  They had been used I guess for taking
corn to mill or carrying leaves to put in cow stalls.  I grabbed up
eight or ten sacks and run to the wash pot

"What are you doing?"  Ma Richards called.

"Putting out the fire," I hollered back.  I plunged the sacks into the
pot and pulled them out streaming warm water.  With my arms around the
dripping sacks I run toward the back door.

"You stay out of there," Ma yelled.

I leaped up the steps and run past Mr.  Pendergast into the smoking
kitchen.  The smoke was so thick I couldn't see much.  Bending close to
the floor I walked to the stove and throwed wet sacks on the burning
canners, and then the smoke boiled up worse and I couldn't hardly see
what I was doing.

I run back out to the pile of sacks and got eight or nine more and
carried them to the wash pot

"You stay out of there!"  Ma screamed.  But I didn't pay no attention
to her.  I carried the hot dripping sacks against my chest and hurried
through the back door.  I figured if the house could be saved I had to
try.  I'd started the fire, and I had to stop it.  I stepped across Mr.
Pendergast laying on the porch.  He was starting to wake up from the
smoke swoon, and hollering.

Fighting my way into the smoke, holding my breath and bending down low
as I could, I put sacks on the burning grease on the table.  I flung
sacks on the burning can of kerosene and used the rest of the sacks
like a shield to walk up to the burning curtains and jerk them down and
smother them.

I started coughing, and every time I coughed I breathed in more smoke.
Smoke burned my eyes so I couldn't see nothing.  I put a hand over my
eyes and started toward the door.  To keep from breathing smoke I held
my breath, and it felt like my chest was going to bust.  The longer I
held my breath the more it felt like my chest was ready to explode. And
then I couldn't find the door.  Smoke was everywhere and my eyes stung
so l couldn't see.  And I couldn't breathe for coughing and smothering
myself.  The smoke was so thick I couldn't tell up from down, or
remember where the door was or where the table was.  I was so weak I
couldn't hardly stand up.  My knee knocked against something hard, and
my head banged on a sharp corner.  There was nothing to breathe but
smoke, dirty, greasy smoke.

Somebody pushed me and lifted me, and the next thing I knowed I was
hobbling and tripping down the steps out into the yard where the air
was cool.  It was Hank helping me outside.  The air was fresh, but
every time I took a breath I coughed, and smoke burned in my lungs and
in my throat.  I bent over and felt something " wet leap in my throat,
and found I was throwing up on the ground.  I was trying to throw up
all the smoke I had swallowed, but puked out tenderloin and grits and
butter, now sour and bitter.  I had to throw up everything.  I heaved
until tears come to my eyes and I was so weak I was trembling.  "What
in the world happened?"  Hank said.

"Julie bumped a canner and the lard caught fire," Ma Richards said.

When I was empty I stood up straight and wiped my mouth and brow.  "You
could have been killed," Ma Richards said.

"The fire is out," Hank said.  He looked through the doorway into the
smoke.  "You put it out just in time, before the floor or walls
caught."  He stepped out on the porch fanning the smoke with his hand.
I looked through the back door and seen the smoke was settling in the
kitchen.  The top half of the room was already clear.  And I seen Mr.
Pendergast laying on the porch floor groaning.  His face looked awful
with its burns, but he was still holding the pint jar, and in the jar
was dollar bills and coins like sliced pickles.  A silver dollar had
rolled out of the jar onto the porch.  IT TOOK ALL of us to carry Mr.
Pendergast to his bedroom.  While the smoke was still settling in the
kitchen, we lugged him around to the front door.  Hank held him by one
shoulder and I gripped him by the other, and Ma Richards carried his
feet.  Mr.  Pendergast was half awake and moaning.  "I want to rub
butter on your face and hands," I said to him.

"You near about burned down his house," Ma said.  Ma was the kind of
person who was always blaming somebody.  If something went wrong she
was more interested in pointing a finger than in fixing the problem.  I
have met a lot of people that way, but nobody as bad as Ma Richards.

"How did the fire start?"  Hank said as we toted Mr.  Pendergast up the
front steps.

"Grease splashed out on the stove," I said, "when I bumped one canner
against another."

"Everybody knows you throw baking soda on a grease fire," Ma said.

Before I could stop myself I answered Ma.  I hadn't meant to stoop to
her level, but I was tired.  "You spread the fire by dumping a whole
bucket of water on the lard," I said.

"At least I tried to do something," Ma said.

"You didn't think about baking soda no more than I did," I said.

Hank opened the door and we squeezed through into the dark living room.
The bitter smoke smell hit me soon as we was inside.  The house smelled
like ashes.

"Somebody will have to get a doctor," Ma Richards said as we carried
Mr.  Pendergast into the bedroom.

"I don't even know where a doctor is," Hank said.

Mr.  Pendergast's bed looked like a pit of rumpled quilts and blankets.
After we laid him down I tried to fix the bed so he was at least under
the covers.  His hands was burned, but he was still holding on to the
jar of money I tried to take the jar out of his hands.

"No!"  Mr.  Pendergast hollered, and jerked the jar away from me.
"That's my war pension money"

Hank lit a lamp on the nightstand and I bent down close to Mr.
Pendergast.  "Nobody is going to take your money," I said.  "We'll put
it right here on the stand where you can see it."

I don't think Mr.  Pendergast believed me.  He wouldn't have trusted
anybody with his money.  But he was in so much pain he couldn't think
what to do.  I took the jar from his hands and put it on the table.
Skin hung in shreds off his hands where he had reached into the fire to
get the money.  "I'm going to put some butter on your burns," I said.
"No!"  he hollered.  "He's beside his self Ma Richards said.  "He's
hurting," I said.

I hurried out to the springhouse to get a fresh cake of butter.  It was
starting to grow dark.  Hank had gone to miik the cow, and Ma Richards
set in the living room by the fireplace.  "I can't stand to look in
that kitchen," she said.

I didn't see any way to rub the butter on Mr.  Pendergast's burns
except with my bare fingers.  And I knowed the burns was going to be
tender.  But when I rubbed my fingers in the butter and made it melt,
and put my hand to Mr.  Pendergast's forehead, I was startled by his
scream.  I'd never heard a man holler that way.  When Papa was sick and
in pain he was always calm and well behaved, until near the very end.

"This will make you feel better," I said.  I tried to touch him with
the butter again, but he howled and jerked away.

I knelt beside the bed with butter on my left hand and tried to think
what to do.  It was the hardest and longest day of my life.  I was wore
out from killing the hog, and cutting up the meat, and from cutting up
the fat and fighting the fire.  I was weak from throwing up.  And I was
to blame for the fire, as Ma Richards had pointed out.  And I was to
blame for Mr.  Pendergast getting burned, except I had tried to keep
him from going into the flames for his money jar.  It was my job to do
what I could to help, to make up for the bad I'd done.

The grit on the floor cut into my knees.  "I'm trying to help you," I
said.  But talking to somebody in great pain is like talking to a young
un or a dog.  They just want to feel better and can't think clear about
it.  And they don't want to listen to what you have to say. Somebody
suffering is as selfish as a baby.

Mr.  Pendergast's lips was cracked and bleeding.  "I'm perishing of
thirst," he hollered.

I was going to call Ma Richards to bring me a dipper of water, but I
thought better of it.  I wiped my hands on my apron and hurried out to
the spring to get a bucket of cold water.  It was dark now, and the
dirt of the path was already froze.

"What are you doing?"  Hank called from the cow shed

"I'm getting a drink for Mr.  Pendergast," I said.

"He needs a drink of liquor," Hank said.

When I brought the bucket into the bedroom and held the dipper to Mr.
Pendergast's lips, he drunk like a man dying on the desert.  The fire
had burned him and parched him, and he was burning up inside.  He
gulped the water like a mad dog trying to quench its thirst.  He gulped
so fast he throwed some of the water up.  His lips was so cracked and
tender it hurt him to touch the dipper.  His eyes stretched wide as he
tried to drink faster.  His eyebrows and lashes was burned away and his
skin peeling like old paint with soot and blood on it.

"You'll get sick if you drink too fast," I said.

"I'm already sick" he gasped and swallowed.

He drunk three dippers of water, and then he belched and throwed up.
Mr.  Pendergast was so weak he couldn't raise his head, and when he
throwed up the water just come out of the side of his mouth and run
down his burned cheek.  I took a towel and tried to wipe off his cheek
and neck, but he screamed and pushed me away.  He pushed me away and
twisted on the bed and screamed again.

I had to do something to ease his pain.  That's when I remembered the
shelf in the kitchen where there was all kinds of bottles and jars and
little boxes.  I had sorted through them looking for herbs and
seasonings.  But there was a number of jars and bottles and cans I
hadn't opened.  I took the lamp and started out of the bedroom .

"Don't leave me," Mr.  Pendergast hollered.

"I'm just going to get something," I said.

"Don't leave me," he said again.  I seen that he was afraid of the
dark.  I left the lamp on the nightstand and went to get another lamp
in the living room.

Ma was setting by the fireplace.  "He will die," she said.

"We need to ease his pain," I said.

"He'll die in any case," Ma said.

The kitchen was a mess of wet sacks and spilled lard, half burned fat,
soot, and charred boards.  The fire in the stove was out, and the room
was already cold.  I climbed on a chair to look at the shelf.  You
never seen such a collection of old cans and bottles as Mr.  Pendergast
had there.  Snuff cans was filled with sage and thyme, pepper and
allspice.  There was camphor and rubbing alcohol.  There was oil of
cloves for toothache, and Epsom salts, castor oil, and tincture of
lobelia for snake bites  I opened several bottles and sniffed them.  I
didn't know what some of them was.

But there was a dark blue bottle with a stopper in it.  I pulled out
the cork and smelled.  It had the scent of alcohol, but smelled like
something else too, an inky, earthy, musky smell.  I had sniffed the
scent before.  It smelled of black wetness in the dirt, and yet was
metallic too.  If I remembered right that was the smell of laudanum.  I
took the bottle back to the front bedroom.

"God help me!"  Mr.  Pendergast called.

"If you pray to the Lord, he will help you," Ma Richards said.  She had
come into the bedroom with me.  Mr.  Pendergast's face now had blisters
on it, with dried blood and strips of burned skin.

"The Lord help me, please," Mr.  Pendergast said.

"You take a tablespoon of this," I said and poured a spoonful from the
bottle.  The liquid was brown and cold.  It give off chemical fumes.  I
held the spoon to his lips, but he jerked away, like the cold spoon
hurt his lips.

"Don't spill it," I said.  "There's only this little bottle."

"He's contrary as an old mule," Ma Richards said.  "Help me," Mr.
Pendergast said and rolled his eyes.

"I'm trying to help you," I said.  "You drink this quick; it'll make
you feel better."  I put the spoon to his lips but he jerked away
again.

"He's got a devil in him," Ma Richards said.

"I'm freezing in hell," Mr.  Pendergast said.  He shivered so hard his
teeth chattered.  I had heard that people who had been burned felt like
they was freezing to death, but I'd never seen it before.  Mr.
Pendergast jerked like he was naked in the snow.

"This will warm you up," I said.  I held the spoon just above his lips,
and the instant he opened his mouth I tipped the liquid in.  little
dribbled out of the corner of his mouth, but most of it went down.

"Water," Mr.  Pendergast called.  I got the dipper and give him a
drink.  As he swallowed the water you could see a change come over him.
His eyes got darker and wetter in the lamplight.  Some of the inflamed
look started going out of his neck and throat.

"He needs to sleep," Ma Richards said.

Hank come to the door and looked in at Mr.  Pendergast.  "This is a
pretty come off," he said.  He looked more disgusted than I had ever
seen him.

"You've got to get a doctor," Ma Richards said.

"Where?"  Hank said.  "I don't even know where there's an herb
granny."

Hank had worked all day and walked to Lyman and back and then had saved
me from the smoke.  He was as tired as I was.  "Maybe we can get a
doctor in the morning," I said.

"This old man won't live till morning, unless he's doctored," Ma
Richards said.

Everything had turned out so bad, I couldn't think what to do next. The
kitchen was half burned up, and the lard was burned up.  The sausage
wasn't made and I was so tired I was not at myself.  Ma Richards was
quarreling at everything I did.  And Mr.  Pendergast was so bad burned
he was in pain and in danger of dying, and I was partly the cause of it
all.  But it was no good to think about blame.  Ma Richards had showed
me that.  The first thing was to take care of Mr.  Pendergast, and all
the rest could wait.  Everything else could be sorted out the next day,
or even the next week.

"Surely there's a doctor in Tigerville," I said.  "Or somebody that can
tell you where to find one."

Hank come closer to Mr.  Pendergast.  "Where is your family?"  he said,
loud, like Mr.  Pendergast was hard of hearing.

Mr.  Pendergast mumbled something, but I couldn't understand what he
said.

"Where is your children?"  I said.  He mumbled again, but it didn't
make sense.

"We can find out tomorrow," I said.

After Hank got his coat and left, I told Ma she might as well go on to
bed.  "I'll stay up till Hank comes back," I said.

"It's in the fine hours that people suffer and die," Ma Richards
said.

"Hank will be back with a doctor soon," I said.

I took a lamp back to the burned-out kitchen and looked for a fruit jar
of liquor I'd seen on the shelf.  I figured the liquor would go well
with the laudanum.  Together they might make Mr.  Pendergast
comfortable.  The lamp throwed its yellow light and shadows on the
table where the cold biscuits and tenderloin from our dinner remained.
Only a few hours before we had set there eating and feeling so good.
The biscuits and grits had soot on them.  I found the jar and took it
to the front bedroom.

Mr.  Pendergast had not gone to sleep as I had hoped.  His eyes was
open and he watched me come through the door.  "No!"  he hollered.
"You're not coming after me."

"I'm going to make you feel better," I said.

"No," he said and wrenched around in the bed like he was trying to get
away from me.

"Everything is all right," I said.  "You're going to feel better
tomorrow.  You're going to feel better after a drink of this"

But Mr.  Pendergast looked at me like I was trying to poison him.  He
pulled away, and his eyes stretched wide in fear.  "I'm just Julie ' I
said.  I poured some of the liquor into the dipper and held it out to
him.

"No!"  he screamed and pulled further away.

"Who do you think I am?"  I said.

"I know who you are."  Mr.  Pendergast said.  "You're the angel of
death ."

"I ain't no kind of angel," I said, and held the dipper close to his
lips.

"There was an angel of death in the prison camp," Mr.  Pendergast said.
"Now you have come back for me."

"Drink this and I'll put some butter on your burns," I said.  I held
the dipper in front of him but he didn't drink.  He was quiet for a few
moments.

"I have committed the unpardonable sin," he said.

"Ain't no such thing," I said.

"You're taking me to hell," Mr.  Pendergast said.

"I'm just giving you a drink until the doctor comes," I said.

"I have committed the unpardonable sin without even knowing it," he
said.

"What have you done?"  I said.  I wanted to keep him humored until the
doctor arrived.

"I've sinned against the Holy Ghost," he said.

"You're talking out of your head," I said.  "All you did was get burned
looking for your money."

"Where is my money?"  he said, his face in a panic.

"Your money is right here, see," I said and pointed to the jar on the
nightstand, beside the lamp and bottle of laudanum.  "You can have the
money," he said, "if you'll leave me alone."

"I don't want your money," I said.  I held the dipper to his mouth and
he gulped some of the white liquor and coughed.  He took another big
swallow and coughed again.  I hoped with both the liquor and laudanum
in him he could rest a little, and I could rub butter on his burns.  I
wanted to soothe him and keep him soothed until the doctor come.  He
laid back on the pillow and I reached for the butter.  But before I
rubbed any on my fingers he jerked up in bed again.

"Can you smell it?"  he said.

"Smell what?"  I said.  "All I smell is this corn liquor."

"It's the pit of hell," he said, "the stink of brimstone like rotten
eggs burning."

"Just the smoke from the fire in the kitchen," I said.  "Let me put
some butter on your burns."

Tears was streaming out of Mr.  Pendergast's bloodshot eyes.  "It's the
fire that never dies," he sobbed.

"You just smell the grease fire," I said.

He cried like his heart and will was broke.  I had never seen a man cry
like that.  "I will burn for all time," he said.

It was as if the liquor and the laudanum had soothed the burning on his
face and head and hands but made his conscience burn worser.  He was
truly afraid.  "You should get some sleep," I said.

The house was quiet except for pops and creaks here and there in the
attic.  Ma Richards must have gone on to bed for I didn't hear her
stirring.  A wind had rose in the dark and gusted against the windows,
rattling panes.

"Don't you smell the stench?"  Mr.  Pendergast said.

"I don't smell nothing but burned lard and soot from the kitchen," I
said.

"It's the stink of hell," he said and sobbed.  The salt of his tears
stung the burns on his cheeks.  He rubbed a cheek with a swelled and
blistered hand.  Skin hung in little rags off his fingers.

"Let me rub butter on your hands," I said.  I figured if I could get
grease on his hands he would let me spread some on his face.

"No," he said, and jerked his hand away from me.

"Nothing else will help you heal," I said.  I was so tired it sounded
like somebody else talking.  I was kind of floating and knowed if I
stopped I would collapse.  I felt so bad for what I had done that I
couldn't think about it.  I had to keep going.  I had to.  The
awfulness of the world and the evilness of the world was in the air
with the stink of the fire.  The scariness was in the air like ghosts
that wanted to press on my mind and haunt every second and every
thought. They wanted to get in behind my eyes where the worst pain was.
 The devils gathered around my head and mocked me.

"Hell is scorching every inch of me!"  Mr.  Pendergast hollered.

"You're in your own bed, in your own house," I said.  "And I'm here to
help.  I'll rub butter on your burns and you'll feel better."  What he
needed more than anything else was soothing in his mind.

"I didn't mean to tell a lie on my brother Jonathan," Mr.  Pendergast
said, out of breath, like he was talking to a judge.  "And I didn't go
to break Papa's watch."

"That was a long time ago," I said.

"I didn't mean to play with myself," he said.

"Mr.  Pendergast, there's no need," I said.  I didn't want to hear no
more.  The pain in his mind was unbearable.

"It was laughing at the preacher," he said.  "That's how I sinned
against the Holy Ghost."

"Now, Mr.  Pendergast," I said.

"It was old Preacher Liner up there hollering, "And the half shall
never be told' One of his suspenders broke and I busted out laughing.
The preacher pointed his finger at me and said, "Them that mock the
Spirit sin against the Holy Ghost."

"You was just a boy," I said.  "

"Them that mock the Spirit are in danger of hellfire," Mr.  Pendergast
quoted.

"But surely you have been forgive," I said.  "It was just a little
thing."

"I will burn forever," Mr.  Pendergast said.  It was like he had give
up.  He even took pride in his damnation.  He acted like he took some
comfort in his own terror.  I heard the mantel clock strike two.  It
was the darkest and loneliest time of night.  Wind shoved against the
wall of the house and a mouse or rat scratched in the wall behind Mr.
Pendergast's bed.  It sounded like the rat was gnawing a nut or chewing
on a piece of wood.  Something swished inside the wall and then
overhead, in the ceiling.  I didn't know if it was a rat running.  It
sounded like a big snake sliding over paneling.  It sounded like
something ten feet long sliding dry scales over wood.

"Please help me," Mr.  Pendergast cried.

"I'm here to help you," I said.  I put my hand on his shoulder.

"I can feel the fire on my feet," he said.

"Your feet are right here in this cool bed," I said.

"I'm freezing," he screamed.

"I'll get you another blanket," I said.

"Hell is ice," he said.  His teeth was chattering.  He looked like he
seen something in the air in front of him.  "Get back," he cried.

"There's nobody here but me," I said.

"Leave me alone," he shouted.

I put both my hands on his shoulders and tried to push him down on the
pillow.  He swung at me and hit me in the face with his burned hand.
The pain made him groan.  "I won't go," he whispered.

"You don't have to go nowhere," I said.  I seen that the laudanum had
wore off.  The pain was coming back worse than before.  I got the blue
bottle from the nightstand and poured a spoonful of the cold liquid.
"You need to drink this," I said.  "Won't do no good," he said.  "It
helped before," I said.  "You'll poison me," he screamed.

I had to think of some way to make him drink the laudanum.  Otherwise
the pain would kill him.  Even if I had to trick him, I had to make him
take it.  "If you don't drink this I'll have to leave," I said.

"No," he cried.

"I'll have to leave you to holler by yourself," I said.  It hurt me to
say a lie, but I couldn't think of any other way to make him take the
laudanum.  He closed his eyes and opened his mouth and I poured the
liquid between his lips.  Some of it dribbled out of the corner of his
mouth, but most of it went down.  It was a bigger dose than the first
one.  I used all the rest of the laudanum.

"The devil has long, dirty claws," Mr.  Pendergast said, "and his claws
are poison."

"He won't get his claws on you," I said.  I felt like I was talking to
a little child.

"The devil is trying to get in bed with me," Mr.  Pendergast said.

"You lay back down and rest," I said.  I pushed him gently back on the
pillow.

"The devil is going to choke me," he said.

"Ain't nobody here but you and me," I said.

As the laudanum took effect I seen his eyes get wet and glassy, and
blacker than ever He was still troubled in his mind, but numbed by the
tincture.  His eyes roved around the room like he was trying to see
where the evil spirit was hiding.

"You get some sleep," I said.

He laid on the pillow and took this deep breath.  It was the kind of
breath you hear somebody take when they're asleep.  You expect them to
take it in and then let it out.  I waited without hardly knowing I was
waiting.  But Mr.  Pendergast did not breathe out.  I looked at him,
and his eyes was open but not moving.

"Mr.  Pendergast," I said.  I put my hand over his nose but didn't feel
any breath.  I put my ear to his chest but didn't hear any heartbeat.
Mr.  Pendergast was dead.  One moment he had been alive and afraid, and
the next he was dead.  He went just like that.  It was lmazing how easy
it was for a human life to end.  A person could die and you wouldn't
hardly know it.  I put my fingers on his eyes and closed them.  Just
then I heard Hank at the door.  THE DAY AFTER Mr.  Pendergast died I
felt ten years older.  The doctor Hank had found on the other side of
Tigerville said he thought Mr.  Pendergast had a stepson in California
and a stepdaughter in Columbia, but he didn't know their addresses and
didn't even know their names.  I was wore out and the kitchen was a
ruin.  Ma Richards blamed me for all of it.  And that seemed mighty
unfair to me.  I had knocked the grease out on the stove, but it was me
that drug Mr.  Pendergast out of the burning kitchen, and it was me
that put out the fire with wet sacks.  Hank was irritated because he
didn't know what to do about the house, and about reaching Mr. 
Pendergast's relatives.

"We may not have a roof over our heads," he said the morning after Mr.
Pendergast died.

"We don't even know where to bury him," Ma Richards said.

There we was, in somebody else's house down in South Carolina, and him
laying a corpse in the front bedroom.  We might be throwed out, and I
might be accused of burning the kitchen, or maybe even of killing Mr.
Pendergast.  Everything looked so bad the weight crushed down on me.

"Carry him into the kitchen," I said to Hank.  I cleaned off the big
kitchen table so it was bare.  That was the only clean place in the
kitchen.  Everything else was black with soot.

"You can't lay out a corpse," Ma Richards said.  "That's a job for an
older woman."  "I helped lay out Papa," I said.  "We don't even know
what his kin wants to do with him," Hank said.  "He's got to be laid
out in any case," I said.  "You ain't even got a cooling board," Ma
Richards said.  "We'll have to use the table," I said.

I cleared the stove and washed the burned grease off with soap.  When I
started a fire in the box the stovetop smelled like burned lard and
soap as it heated up, but that was soon singed away.  I brought a
kettle of water to a boil.  There was so much to be done, and I had to
work my way through it.  But the more I done the calmer I got.  I
scrubbed the soot and grease off the floor.  And then we carried in Mr.
Pendergast's body and I stripped off his clothes.  Since he was already
getting stiff, he needed to be laying on something flat and hard.

I washed every inch of him with soap and water, and put a handkerchief
soaked in camphor on his face to keep it from turning brown, the way I
had seen it done with Papa and Masenier.  And then I rubbed oil all
over his skin.  Mr.  Pendergast's bowels had moved after he died and I
had to clean that up too.

"You ought en to have to do that," Hank said.  I'd never done anything
Hank told me not to.  I didn't even know if I could, or if a wife
should do something her husband said not to do.  But if Hank just
fussed, as he usually did, I felt justified in going ahead with what I
was doing.

"Somebodys got to make a casket," I said.

"I need to go down to the crossroads and tell the preacher," Hank said.
"There'll have to be a service."

"There'll have to be a casket" I said.

"You think you could do that too?"  Hank said.

"I was thinking you could," I said, but wished I hadn't.

"I'll decide what I do, and when I do it," Hank said, and looked at me
hard.  A chill went through my bones, a sick iciness sunk in my "
belly.  Hank and me hadn't quarreled before.  It was the surprise of
Mr.  Pendergast's death, and Ma Richards being there, that made him
lose his temper.

"Hank," Ma Richards said.  I hadn't noticed she was standing in the
doorway.  "Hank," she said, "you've got to show who's wearing the
britches in this house."

"Don't it look like I'm wearing the britches?"  Hank said.

"You're used to things being easy," Ma Richards said.

Instead of answering her Hank walked out of the room, slamming the back
door.

I looked at Ma, and I looked away I was so mad I couldn't think of
anything to say.  I kept washing Mr.  Pendergast's legs.  I scrubbed
his feet, between the toes and under the arches.  His toenails was
black, but I decided I wouldn't trim them or clean them.  Soon as I
finished washing his body I wet his hair and combed it with a comb I
found in his room.

Dressing the body was harder than washing it.  I found some drawers in
the bedroom, and a shirt I'd washed myself.  And I found a suit of
clothes hanging on a nail, but they was wrinkled.  I sprinkled the wool
and heated the iron on the stove and pressed the suit.  It took a lot
of lifting and rolling of the body to get it dressed.  The arms and
legs was setting stiff as wood.  The eyes come open when I moved the
head, and I had to brush them closed again.

Hank had gone out in the backyard, and I heard him sawing and
hammering.  There was a stack of old boards in the barn, and I seen he
was hammering together a box from chestnut boards.  With the corpse
dressed and laying on the kitchen table, I started thinking about
fixing some breakfast.  None of us had eat since the day before.  I
hated to fix something to eat with the corpse laying there, but there
was nothing else to do.  We had to eat, and we had to get on with
things.  And I meant to show Ma Richards I could go on in spite of
whatever she said.

I wiped the soot off the top of the meal bin and scooped out some
cornmeal.

"You're not going to cook with that thing laying here?"  Ma Richards
said.

"I won't touch the body," I said.

"I'm not eating around a corpse," Ma Richards said.

I didn't answer her.  I wasn't used to talking back to older people.
And it wouldn't do no good to snipe at her.  I wiped off the coffeepot
and poured some fresh water in it.  "Would you grind some coffee?"  I
said to Ma.  Without answering me, she took the can of coffee beans out
to the back porch.

I got some fresh ribs out of the dishpan where they had been setting
overnight.  They had been partly cooked in the fire and soot made them
black.  I rubbed the smut off and put eight or nine in the frying pan.
Soon the kitchen smelled like frying meat.  And boiling coffee and
baking cornbread.  Hank was still hammering when I called him in.

"Where are we going to eat?"  Hank said.  Mr.  Pendergast laid on the
kitchen table like he was in state in a public place.

"There's nowhere to put the body till you get a casket made;' I said.

"I'm not half done," Hank said.

"I'm not eating with that thing in here," Ma Richards said.

I give everybody a plate and served the cornbread and molasses and
fresh ribs.  We set as far away from the table as we could, eating on
our laps.  I was near starved, and Hank and Ma Richards was near
starved too.  We eat everything I'd fixed, and drunk all the coffee. It
didn't matter that Mr.  Pendergast was laying there a corpse after we
took the first bite.

"This is like a wake," Ma Richards said, her mouth full of cornbread
and molasses.

"We are like sin eaters," Hank said.  "I never believed in such
dreadful stuff," Ma Richards said.  "What is a sin eater?"  I said.

"Somebody the family pays to eat supper off a corpse, like they are
taking on all the sins of the dead person," Hank said.

"What an awful idea," I said.

"It's just a story," Hank said.  AFTER HANK I lNISHED the chestnut box
and we put Mr.  Pendergast in it with his hands folded, we set the
coffin on two chairs in the living room.  And there he laid until the
funeral on Wednesday I kept handkerchiefs soaked in camphor on his
brow.  And I tried not to look at him as I went about my work.  But it
was hard not to glance at the face under the handkerchief, like I was
expecting it to come awake and say something.

One of the neighbors, George Poole, who run the store at the
crossroads, come by and I asked him about Mr.  Pendergast's children.
George Poole was a big man whose belly punched out below the bib of his
overalls.  "Last I heard Butch was somewhere in Californy," he said.

"You don't know what town?"  I said.

"All I heard was he went to Californy," Mr.  Poole said.

"And how about his stepdaughter?"  I said.

"Now Caroline is down in Columbia somewheres," Mr.  Poole said.  He
looked closer at Mr.  Pendergast.  "Everybody looks younger in death,"
he said.  "I wonder why."

"Because they have stopped worrying," Ma Richards said.  "All the grief
goes out of them, if they went to heaven"

"Does anybody know Caroline's address?"  I said.  "Is there any
cousins, or aunts or uncles, here on Gap Creek?"

"Now Caroline and Butch was stepchildren," Mr.  Poole said.  "I don't
think they kept in close touch."  "His wife was married before?"  Ma
Richards said.

"She must have been," Mr.  Poole said.  "She already had the younguns
when she come here."

George Poole set with us for several hours, looking at the chestnut box
and making conversation.  It was his way of being neighborly, of
keeping vigil.  But it all felt a little strange, because we wasn't
even Mr.  Pendergast's kin, and George Poole and Mr.  Pendergast had
not been close friends either.

"Pendergast kept to his self George Poole said.  "He hunted ginseng and
trapped for muskrats.  He done anything he could do on his own.  He
never liked to go off on public works.  In the last year or two he was
too feeble to go out in the woods much.  But he would buy ginseng from
other diggers"

"I never seen him go beyond the cow shed Hank said.

"He hid his money somewhere," Mr.  Poole said.  "Everybody thinks he
hid a lavish of pension money somewhere."

I didn't say nothing about Mr.  Pendergast's jar of money, and Hank
didn't bring it up either.  It didn't seem like any of George Poole's
business.

"Where did he keep his money?"  I said to George Poole.

"People say he hid it in a fruit jar somewhere in the backyard " Mr.
Poole said.

"Maybe that was just a rumor," Hank said.

"People is liable to say anything," Ma Richards said.

"I'm just saying what other people has said," Mr.  Poole said.  THE
FUNERAL FOR Mr.  Pendergast was the pitiful lest thing you ever seen.
There must not have been more than a dozen people there.  Mr.
Pendergast didn't have relations on the Creek, and it was a cold rainy
day.  Gap Creek Church was open to the rafters, and the preacher's
voice seemed to echo up into that empty space.  I expected bats and
rats to be scratching around up there over the congregation .

Preacher Gibbs and his wife sung a song, and it was the mourn fullest
thing you could ever hear.  They sung "On Jordan's Stormy Banks" and it
was slow and sad.  A song like that can sometimes make you feel sweet
with the sadness.  Music can make time, and a lifetime, seem precious.
But the way they sung "On Jordan's Stormy Banks" was like all the life
and all the joy was draining out of the world.  There wasn't a thing to
hope for.  It was the bad kind of sadness.  It was the sadness of sin,
not the sadness of love and piety

"When we come to the end of the way," Preacher Gibbs said, "what will
we have to say for ourselves?"  And the way he said it you felt nobody
would have anything good to say for their selves that it was hopeless
from the beginning, and there wasn't nothing anybody could say for
their selves  I always hated that kind of preaching, especially at a
funeral.  For if somebody is dead there ain't nothing you can do for
them.  And it's too late for them to change their ways.  All that kind
of sermon can do is make other people feel bad.  They leave a funeral
feeling worser than when they come.  A funeral should make people feel
glad they're still alive.

"The wages of sin is death," Preacher Gibbs said, and his words rumbled
and rattled in the loft.  Every word he said was swallowed up by the
stillness and darkness up there in the rafters.  "This generation of
vipers," Preacher Gibbs said.

I had the aw fullest feeling, watching Mr.  Pendergast laying there in
his box with no kinfolks around to mourn and bury him, and the preacher
talking sad and harsh to the empty church.  It was like we had come to
the end of things, almost before my life and marriage had got started.
Ma Richards was setting on my right, and Hank on my left.  There was no
place I could go except forward in time toward death.  The bottom was
falling out of the world.  The bench I set on was still there and the
floorboards was solid under my feet.  But everything important was
falling away, and when I closed my eyes I felt like I was falling into
a pit and being hit over the head with the preacher's words.

When the funeral was finally over, it took all the men there to carry
the box out to the graveyard on the hill behind the church.  After the
preacher's words, even the cold rain felt soothing.  I had headache,
and my belly hurt like I had eat a green apple.  Yellow leaves still
hung on the hickories and a crow called its heckle from the pines
further up the mountain.  The mountains was so steep on both sides of
Gap Creek it felt like we was at the bottom of a big grave.

Hank had dug the grave his self that morning and the heaped dirt by the
hole was so red it seemed to blister and sparkle in the gray light.
Something about the raw dirt around a grave always shocks you, like it
was a hungry mouth that human flesh is fed to.

"First comes death," Preacher Gibbs said, "and after that the
Judgment."

The crows cawed in the pines.

"As for man his days are as grass.  As a flower of the field so he
flourisheth.  But the wind passes over and it is gone, and the place
thereof shall know it no more."

As Hank and three other men lowered the casket into the hole with
ropes, the preacher and his wife sung "Shall We Gather at the River."
And I must say, it was the perfect song to be sung over a grave.  It
was a song I had always loved.  And even in the rain and wet dirt, I
begun to feel better about the funeral, and about the preacher. 
Preacher Gibbs was just doing what all preachers do at funerals.  It
was the cold, empty church that had made his words so sad and made me
feel so sad.  Preacher Gibbs and his wife kept singing by the grave in
the rain, and they sung every verse of the song.  They had fine, clear
voices.  As WE WALKED back to the house after the funeral Ma seemed
more cheerful than I had ever seen her.  I guess the fact that she was
older than Mr.  Pendergast, and she was still alive, had cheered her
up.  You would have thought his funeral had reflected glory on her. 
She was smiling to herself, and she walked tall and fast.  She grinned
like she had a special secret.  I'd never seen her so sweet.  I was
tired out and wrung out, and she walked up the Gap Creek Road like she
was fifteen years old.

S.

IX

When we got back to the house I was so dragged out I dropped on the
sofa.  Two chairs was still facing each other in the middle of the
living room where the casket had laid.  The house needed a cleaning and
the kitchen needed to be fixed up, scrubbed down from ceiling to floor.
Mr.  Pendergast's room had to be cleaned up and his stuff sorted and
washed.  But the house didn't even belong to us, and I didn't know who
should do all that work.  "You rest," Ma Richards said.  "I'll fix some
supper."  "I'll get up in a minute," I said.  "Just need to rest my
feet."

"Hank, you got to look after Julie," Ma Richards said.  Hank was
warming his hands by the fire.  We was all cold and wet.

"I'm fine," I said.  "You're expecting," Ma Richards said, "unless I
miss my guess."

"Is that a fact?"  Hank said to me.  But he acted embarrassed, or maybe
took by surprise.

"I don't know," I said.

"How long has it been?"  Ma Richards said.

"Nearly two months," I said.

"That settles it," Ma Richards said, like she had took charge of the
house.  Her face was bright and her eyes sparkled.  Suddenly I seen why
she had been so cheerful.  Just the thought of becoming a grandma had
cheered her up.

"Settles what?"  Hank said.

"Settles the fact that I'm going to stay here and help Julie out," Ma
Richards said.

"Don't need help," I said.  A chill passed through me.  I had thought
Ma would be leaving in a few days.  It was the one thing that cheered
me up, the thought that she would be gone and Hank and me could get
back to living our lives.

"You're going to need a lot of help"" Ma said.

I looked at Hank.  He stood by the fire and didn't say nothing.  Though
I had never said so, I was sure he knowed how much I resented Ma
Richards being there.  I couldn't say nothing against his mama, but she
irritated me.  And she irritated him too, but he was man and she
treated him different.  And besides, she was the only mama he had ever
knowed.

"I don't even know for sure I'm expecting," I said.  It seemed to me
that if Ma Richards stayed with us any longer I would have to leave
myself.  I would walk back up the mountain and stay with Mama and my
sisters.

"You are," Ma Richards said, like it was somehow a credit to her.

I got short of breath.  I felt if I didn't get Ma out of the house, was
going to have to run away.

"We probably won't even be staying here," I said.  "We don't know whose
house this is now."

"You don't want to move, in her condition," Ma said to Hank, like I was
a little girl and they had to decide for me.  It was what she wanted to
do, take charge of the house and of Hank.  She wanted to treat me like
a little child, her child.  And she wanted to be in charge of the baby
even before it was born.  ' I don't know what we'll do," Hank said. 
"We may have to leave here any day," I said.

"You can stay till one of Mr.  Pendergast's heirs shows up," Ma said.
"I don't see what's to stop you"

"The county will sell this place for taxes if somebody don't show up,"
Hank said.

"Then you pay the taxes, and you can buy it" Ma said.

"Don't have enough money," Hank said and spit his tobacco juice in the
fire.  His jaw always tightened when he talked about money.  He didn't
like to talk about money.

"We don't know where we'll be living," I said, "and we don't know if I
am expecting for sure."

"Well, if I'm not wanted here, I sure don't mean to impose myself," Ma
said.

I didn't answer her, for I didn't want to ask her to stay.

"We want you to stay as long as you can," Hank said.  He looked at me.
"But we may be moving back to Painter Mountain with you."

"With me?"

"Where else would we go?"  Hank said.

"I'd have to fix up the loft for you," Ma said.  "There'd be no other
place for you to sleep."

"Exactly," Hank said.  "I'll take you back to Painter Mountain and you
can fix up the attic for us"

"You'll need a lot of help here," Ma said.  "Julie can't clean up this
place by herself"

"They may throw us out any day," Hank said.  "And besides, I'll help
her do what has to be done."  Hank knowed how to talk to Ma Richards.
He had growed up with her ways and knowed what to say

"When do you want to go?"  Ma Richards said.  All the cheer had gone
out of her.

"I was thinking Sunday, because I don't have to work," Hank said.

"I hate to travel on the Lord's day," Ma said.  "The Lord will
understand," Hank said.

But Ma Richards had to get in the last word.  "Somebody will have to
take care of this house," she said.

"I think I can manage," I said.

I felt like I was falling in love with Hank all over again, because he
had understood how much I wanted Ma Richards to leave, and because he
had helped me.  I wanted to run to him and kiss him on the neck and on
the cheek.  He was dearer than he ever had been.  He had saved me from
his mama.  While everything else was going wrong or up in the air, at
least I was going to have the house to myself again.  That seemed to
mean everything.  If I could just be alone in the house to do my work
and to clear my mind, I might be happy again.  THE NEXT SUNDAY morning
Hank hitched up the horse and buggy and helped Ma Richards into the
seat.  I stood in the yard and waved to her as they drove away.  "Don't
strain yourself now," Ma called.  "I think I can manage," I said.
"Whenever you feel tired just go and set down," Ma said.  "I am
seventeen years old," I said.  "That's why I worry about you," Ma said.
"Don't worry about me," I said.

"And remember, almost all women get sick in the morning," Ma said.

I stood on the steps and watched the buggy get smaller and smaller up
the creek road.  The farther away it got the better I felt.  When the
horse's head, and then Ma's and Hank's heads, disappeared around the
bend, I felt a peacefulness settle through me, like all kinds of dust
and soot had settled to the ground, leaving the air fresh and bright.
THE WEEK AFTER Mr.  Pendergasts death it turned cold again.  Hank went
back to work at the cotton mill at Lyman, and I was sick nearly every
day.  Each morning I throwed up in the chamber or off the back porch,
and then set in the kitchen sipping some hot tea.  After having Ma
Richards there all those days, and after worrying about Mr.  Pendergast
ever since we moved in, I enjoyed the peacefulness each day, soon as my
belly settled down.

You wouldn't believe how good I felt those days after my stomach
calmed.  I washed the dishes and dried them and put them on the shelf.
Then I took a bucket and rag and washed the floor.  It made me feel
strong to get down on my knees on those rough boards.  It was like a
morning prayer, kneeling on the cold boards and crawling backwards to
rub away any dirt with the rag.  That's when I felt how much it meant
to have a home, a place to live in day after day and night after
night.

As I scrubbed the floor I was scrubbing part of the world.  And I was
scrubbing my mind to make it clear It was work that made me think
clear, and it was work that made me humble.  I could never talk fast,
and I could never say what I meant to people, or tell them what they
meant to me.  My tongue was never loosened by my feelings.  It was with
my hands and with my back and shoulders that I could say how I felt.  I
had to talk with my arms and my strong hands.

When I finished scouring the floor I took the bucket of dirty water out
to the back porch and emptied it.  I was rinsing out the bucket with
fresh water when I seen a buggy pull off the road.  I didn't think
nothing about it at first, for peddlers and buyers of ginseng and herbs
come around from time to time.  This buggy looked new and its black top
and sides sparkled.  The horse that pulled it was black and its sides
sparkled like they had been shined with shoe polish.  My breath
tightened in my throat the way it always did when I seen a stranger.

I rinsed out the bucket and throwed the water in a flashing streak
across the yard.  A hen got hit and run away cackling.  Another hen
rushed to peck where the water had splashed.  The buggy stopped in the
yard and I put the bucket down and hurried out to meet it.  "How do,"
the driver in a black suit said and tipped his hat.  "Howdy do," I
said.

He stuck the whip in its socket and tied the reins to a ring on the
side of the buggy.  "My name is Jerrold James," he said.  "I'm an
attorney from Greenville."

"Pleased to meet you," I said.  "My name is Julie Richards."  But a
chill rung through me.  I knowed a lawyer couldn't be bringing good
news.

"Is this the property owned by Vincent Pendergast?"  he said.

"It is," I said.  "But Mr.  Pendergast died last week and was buried on
Wednesday."

"Precisely," the lawyer said.  "Precisely."

"I took care of Mr.  Pendergast, and of the house," I said.  There was
a cold wind coming down the valley, and I was starting to get chilled
without my shawl.

"I saw the notice of Mr.  Pendergast's death in the Greenville paper,"
the lawyer said.  He took a sheet of paper out of his case.

"Do you represent Mr.  Pendergast's heirs?"  I said.

"Not exactly," Mr.  James said.  "Since Mr.  Pendergast has no will, or
at least not one anybody has found, it's not clear who his heirs are.
His stepchildren, wherever they are, may or may not have a legal claim
to the property."

"I see," I said.

"For all I know your claim may be as good as theirs," Mr.  James
said.

"My claim?"  I said.

"By right of occupancy," he said.  "That would be for a court to
decide."  "We would have to go to court?"  I said.

"Precisely," Mr.  James said.  It was his favorite word, and he made it
sound like a sharp knife cutting through fat.

"My husband and me don't want trouble," I said.  I wished Hank was
there to talk with him.

"But I'm here on another matter," Mr.  James said.  "I represent the
Bank of Greenville, which holds a lien against the property" He took
two more sheets from his case and held them out for me to see.  I
didn't really look at them.  I figured he would tell me what they
said.

"Do we have to move out?"  I said.

"Not necessarily," the lawyer said.  "That's what I'm here to talk
about."

I invited Mr.  Jerrold James inside.  I was shivering in the wind. 
When we got into the living room I asked him to set down on the sofa
and I throwed another log on the fire.

"Would you like some coffee?"  I said.

"That would be splendid," he said.  "I did get a little chilled driving
up the valley."

There was still some warm coffee in the pot and I poured him a cup and
brought it to the living room.  Mr.  James pulled his chair closer to
the fireplace and took a sip of coffee.  "I understand there was a
fire," he said.

"I was rendering lard and some grease caught fire " I said.

"Was there much damage?"  he said.

"The curtains burned, and some boards on the floor got charred," I
said.  "I put it out with wet sacks."

"And Mr.  Pendergast got burned?"

"He got burned on his head and face, and on his hands," I said.

"How did Mr.  Pendergast get burned so badly?"  Mr.  James said.

"He was trying to put out the fire, and save his property," I said.  "A
can of kerosene flared up and caught his hair."  And that was the
truth.  I wasn't telling Mr.  James a lie.

"Did Mr.  Pendergast tell you where he kept his money?"  the lawyer
said.  Wind made the house shudder and the windows rattle.  A puff of
smoke come out of the fireplace, as it always did when there was a gust
from the north.  The smoke reminded me all too much of the fire in the
kitchen.

"He never did," I said.  And that was true.  Mr.  Pendergast had never
let on he had money until he crawled into the fire to save the jar
behind the stove.

Mr.  James smiled at me.  "What are you folks planning to do now?"  he
said.

"We will stay here and look after the place, until the heirs come," I
said.

"I can see that you're honest folks," he said.

"We try to be," I said.

"That's why I would hate for the bank to foreclose," he said, and took
another sip of coffee.

"What do you mean?"  I said.

"We want to do the Christian thing," he said.  "But if the bank can't
collect the interest due on the loan, it will have to seize the
property."

"I wish my husband was here to talk to you," I said.

"The case is very simple," Mr.  James said.  "If the bank can't collect
the interest due on the loan it will have to foreclose."

"But Mr.  Pendergast's heirs don't even know he's dead yet, as far as I
know," I said.

"I understand that," he said.  "But the bank will have to act in any
case."

"When Hank comes back you can talk to him," I said, feeling
flustered.

"I'm sorry to bring you bad news," Mr.  James said.

"We don't have a place to move to," I said.

"There's no reason you would have to leave, if the bank can collect its
interest," the lawyer said.  "You mean we could stay here?"  I said.

"As long as the payment was made, I don't see why not," Mr.  James
said.

It seemed to me I owed it to the heirs not to let the bank take the
house before they even knowed Mr.  Pendergast was dead.  It was my job
to look after the place until they showed up.  I just wished Hank was
there to help me decide what to do.

"I can see you've taken very good care of the house " Mr.  James
said.

"I've tried my best " I said.

"I'm sorry to surprise you this way' he said.

"You have to do your job " I said.

Mr.  James finished his coffee and put the cup down on the floor.  "I
would like to help you if I could " he said.

"Would you like another cup?"  I said.

"No thank you, I'll have to be going."

I knowed there was something I ought to do; I had to do something.
"When will the bank seize the house?"  I said.

"They will have to act before the end of the year:' Mr.  James said.
"I'm sorry it has to be that soon."

"What if you was to get the money' I said, "for the interest?"

"If the interest was paid the bank wouldn't act:' Mr.  James said.
"Could you pay the interest?"

"We don't have much money' I said.

"The heirs could reimburse you later' Mr.  James said, "when they're
found."

"What if they ain't found?"  I said.

"Then you could keep living here, as far as the bank is concerned ."

I seen it was the thing to do, to pay the interest.  It was the only
thing to do, to not let the bank take the house before the heirs even
knowed Mr.  Pendergast was gone.  And if the interest was paid, Hank
and me could keep living there.  "How much is the interest?"  I said.

"That depends on the period you're paying it for' the lawyer said, "a
month, a quarter, or a year."

"How much for a year?"  I said.

"I'll have to check my papers:' Mr.  James said.

"I think I might know where to get it " I said.

"That would save us all a lot of trouble " Mr.  James said.

I got my shawl and hurried back through the kitchen.  Mr.  James
followed me and stood on the porch as I run to the outhouse.  Behind
the two seats and the Sears and Roebuck catalog we kept to use as
toilet paper, was the jar full of Mr.  Pendergast's pension money. Hank
had put it there after Mr.  Pendergast died.  He said it was one place
nobody would look for money.

The jar was cold as if it was full of ice.  I carried it in both hands
to the porch.

"That belonged to Mr.  Pendergast?"  Mr.  James said.

"It was his pension money' I said.

"Let's count it and I'll give you a receipt " Mr.  James said.

I lit the lamp in the kitchen and the lawyer poured the money out of
the jar on the table.  You never seen so many silver dollars and
half-dollars and quarters, mixed in with dimes and dollar bills.  There
was even a five-dollar gold piece that sparkled in the lamplight. There
was so much money I felt scared.

Me and Mr.  James made separate stacks of all the different kind of
coins.  Some was so old and had stayed in the jar so long they felt
sticky.

"Let's make sure this is not Confederate money' Mr.  James said and
laughed.  When it was all counted there was forty-seven dollars and
eighty-six cents.  "Is that enough for interest?"  I said.  "That's
almost enough for a whole year," Mr.  James said.

I felt so relieved I almost cried, for I had found a way to save Mr.
Pendergast's house for his heirs.  And Hank and me still had a place to
live.

"The Bank of Greenville will remember that you helped us " Mr.  James
said.  "And we may just be able to help you in the future."

Mr.  James opened his case and took out a sheet of paper With his
fountain pen he wrote on the page several lines and handed it to me.
"Received from Mrs.  Julie Richards, $47.86, interest for the loan on
Mr.  Vincent Pendergast's house on Gap Creek.  Jerold James,
Attorney"

"Thank you for helping us:' I said.

"The Bank of Greenville knows it can help itself only by serving its
customers," Mr.  James said.  I walked out into the front yard with him
and watched him climb into the buggy.  He untied the reins from the
post and said giddy up  I watched him turn the buggy around and start
back down the road.  I stood there and watched till he was almost out
of sight before it got so cold in the wind I had to run back into the
house.  ALL DAY AS I worked I thought about Mr.  James and how he had
come out of the blue and collected Mr.  Pendergast's interest for the
bank.  I was proud of what I had been able to do.  Even though Hank
wasn't there, I had paid the interest and saved the house from the
bank.  But the whole thing appeared stranger the more I thought about
it.  I had expected Mr.  Pendergast's heirs to show up and demand the
property and the money, not some lawyer from a bank in Greenville.
There was something odd about the whole business, but I couldn't put my
finger on what it was.  What the lawyer said made sense, but I dreaded
to tell Hank what had happened.  The more I thought about it, the more
I saw he wouldn't be pleased that the money was gone.  I HAD RIBS and
cornbread and fresh collards ready when Hank got home from the mill.  I
poured him a glass of sweet milk and set down myself before I told him
about the lawyer and about the bank having a lien on the property.  "He
said we have to leave?"  Hank said.

"No, he didn't say that " I said.  I listened to the wind outside.
There was a steady roar on the ridge above the creek.

"What did he want?"  Hank said.

"He said Mr.  Pendergast owed interest to the bank " I said.

Hank stopped eating and looked at me.  He had grease on his chin.  "You
didn't tell him Mr.  Pendergast had any money?"  he said.

"I paid the interest " I said.  "He said the bank would take the house
if the interest wasn't paid.  But he was very nice about it."

"I bet he was " Hank said.

"He said we could stay if the interest was paid " I said.

"You didn't tell him about the jar of money?"  Hank said.

"I give him the jar of money, for the interest " I said.

Hank stood up.  His mouth was full of cornbread, and he didn't say
anything for a long time.  "You stupid heifer' he finally said.

I felt ice around my heart when he said that.  I felt a cold vise crush
my heart in its jaws.  "I had to:' I said.  "He said they would seize
the house.  I had to pay the interest."

Before I knowed it Hank swung back and hit me across the face.  My
cheek stung and my head rung, but I didn't hardly feel it.  It was
Hank's words that burned right into my heart.

"He snockered you' Hank said.  "You didn't even know who that man was.
He tricked you.  He didn't even know Pendergast had any money until you
told him.  You dumb heifer."

And I seen it might be true.  The "lawyer" had fished around until I
went after the jar of money.  And he had talked me into giving it to
him.  He had talked so convincing I had give it all to him.  Tears
squirted into my eyes and I run into the living room.  I was ashamed of
what I had done.  And I was ashamed of what Hank had done.  It was a
shame I'd never felt before.  It was a shame that cut through my
stomach like a razor.  I was so ashamed for Hank.  Papa had never hit
me, and Mama had never hit me since I was a little girl.  When was
little Mama used to switch me with a hickory when I sassed her.  But
that was when I was maybe five or six.

I set on the sofa and put my head down on the arm.  But I didn't sob
like a little girl that's heart was broke.  There was tears in my eyes,
but I couldn't empty my grief out in sobs.  I guess I was too shocked,
and too angry.  I buried my eyes in my arm and expected Hank to come in
and say he was sorry.  I thought he would take me by the shoulders and
stand me up and kiss me.  He would comfort me, and then maybe we could
go back to like it was before, before Ma Richards come, and before Mr.
Pendergast died.

But Hank never come into the living room.  I was ready for him to come
put his hands on my shoulders and tell me how sorry he was.  i was
going to resist him at first.  I was going to show how disappointed in
him I was.  I was going to make him work to win my forgiveness; I
wouldn't be so easy to woo back.

Instead of feeling his hands on my shoulders, I heard the back door
slam.  I raised up and listened.  There was only the sound of the fire
in the fireplace and wind brushing the eaves and the roof.  Hank had
gone out into the dark.  Instead of comforting me, he had left me to my
shame.  I felt weak in my knees I was so disappointed.  Worse than the
shame of being slapped was the shame of being left alone.

I stood up and walked to the fire and held out my hands to the flames
because I was cold inside.  People are supposed to feel hot with shame,
but I felt my bones had turned to chalk.  I felt I had shrunk to joints
and knobs of chalk and ice.  I stood by the fire and waited for Hank to
come back in.  I studied what I would say to him.  For I was awful
sorry for what I had done with Mr.  Pendergast's money.  I had give
away money that was not mine, money that would belong to the heirs by
rights.  I had done a foolish thing.  The man that pretended to be Mr. 
James was a true shyster.  And Hank had done a worser thing, when he
raised his hand against me.

The longer I stood by the fire the less I warmed up.  The sound of the
wind made me shudder, and the cold was deep inside me, in my bowels and
in my bones.  If I stood any longer and waited for Hank to come back in
I was going to freeze to death.  I dreaded to go back into the kitchen,
where Hank had slapped me, but there was nowhere else to go, in the
whirl of feelings and the twisting around of everything.

Most of the supper was still on the table, the cornbread and ribs, the
collard greens and the glasses of sweet milk.  Everything had got cold,
except the milk, which had got warm.  The plates had half-eat stuff on
them, and the lamp on the table throwed a yellow light on the
clutter.

I got a handful of kindling and tossed it into the stove, and took the
kettle out to the back porch.  In the dark of the backyard I couldn't
see Hank anywhere.  I wondered if he was out in the barn or maybe
beyond the woodshed.  Was he standing out there watching me?  I poured
the kettle full of water and carried it back into the kitchen.  Was my
marriage over before it had hardly started?

While the water was heating up, I scraped the plates into the slop
bucket for the chickens.  And I put the cornbread and collards and ribs
into the bread safe.  I wiped the table off and throwed the crumbs out
the back door.  With a wet cloth I washed the table and put the dirty
dishes and spoons and forks into the dishpan.  When the kettle was hot
I poured the pan about half full of water.

The hot soapy water felt good on my hands and wrists.  I buried my arms
up to the elbows in the steaming pan and put my face close to the
dishpan to feel the warmth on my chin and neck.  I wished I could sink
my whole body into a tub of hot, soapy water.  needed to soak myself
and cleanse myself.  I needed to melt away the stain of shame.  I
scrubbed each knife and fork, each glass and dish and bowl.  I rinsed
them in a pan of fresh water and dried them with a clean towel.  I was
finished and ready to throw the dirty water out the back door when Hank
appeared in the door.

"What did that lawyer look like?"  he said.

I had thought of a thousand things to say to Hank.  I had thought of
everything from apologizing to trying to shame him for smacking me.  I
had thought of telling him I would get a gun and shoot him if he ever
hit me again.  And I had thought of getting on my knees and begging
forgiveness for the stupid thing I had done.  But now that Hank had
finally come back into the house I couldn't think of a thing to say.  I
wrung out the dishrag in the pan of dirty water.

"Can't you remember what he looked like?"  Hank said.

"He was just a man," I said.  None of the things I had thought of to
say would come to my tongue.

"Is that all you can say?"  Hank said.

"He was a man wearing a suit, and driving a buggy' I said.  I tried to
recall what Mr.  Jamess face had looked like, but I couldn't remember a
single detail.  What was the color of his hair?  The color of his eyes?
Did he have whiskers or not?  It had all slipped out of my mind.

"Was he tall or short?"  Hank said.

"He wasn't as tall as you:' I said.  "And he was a little stoop
shouldered."

"That don't tell us much," Hank said.

"He said his name was Jerrold James," I said.  "He could be anybody'
Hank said.

"I wasn't studying him to remember him," I said.  "I was worrying about
saving Mr.  Pendergast's house."

"You didn't worry enough," Hank said.

This was the first bad quarrel Hank and me had, and I didn't know how
it was going to turn out.  I didn't know if it was the end of us, or
not.  Mama and Papa had had tiffs, but Papa had never struck Mama as
far as I knowed.  Papa had never struck anybody as far as I was
aware.

I didn't say anything to Hank that I didn't have to say.  For I was
still ashamed of what he had done, and what I had done.  I was ashamed
that I couldn't think of what I wanted to say So I just kept quiet
while he fussed and fumed about the money.

"Can't you remember nothing?"  he said.

I shook my head.

"Could you recognize him again?"  Hank said.

"I might"

"And you might not' he said.  Hank was worried and he was nervous.  It
confused him and consternated him that I didn't say much.  He was used
to a woman carrying on like Ma Richards.  He was used to tongue-lashing
and insults.  By keeping quiet I was throwing him off balance.  It was
the first time I seen what power had over his blustering bad temper. If
I just waited, he would get worked up and keep butting his head against
my quietness.  I seen I didn't have to say much at all, could just let
him fret and worry He would use his rage against his self

"Would you recognize his horse?"  Hank said.

"I might," I said.

He talked that way in the kitchen, and then followed me into the living
room, thinking up one question after another But I didn't tell him
much.  I couldn't tell him nothing that would help.  I let him fuss,
and fret and wear his self out.  When it was time to go to bed I didn't
say nothing.  I took the combs out of my hair and put them on the
mantel, and then I got a lamp from the bureau to carry up the stairs. 
I DON'T KNOW what it is about a quarrel that stirs a body so.  But when
I got under the covers in the cold bedroom it felt like my flesh was
going wild and glowing.  The work had burned the chill away, and as I
listened to Hank rage I had got warmer and warmer.  The fuss and the
shame had spirited something inside me.  As I got in bed by myself I
could feel the heat give off by my skin warming up the covers and
mattress under my back.  I listened to the wind in the eaves and in the
chimney and waited for Hank to climb the stairs and come into the
room.

I guess waiting stirs the flesh also.  There is nothing like waiting to
whip up the pulse and make the blood sing in your ears.  I could feel
the blood in my neck and chest, and even in my arms, so warm it was
purring.  I laid in the dark feeling the covers touch the tips of my
breasts and my belly and my knees.  You was a fool, I said to myself.
You are nothing but an idiot.  But the thought was not entirely
painful.  For if I knowed I was a fool and admitted it, at least I was
standing on firm ground and could see clear where I was going.  If
knowed I was a fool I might learn to be better and to do better.

Wind brushed against the roof and I shivered, not because I was cold
but because I was so warm sparks flashed off my body.  There was
electric currents in the covers and in the air, and every bit of my
body had a charge and sting, like soda water on a tongue.  You are pure
fool, I said to myself.  BUT HANK DIDN T come on up to bed.  I laid in
the dark waiting minute after minute.  After maybe an hour I heard the
front door slam, like he had gone out.  And after that I must have
dropped off to sleep, for I never did hear him come in.  But in the wee
hours I was woke by the sound of steps on the stairs.

Hank climbed up the stairs and opened the door.  He was carrying
another lamp and he set the light on the little bureau.  He had to
stoop a little under the slope of the ceiling.  He'd left his shoes
downstairs by the fireplace like he usually did, and he padded around
in his socks.  First he unbuckled one gall us of his overalls, and then
he unbuckled the other.  To take off overalls you have to unbutton the
sides at the waist, but before he done that he blowed out the lamp.  I
listened to him slide off his overalls and hang them on the bedpost.  I
heard something rattle in the corner and couldn't think what it was.
And then I remembered the tin can where Hank sometimes spit out his
tobacco.  Next I heard something creak and felt a draft of cold air. He
had cracked the window just a hair, as he always did before going to
bed.

When Hank set down on the bed to take off his socks, it shook the
mattress and springs like they was jelly.  I quivered with the bed and
tilted as he laid down and pulled the covers over him.  He was so much
heavier than me that the bed shifted and I felt I was laying on a
hillside.  I had to prop myself with one hand and elbow to keep from
sliding over.

Would Hank touch me?  Would he get over his anger enough to forgive me?
Had the quarrel stirred him up and spirited him up the way it had me?
Would he roll over and put his hand on my breast the way he did when he
felt loving?  Would he whisper something in the dark that would send
sparks through me down to my groin?  He shifted his shoulders and
pushed up against the pillow.  His weight made the bed sway.  Every
inch of my skin stung with the itch to be touched and the need to be
touched.  Every place on my body itched.

I wanted to reach out to him, but I knowed that wouldn't do.  I had
never reached out to him before.  I was sure he didn't want me to do
that.  He wanted to be the one to reach out.  If he was ready to love
me he would reach out.  There was nothing for me to do but wait for him
to make up his mind.  I had seen him do it so many times, just make up
his mind all of a sudden that he wanted to be loving.

I listened to the little clock ticking in the dark on the nightstand.
It was the alarm clock we used to wake up at five-thirty or six.  Its
tick was fast as my heartbeat.  Its tick made my ears itch.  The tick
tickled and prickled my skin.

Hank turned over and put his hand on my hip.  But what he said was not
love words.  He didn't whisper that I was his honey or his sugar
pudding.  He didn't whisper that he was sorry and that I was his
sweetheart love.  At first I didn't even hear what he said, it was so
different from what I expected, what I wanted to hear.  You know how
words can seem strange if they're not what you're waiting for

"I got fired today' he said.

He said it like he was almost too tired to say it.  And he said it like
he was explaining why he had got so mad about the jar of money too.  I
knowed that instantly.  He was saying in his own way he was sorry he
had hit me.

"How come?"  I said.

"Cause all the bricks is made' he said.  "They've got bricks enough to
build the cotton mill and they don't need me for anything else."

I reached out and put a hand on his leg.  I put my hand on his hip and
raised my leg and put it on his.  I could feel his sadness, in his
words and in the loose way his body laid.  He was heavy with sadness.
He was slow and hot with sadness.

I run my hand down his hip and his leg.  I smoothed the hairs around
his crotch and felt him get bigger.  My excitement and his sadness made
me bolder than I had ever been before.  I stroked him until he was long
and hard as iron.  I heard his breath getting deeper.  "You will get
another job:' I said.  But it seemed to me that didn't matter.  In the
dark what mattered was we was together and naked.  Wind shoved the side
of the house, way down on Gap Creek in South Carolina.  We would always
find a way to live, a way to get back, as long as we could love. I was
going to have a baby, and that was what mattered.

I run my hand through the hair on Hank's chest and pinched one of his
nipples.  I had not done that before.  It was like everything I did was
the right thing.  When Hank pressed against me I felt the sparkle in my
skin where he touched.  The glow had centered in my belly where the
baby was.  It was a coal of fire.  Mama had told me you shouldn't love
in the later months of a pregnancy, but it was too early to need to
worry I was free to do whatever I wanted, and what I wanted was to love
Hank in our own bed in our own way Our quarrel and the uncertainty of
things made it even more important to love.

As Hank rolled on top of me, it was like time slowed down and every
second stretched out and strained to its limit.  The dark got bigger,
and everything in the dark got bigger.  Hank's shoulders and elbows and
hands got bigger The seconds groaned with bigness.  Every inch of flesh
was large and hurt, it felt so tender.  Hank worked like he was
climbing a hill against me.  He crawled like he was climbing up a tree.
He crawled faster, and then he slowed down.  He slowed down again, and
then he climbed farther He pushed like he was galloping.  He climbed
like he was going to the top of the tallest mountain, and he was
bringing everything he had to me.

Now the strangest thing was I seen all kinds of things to eat in my
mind.  I must have been still hungry after not finishing supper.  seen
bright strawberries, and carrots and tomatoes.  I seen Red Delicious
apples and shelled peas and boiled taters.  I seen new potatoes in
butter and sweet milk.  I seen ripe pears so big you couldn't hardly
take a bite out of them.  I seen grapes so ripe and tight they would
bust on your tongue.

"It's going to be " Hank said.  But I didn't know if he was talking
about the baby or our love, or the wealth of love, which was more
important than money.

Hank hollered out and climbed faster.  And then it was like he busted
out inside me.  It felt time turned inside out on the hot tongue that
flicked inside me.  And I felt my bones melting and my legs melting in
the color that roared through me.  But it was not a red flame or an
orange flame.  It was a blue flame that started at the back of my head
and burned down my spine to my belly and out to the tips of my toes, as
the blue turned to purple.

When Hank rolled off me I was covered with sweat, and I was plumb wore
out.  The day after I give away the jar of Mr.  Pendergast's money and
the day after Hank lost his job at the cotton mill, it was like we had
to start out all over again.  The only reason we had come to Gap Creek,
as far as I could tell, was the job building the mill at Lyman.  Gap
Creek wasn't the kind of place you'd think of moving to unless you had
a purpose or kinfolks there.  And the fact that I had give away money
that was not mine made me see how hard the world was, and how much I
had to learn.  And the fact that Hank had slapped me made me see how
troubled our marriage and our lives was going to be.

I was stiff the next morning from the strain of our quarrel and from
worry.  But I felt cleaned out by the force of our loving, like had
been stretched, both in my body and in my mind, and that left me stiff
and a little sore, the way you feel from working too hard and using new
muscles.

Hank rose early but didn't make a fire in the kitchen stove.  By the
time I got up the kitchen was still cold, and I had to start a fire and
put on a pot to make coffee.  The grass in the backyard was thick with
frost.  Hank brought in a bucket of milk steaming in the cold air. 
"Set that on the porch."  I said.  "I'll strain it later."

I guess he was embarrassed about our quarrel, for he didn't even
answer.  He strained the milk through a piece of flour sack and carried
the pitcher out to the springhouse.  I'd never seen him so quiet.  I
cooked grits and fried some eggs and pieces of shoulder meat.  When we
set down to eat I said, "Can't you get a job at another cotton mill?"

"Ain't another mill in walking distance " he said, "except
Tigerville."

"Then get a job at Tigerville " I said.

"I've already tried," Hank said.

"We could move," I said.

"Move where?"  Hank said.

"Move closer to another cotton mill " I said.

"That's for me to worry about, not you " he snapped.  He put his coffee
cup down and looked angry at me.  I froze inside.  I was just trying to
be helpful and cheerful.  I didn't say nothing else.  I looked at my
plate and eat my grits.  I remembered what Ma Richards had said about
Hank being spoiled, and about him quitting when things got hard.  I saw
that he got mean when he thought he wasn't in charge.  He would get
scared and mean if he thought he wasn't the boss.  When he was angry it
was better for me not to say nothing, even if I was mad too.

The wind had died down during the night and I listened to the fire pop
and mutter in the stove as I put some jelly on a biscuit.

"They're building a store in Pumpkintown," Hank said.  "But that's
nearly ten miles away"

I didn't say a thing.  I would just let him do the talking, if that
made him feel better.  I'd let him talk all he wanted to.  It was
having the last word that was so important to him.  Since he was raised
by Ma Richards it made sense he would feel that way He paused like he
expected me to say something.  I didn't.

"There are houses going up here and there," he said.  "I could ask for
work on one of those jobs"

I listened to wood settle in the stove, and a crow cawed somewhere on
the ridge above the creek.  A hen cackled in the chicken house.

"We could go back to North Carolina " I said.

"Where would we live?"  Hank said.  "There's no room on Painter
Mountain, even if we wanted to live there.  I don't think we can live
with your mama and all your sisters."

"We could find another house up there," I said.

"And what would we use to pay the rent?"  Hank said.

"Gap Creek is fine with me," I said.  Because he was worried, Hank
wanted to pick another fuss.  It was something he was used to.  When
you're unhappy you find a way to get angry and make somebody else angry
But I wasn't going to fall into that habit.

"We might just stay here for a while " he said.

I got up and started gathering the dishes into the dishpan.  I scraped
the plates into the slop bucket and put the leftover biscuits and meat
in the bread safe.  "I'm not worried about staying here' I said.

"Nobody has asked us to leave " Hank said.  I THOlJGHT HANK would
probably go off looking for another job that day, but he didn't.
Instead he took Mr.  Pendergast's shotgun and a box of shells from Mr.
Pendergast's bedroom and put on his mackinaw coat and cap.  "I'm going
to get us a wild turkey' he said.  But he didn't look happy about going
hunting.  His jaw was set in a grim way and he looked like he just
wanted an excuse to get out of the house.  "I ain't seen any wild
turkeys," I said.

"The wild turkeys is up the holler," Hank said, "up the branch, way
back toward Caesar's Head."  AFTER HE WAS gone I cleaned up the
kitchen. And then I decided to have a look around the place.  With no
money coming in from wages, I had to know what we had to last the
winter.  I would be eating for both me and the baby, and I had to see
what there was to get us through till the spring, assuming we was
allowed to stay in the house till spring.  I didn't have but thirty-six
cents in my purse, and I didn't know how much Hank had in his pockets. 
But whatever it was, we would soon run out of cash.  I was not going to
ask Mama to help us, unless there was no other way, and I was not going
to ask Ma Richards for anything.  But if there was enough stuff on Mr.
Pendergast's place, we might make it through the winter anyway, until
the baby was born.

I lit a lamp and took it down to the cellar.  I doubted that Mr.
Pendergast had done much canning on his own.  But his wife must have at
one time.  I had seen those jars down there before.

I held the lamp high over the jars and looked around the musty
basement.  There was old boards piled above the bank, and a dough board
with mold on it.  Mold growed white as baking soda on the beams.  And
then I seen the bin of taters.  I had forgot the bin of taters.  There
was two bins actually, Irish taters and sweet taters.  The spuds must
have been dug in mud for they had dirt crusted on them.  They was
little taters, but there might have been two or three bushels of them.
Only problem was some had already begun to get soft and wrinkled.  The
skin of the taters was puckered in places, like they had been dug a
long time ago.  I squeezed several and some was soft, but most wasn't
rotten.  I'd have to pick through the pile and get rid of the rotten
ones.

The sweet taters looked cleaner, like they had been dug in dry dirt
that crumbled off them.  Sweet taters look more like roots than Irish
taters; they look swelled up, like big blood vessels.  Some was perfect
as a football, but most was crooked and wrenched around.  I picked
through the sweet taters and found them hard and cold, like they had
been dug that fall just before we moved to Gap Creek.

There was a few old buckets and rusty hoes in the cellar, but I
couldn't find nothing else that could be eat.  The basement looked like
it had long been forgot, a place that was about to be buried under
cobwebs and low sills and joists.  I climbed back up the plank steps to
daylight and blowed the lamp out.  The fresh air tasted so good I
breathed deep to get the cellar taste out of my mouth and nose.

Next I inspected the corncrib.  It was a regular old-time crib made of
two-inch slats with wire mesh nailed to the inside.  It was the kind of
crib with slanted sides, bigger at the top than at the bottom.  There
was moss and lichens growing on the slats, showing how old it was.  The
door was a crawl-through door, more than waist high.  I pulled out the
peg that held the door and looked inside.

A basket on the floor held some ears of shucked corn, and a bucket of
shelled corn set beside it.  It was the corn I used to feed the
chickens.  But most of the crib was filled up with a great heap of un
shucked ears.  I guess there was a wagon load of corn there, the shucks
gray and weathered.  Grains scattered on the floor had the hearts eat
out by weevils, like beads that had been drilled through.  I climbed in
and took an ear and pulled the shuck back.  Some of the grains had been
hollowed out and some not.  The corn must have been two or three years
old, and some of it was not fit to use.  But there was enough good corn
to make some meal, five or six bushels anyway.

There was strings of dried peppers hung on the back porch.  But I
wondered if there was anything else on the place to eat.  Wasn't
anything in the woodshed but wood.  I knowed what was in the
springhouse.  That left the old smokehouse where we had put the ham and
shoulders and middles on the day of the hog killing.  There was some
jugs on the bottom shelves of the smokehouse I wanted to look at.  I
opened the door of the little building and let the sunlight fall on the
floor where the ashes from hickory fires was heaped.  The salted meat
laid on the shelves, and the place smelled like salt and uncooked lard.
The smell of salt made you think of cooked meat.

The jugs on the lower shelves was heavy earthenware.  I lifted one up
and took it out into the sunlight.  It was the kind of jug you think of
as holding moonshine.  I pulled the wooden stopper out and sniffed.  It
was the smell of sorghum, rich, maybe overcooked sorghum.  I tilted the
jug and a tongue of molasses licked out slow through the mouth.  I
dipped a finger in the dark syrup and brought it to my mouth.  It was
sorghum all right, with a golden redness inside.  No blackstrap syrup,
or cane syrup, but sorghum with its special smell.  It was a little
overcooked and thick, almost rubbery in the cold air.  But the molasses
could be warmed up, and they had the right flavor.  There was four jugs
of them.  That would last through the winter, with syrup for biscuits
and cornbread, as well as sweetening for cakes and gingerbread.  There
was molasses to be put on cornmeal mush in the morning, and on
oatmeal.

The only place I hadn't been to was the barn loft.  I knowed what was
in the feed room on the ground floor, the barrels of crushing and dairy
feed and cottonseed meal, the bag of shorts for the hog, the laying
mash and oyster shells for the chickens, sweet feed for the horse.  The
steps to the loft was outside the feed room, and as I climbed the steps
I seen two dusty china eggs on the shelf by the harness.  Old horse
collars and plow lines hares and trace chains, singletrees and double
trees hung on nails.  Mice scurried around the sacks and coils of rope
as I climbed.

The barn loft was a great room open to the rafters.  The roof was held
up by poles, and there was heaps of sweet, moldy hay in the center,
near the hatch where forkfuls could be throwed down to the ground. Mice
trickled along the eaves, as daylight sparkled through cracks. There
was a pile of shucks in the corner, and grains of corn was scattered on
the floor where ears must have been piled at one time.

I looked to the side of the hay pile and seen something with a wick,
like the tip of a giant candle.  Stepping closer I seen it was the stem
of a winter squash.  There was maybe ten squashes there, acorn squash
and winter squash.  They was hard and cold.  And then I seen the
pumpkins.  They wasn't big pumpkins like you make jacko'-lanterns from.
They was sugar pie pumpkins, not much bigger than the squash.  I
counted seven of them.

Standing beside the hay pile I smelled something sweeter than the hay.
It was just a whiff, a trace.  I looked around but couldn't name the
scent, except I was sure it wasn't just the smell of old seasoned hay.
I searched in the gloom and found the perfume come out of the straw. It
was the scent of apples.  I poked around in the edge of the hay pile
until I touched something hard.  There was round, hard things under the
straw.  I pulled the hay aside and seen the apples.  They was spotted
gold and orange apples.  They was what Mama called "horse apples"
except a little bigger than horse apples.  They had been gathered from
the tree at the side of the barn.  Mr.  Pendergast must have gathered
them and hid them in the hay.  The apples was sticky with natural wax
on their skin, and they had hay dust stuck to them.  But they was firm,
fresh fruit.  Must have been a peck or two of them, buried in the hay
waiting to be made into pies in January or February, as long as they
stayed cold.  I picked up an apple and wiped it on my sleeve and bit
it.  The flesh was yellow, sweet and coppery, an old-timey taste.  The
firm flesh turned to juice as it was crushed.

While I was eating the apple, I looked around the loft and seen a
string of what looked like tinsel hung from the post on the left.
Looking closer, I found they was beans, dried beans still in the pod
and threaded together to stay dry.  There was yards and yards of beans.
They looked like bunch beans and cornfield beans that had been dried.
They had dust on them, but they could be washed and boiled to make
soup, to make soup beans.

But the strangest thing I seen in the barn loft was this old basket, a
split hickory basket, made like a saddle, with high ends and bulges on
either side.  It was the kind of basket you don't hardly see anymore.
Inside was all these little paper bags closed with clothespins.  There
must have been twenty of them.  The bags looked wrinkled and reused
many times.  I was going to open a bag when I saw there was writing on
the side of it.  Somebody had wrote in pencil "Blue Lakes" on the brown
paper.  I opened the bag and found it was white bean seeds.  Other bags
said Half Runners and "Barnes Mountain Beans' "Big John Beans' "Seay
Beans " "Brown Speckled Beans " "Long White Greasy Beans " "Edwards
Beans " "Goose Beans," "Greasy Cut-Short Beans," "Johnson County Beans
" "Lazy Wife Beans " "Logan Giant " "Nickel Beans," and "Ora's Speckled
Beans."

It was a basket of old bean seed, sorted and labeled.  Mr. Pendergast's
wife must have left them there.  They was all ready to be planted.  If
I stayed till spring I would put them in the ground.  WHEN I CLIMBED
down from the barn loft I tried to think what else might look for that
could be eat.  There was the cow and the horse and the dozen chickens. 
But there was no guineas and no sheep on the place.  Maybe Mr. 
Pendergast had buried some cabbages.  It would mean a lot to have fresh
cabbages to eat in the winter.  And if I had enough heads I could make
sauerkraut.  After the wind of the night before, the sky looked like it
had been scrubbed and polished.  The air was clean and everything
sparkled.  The creek shimmered where you could see it between willows,
and the yellow leaves still on the hickories flashed across the
pasture.

I always loved the late fall.  The cool air was thrilling and the
purple leaves on the oaks and gum trees was a feast for the eyes.  Here
and there on the other side of the pasture a sumac bush or sassafras
was bright red, like a touch of lipstick.  But the woods was yellow and
gold more than anything else.  The woods looked painted, like a rainbow
had crashed onto the mountain and spilled its colors down the valley.
Since we had moved to Gap Creek, and since Mr.  Pendergast was burned
in the fire, I had been too busy to get out and look over the place.  I
had been to the hog pen and to the springhouse, and to the toilet, but
I had not walked out to the end of the pasture.  I had been too much in
the daze of being married, and moving to a strange place, to look
around Mr.  Pendergast's property.  And I hadn't felt much like poking
around for the fun of it.

Where somebody has buried cabbage, all you see is the roots sticking
out of the ground like pigtails.  Cabbages are buried upside down.  I
looked in the stubble along the edge of the garden, and in the edge of
the orchard beyond the hog pen  There was loose dirt and weed stalks
where the taters had been dug up, but I didn't see cabbage roots.  I
searched along the pasture fence beyond the smokehouse and didn't see
no buried heads there either.

At the milk gap I climbed up on the bars and jumped down on the other
side.  The grass in the pasture had been cropped short by the cow and
horse, but indigo bushes growed here and there.  For some reason stock
won't eat indigo, as long as there's anything else to graze on.  There
was cow piles scattered over the pasture like big brown buttons.  The
barbed wire fence looked old and needed patching.  In places rails had
been nailed between poles where the wire had rusted and broke.  The
fence leaned this way and that way and staggered along the edge of the
woods.

The pasture was bounded by the branch on one side, and in places the
stream had washed out posts so they hung on the wires above the water.
It was a wonder the cow hadn't got out by going under the wire.  Leaves
had washed down the branch and piled up in the pools in wads and
wedges.

"Eeeeeerrrrrr," something whistled in the sky above.  I looked up and
seen a hawk floating up there.  I didn't know what it was watching,
maybe a field mouse, or a squirrel.  There was no baby chicks for it to
catch that I was aware of.  I walked along the fence to where the
pasture started up the side of the mountain.  I guess bottom land along
the creek was too valuable to use for pasture on Gap Creek, for only a
few acres of pasture was near the creek flats.  Where the pasture was
steep, some of the ground was cleared and some under trees.  I had not
been out in the woods since I got married and come down to South
Carolina.  It felt good to be in the open, and to smell the old leaves
in ditches and in the branch.

I turned to look at the valley.  Gap Creek was just a narrow, twisty
cove that wound for a few miles between the ridges.  There was a rock
cliff high on the opposite ridge that looked like a wrinkled face
frowning at the fields below.  "Fussy Face " I named it, speaking out
loud.  Old Fussy Face, that like a statue kept watch on the seasons
passing and the people on the road below.  The rock looked down like a
silent idol on the passing seasons.  It made me feel something I
couldn't name.  Gap Creek valley was so narrow, so pinched between the
flanks of the ridges, it looked like a toy valley, a model of a cove in
the mountains.  The tops of the ridges had been stripped bare by the
wind, but the lower slopes and the holler itself still had color.

I turned around and climbed a little more, and seen this white thing
through the trees.  It looked like a face, or a piece of snow.  stopped
and tried to think what it might be.  Was it somebody watching me?  Was
it a piece of white cloth?  The thing was about waist high, best I
could figure.  I started walking, for I guessed whatever it was
couldn't hurt me.

As I got closer something run away from the white spot.  I seen a flash
of white disappear and knowed it was a deer that went bounding off to
jump the fence and disappear into the woods.  Still closer I saw what
appeared to be a white skull on a stob, except it was too square to be
a skull and the eye holes was wrong.  I thought it was a piece of ice.
And then I saw it was a salt lick.  Mr.  Pendergast had put a block of
salt on a stick for his cow to lick, and the deer had come out of the
woods to lick it too.

"Mr.  Pendergast is gone but his salt is still shining up here' I said,
not sure what I meant.  I turned and looked toward the trees and seen a
deer watching me from the shadows.  It was waiting to come back and
lick the salt, waiting for me to get out of its way.  thought how
everything craved salt.

Mama had told me that during the Confederate War when you couldn't buy
nothing at the store, and there wasn't any money, salt was the scarcest
thing of all.  Salt was ten dollars a pound, then fifty dollars a
pound.  It got to where you couldn't buy it for any price.  Where there
was a salt spring back in the mountains, people went there to boil the
water down to catch the salt.  They fought over water there and at
least one got shot.  People got so hungry for salt they dug up the dirt
of their smokehouse floors and boiled it to get the salt drippings out.
I LEFT THE salt block so the deer could come back to lick and savor it.
I wanted to climb higher so I could see more of the valley I wanted to
get out in the woods by myself the way I used to on the mountain.  I
wanted to stretch my lungs and my legs, and to get up high on the
ridge.  I wanted to get away from the house and not think about Hank
for a while.  I wanted to forget how unhappy he was, and how I had give
the money to Jerrold James.

Just as I got to the edge of the woods a gust of wind hit the hickory
trees and gold leaves floated out across the valley like flocks of
birds.  Leaves swirled and fluttered.  The air was filled and the sky
was filled as trees all over the side of the mountain give up their
leaves to the gust.  Red leaves and yellow leaves and orange leaves
shivered in the air.  Wind raked across the mountain and combed through
the trees, and it looked like the whole mountain was breathing out
leaves.

I run through the leaves like they was butterflies whirling around me.
I slapped at the flying leaves like they was colorful snowflakes.  I
would be too heavy to run and climb in the woods before long.  So I
might as well run while I was thrilled by the wind and had a chance.  I
climbed over the fence and run through the hickories and under the
maples and poplars.  The air was alive with leaves bright as goldfish.
I slapped at a floating leaf and turned and run up the ridge.

The ground was deep in fresh-fell leaves, and leaves sparkled like they
was waxed and oiled.  I kicked up a cloud of leaves.  I kicked up a fog
of new-fell leaves.  I kicked away the leaves in front of me like deep
fresh snow.  Leaves swarmed around my head, clicking as they touched. I
waved my arms and swatted them away.  I danced with the leaves and made
them swirl faster.  I laughed out loud and laughed at the top of my
voice.  I caught leaves in my apron and pitched them away.

When I got out of breath I was almost at the top of the mountain.  The
wind was colder there.  I skipped and stumbled through poplars to the
very top.  Just under the summit, where a kind of bed was protected
from the wind, I laid down on my back in the clean, fresh leaves.  I
wanted to rest in a spot out of the breeze.  I laid back with my arms
spread out in the leaves the way you do to make angels in snow.  I'd
never heard of "leaf angels" but I guess you could make them.

The trees was thinner at the ridge top and their limbs had already been
stripped of leaves.  I looked right up through the lightning shapes of
limbs to the blue sky.  There was a few leaves flying by up there, and
I saw a bird, and then I seen a flock of geese going by in a point,
like the head of an arrow.  But after the geese went by I saw nothing
but blue sky.  Through the gray lightning of the limbs I looked right
into the deep sky

Now it was the strangest thing to look deeper and deeper into the blue.
Most times you look into the sky and just see haze and blue.  Unless
there is clouds and you look past the clouds.  But this time I looked
into the clear sky and saw the depth in the sky.  I looked past the
clear air into the further miles of air, and still deeper where the air
was thinning out to nothing.  I looked until I could see nothing but
emptiness, out toward the stars, though I couldn't see the stars in
daylight.

I looked so deep and long I felt I was falling.  I was following my
sight right out and through the limbs and into the empty air.  Instead
of looking up, I felt I was hanging from the ground and looking down,
further and further down, miles and years down, mile after empty mile.
I was falling far down into the nothing.  I was whooshing down deeper
and deeper into the emptiness.  And the thought of falling forever and
forever froze me.  I stiffened myself like I was flying faster and
faster.  I felt like I was going to explode.

I closed my eyes and the feel of falling stopped.  I felt the fresh
leaves on my back and opened my eyes and seen the trees around me.  A
daddy long legs prickled on the leaves nearby.  It had already throwed
its perfume, as they do when they're scared, and I smelled the musky
odor.

Standing up I looked at things close by: a fallen sourwood, a little
holly tree.  It felt so good to have my feet on the ground again, I
stomped into the leaves going down the ridge.  I stepped firm to grip
the grolllld I stomped hard to make dints in the soft ground under the
leaves, digging my heels into the steep side of the mountain, making
steps.  I didn't want to go back down the way I had come up and tended
to the left, to come out of the woods further down the valley I had
never been in the woods below the Pendergast place.  I wanted to see a
little more of Gap Creek before I returned to the house.

As my balance come back I took bigger steps down the mountain.  I swung
around trees and fairly jumped between trees.  I skipped, and one time
slid in the leaves right on my behind.  But it felt good, almost like
skidding on a board or a sled.  I scooted down in the leaves and then
stood up and run, pretending I couldn't stop myself, and slapped at
sour woods and young hickories.  I run until the ground leveled out and
I was standing almost on the valley floor.  T[lAT EVEN IN I was
thinking about fixing supper, about making some cornbread and baking
taters, and opening a can of beans from the basement, when I seen Hank
coming into the back yard carrying a big old bird.  I thought at first
it must be a goose, but it was too big even to be a goose.

"Fix this turkey," he said and throwed it down on the back porch.  "I'm
tired.  I had to walk all the way to Caesar's Head."

"I walked to the top of the ridge," I said.

"What for?"  Hank said, taking off his mackinaw coat.

"I was looking for chestnuts."  I said.  I didn't want to say I went
walking just to see the woods, to be outdoors in the fall weather. 
That wouldn't have sounded right.

"Did you find any?"  Hank said.

"A few' I said.  I didn't want Hank to think I went gallivanting around
the woods just to be footloose.  After all, I was carrying a baby.  I
didn't want to tell him I had gone dancing around in the woods with the
flying leaves, and that I laid on the mountaintop looking into the sky
till it felt like I was falling out toward the stars.  The best way I
could show him how helpful I was was to keep my mouth shut and fix the
turkey.  I BOILED A pot of water on the stove and carried it out on the
back porch.  A turkey is harder to dip than a hen, because it's bigger
and longer, and the feathers are so long and stiff they don't even want
to fit in the pot.  I held the turkey by the neck and by the feet and
doused it into the smoking water.  The water was so hot the steam near
about burned me.  I plunged the bird in and let it soak.  Then when I
pulled it out, the water streaming from the feathers smoked in the cold
evening air The drops almost scalded me as I pulled out the big tail
feathers and wing feathers.  Even the back feathers of turkey are stiff
and long.

I pulled out handfuls of feathers and throwed them in the yard,
thinking I'd clean them up later.  But the wind swept them across the
yard and into the weeds.  I plucked until my hands was covered with
little feathers and pin feathers and down stuck to my wrists.  I
plucked the carcass until the skin looked bumpy and hairy.  And then I
lit a piece of newspaper and singed away the rest of the pin feathers
and down.  Nothing looks as naked as a plucked and singed bird.

After that I had to wash my hands and dry them on my apron.  Taking the
sharpest knife in the kitchen, I rubbed it some more on the whet rock
on the back porch and then took the bird out to the chopping block and
cut off the head and feet.  The blood had darkened and thickened, but a
good bit still poured out the neck.  Now the messy part of dressing a
bird is when you have to slice open the belly and take the guts out.
There's a stink when you scald the feathers and pluck them, but it's
not as sickening as the smell of guts.  The smell that come out of the
belly was worse than the stink of chicken piles and the chicken house.
The bird was cold but the smell was hot as something burning.

This is what I have to do for Hank, and for myself, I thought.  It made
me mad to have to pull out the squishy cold guts and rake them into the
weeds beyond the chopping block.  Dogs would come in the night and eat
them up.  But I had to make Hank feel good about his self to make him
feel strong and in charge of things.  If he wanted to go off into the
mountains to kill a turkey and bring it back for me to fix, then that
was the least I could do.

I cleaned out the turkey inside and washed it with dippers of water.  I
thought about cutting it up the way you do a chicken, but the body was
too big to fry.  I didn't have a pan that would hold it.  I would have
to bake it in the oven.  That would take about four hours, and we would
have to eat late.  But the turkey would be a feast.  Maybe it would
cheer up Hank and make him forget he had lost his job.  Maybe it would
make him happy he had moved to Gap Creek.  Maybe he would forget I had
give away the jar of money to the man in the buggy.  I tried to think
about what I had to stuff into the turkey My supply of herbs and spices
was meager.  But I did have some biscuits left over from breakfast, and
some sage and pepper.  I crumbled the biscuits and sliced some taters
into them, and sprinkled four or five herbs into the mixture.  I
stirred it up and added a little vinegar before stuffing it inside the
turkey.  Then I slid it all into the oven .

"It'll take at least four hours " I said to Hank as he lifted the milk
bucket off its nail.

"There's a thousand turkeys upp there " he said.  "Up where?"  "In the
holler below Caesar's Head " he said.  "In the gap where Gap Creek
comes from?"  I said.

"No no no, in the gap to the west," Hank said.  "There is turkeys in
the trees and in the bushes.  They was eating chestnuts on top of the
ridge.  There is enough turkeys to last all winter."

"Then we won't starve " I said.  But the second it come out I was sorry
I'd said it.

"Do you think I'm gonna let you starve?"  Hank said.

I was about to answer that I hadn't meant it that way, but he had
already slammed the door and was gone.  WITH HANK NOT making any wages,
and with winter on its way and Christmas on its way, I begun to think
of some means of getting a little cash.  I never cared a thing about
money, except when I needed something, or to buy presents.  I wanted to
send something to Mama, and to my sisters up on the mountain.  And I
figured Hank would want to buy something for Ma Richards, if not for
his brothers.  We wouldn't likely have a chance to go up to Painter
Mountain or to Mount Oliver, but we could mail some presents if we had
them.  And I wanted to buy a present for Hank too.  I could always make
him something, but I wanted to order something from the Sears and
Roebuck catalog.

I didn't have any money of my own.  I looked in my purse and found I
still had only thirty-six cents.  That wouldn't even buy a present for
Mama, much less Lou and Rosie and Carolyn.  I counted the money and put
it back in my purse.  There must be something on the place I could
sell.  The chickens belonged to Mr.  Pendergast, but I had fed and
watered them and gathered the eggs.  Maybe I could sell a few eggs down
at the store at the crossroads for twenty cents a dozen.  And if I made
some extra butter I might sell it for fifteen cents a pound.  But the
cow wasn't giving much milk now, and the milk she did give didn't have
a lot of butter in it.  I wouldn't be able to make more than a few
pennies out of butter before (Christmas.

Could I make any money out of gathering chestnuts?  There was plenty of
chestnuts on the ridges above Gap Creek.  But I'd have to take them to
Greenville to sell.  It wouldn't be right to sell Mr.  Pendergast's
taters, or anything else of his on the place.  I wished I was better at
sewing.  I wished I had practiced with my needle the way Rosie and even
Lou had, while I was out sawing wood or hoeing corn.  I wished I could
do fancy embroidery or quilting.  I wished I had a sewing machine.  I
didn't even have any cloth to make new clothes for Hank and me.  Two
DAYS LATER there was a banging at the front door.  Who could be
knocking so loud on the front porch?  Hank had gone off I didn't know
where, and I didn't know when he would be back.  The curtains was
closed in the front room so I couldn't even see out the window.  Before
I could get to the front door it opened, and somebody said, "Anybody
home?"

"I'm home " I said.  I said it stiff, for I didn't know who was coming
in.

It was a woman that entered the front room, followed by a man wearing a
black hat.

"Howdy do " I said.

"I can't bear it " the woman said and buried her face in a
handkerchief.  I couldn't see too well with the light behind her, but I
didn't think I knew her, or the man either.

"You all come on in," I said.  It was the only thing to say.

"Just give me a minute to get hold of myself " the woman said.

"I'm Julie Richards," I said and held out my hand.  !  "

"I'm Caroline Glascock," the woman said, "and this is my husband
Baylus."  She sobbed and put the handkerchief to her nose.

"Is anything wrong?"  I said.

"I'll be all right in a minute," the woman said.

"You all pull up a chair by the fire " I said.  I throwed another log
on the fire.  It had got chilly in the room as the fire died down.

"Thank you, darling," she said and wiped her eyes.

I set down with them before the fire and the man held out his hands to
the flames.  I knowed I had to be neighborly, the way Mama would be.
"It's cold out there today' I said.

"Cold weather makes this place even sadder," she said.

"Cold weather is good for hog killing " I said.

"Honey, you don't know who I am " the woman said.  "I'm Mr.
Pendergast's daughter, stepdaughter."

"I was awful sorry when he died " I said.

"I didn't even know until this week " she said, and cried again.  Her
husband didn't say anything.

"Hank and me have took care of the house " I said.

"Tell me how it happened " Caroline Glascock said.  She looked at the
pictures on the mantel and shook her head and dabbed at her eyes.

"We was rendering lard when the kitchen caught fire " I said.

"And he died in the fire?"  she said.  "How awful."

"He died later that night," I said.  I didn't want to tell her no more
than I had to.

"After he got burned?"  the woman said.

"He did get burned," I said, "on his face and head and hands.  It was
terrible:'

"Pappy and me didn't always gee-haw," Caroline said.  "But it broke my
heart to hear how he died."

"I stayed up with him the night he died " I said.  "We did what we
could Id for him ."  "How long have you lived here?"  she said, wiping
her eyes.  "We just moved here this fall," I said, "from up in North
Carolina."  "How long did Pappy suffer before he died?"  she said.

"Like I said.  he died the night after he got burned " I said.  "We
went after a doctor, but it didn't do no good."  I felt bad to have to
tell her about that night, but there was nothing else to do.  I looked
at the man.  He set in front of the fire turning his black hat in his
hands.  He was listening, but didn't say nothing.

Caroline stood up and lifted a picture from the mantel.  "Wasn't Mama a
pretty woman when she was young?"  she said.

"She was beautiful " I said.  Caroline was a big woman.  I guess she
weighed about two hundred pounds and was forty, maybe forty-five.

"Did he tell you who this place belongs to?"  Caroline said.

"No, he never did " I said.

"It belongs to me " she said.

"What about your brother?"  I said.  "The one that lives out in
California

"Mr.  Pendergast, Pappy, meant to leave the place to me.  I bet there's
a will somewhere in this house that proves it."

"I ain't found a will " I said.

"Don't matter' she said.  "Nobody's thinking of property at a time like
this"

"Could I get you all some coffee?"  I said.

"It upsets me so much to come back here' Caroline said, "I don't think
I could drink anything."

"I'm awful sorry about what happened " I said.

"What started the fire?"  Caroline said.  I looked at her and then I
looked away.  I felt a wave of sickness inside like I was going to
throw up.

"I had helped Mr.  Pendergast kill his hog " I said.  "And we was
rendering the lard."  "You helped butcher the hog?"  Caroline said.

"Wasn't nobody else to do it " I said.  "Mr.  Pendergast couldn't lift
much."

"Word is he burned his self trying to save the house' Caroline said.
"Pappy ever was a fool when he got scared."

"He got burned in the kitchen when the kerosene exploded " I

"But the house didn't burn down " she said.

"I got some wet sacks and put the fire out " I said.

"Bless you, honey' Caroline said.  "We owe you."

There was a pause and the fire popped and whined, like it was coming a
rain or even snow.  I didn't want to talk any more about the fire.  I
knowed it would just make her sadder.  I wondered if she was going to
tell us we had to move out of the house.

"I think Pappy Pendergast had a lot of money hid away' she said.

"Where did he hide it?"  I said.  I couldn't bring myself to admit I
had give the jar of money away.  I wasn't going to tell her that.

"I reckon he hid it in different places' Caroline said.  "Sometimes he
had it in a shoebox in the closet, and some money he had buried in a
tobacco can in the backyard.  I've knowed him to keep his money in a
old leather shot pouch that hung in the attic."

"I never seen any of those " I said.

"And sometimes he kept it in a fruit jar:' she said.

"What kind of jar?"  I said.

"Why a mason jar, honey, a half-gallon mason jar, like you buy corn
liquor in " she said.

"There is mason jars in the basement' I said.  "Would you all like to
search the house?"

"Honey, it don't matter' Caroline Glascock said.

"I ain't searched the attic " I said.  "But I've cleaned the rest of
the rooms and washed all of Mr.  Pendergast's clothes."  "Bless your
heart " Caroline said.  "We have tried to take care of all Mr.
Pendergast's things," I said.

"Pappy was a squirreler' Caroline said.  "He would squirrel away just
about anything.  He could have left his money out in the smokehouse or
the woodshed.  He could have put it in the springhouse, or under the
crushing in the barn."

I felt a flash of pain in my belly, like a cramp was coming on.  I
wished they wasn't there so I could make some herb tea and rest.  felt
like there was some big change in my life about to happen.  I wished
Hank would come and talk to them about paying the rent on the house.
"Mr.  Pendergast was here by his self for a long time," I said.

"I know he was and I feel bad about it:' Caroline said.  "Baylus works
in Columbia and that's where we have to live.  It's too far to come up
here more than about once or twice a year.  We come when we could."

"How long does it take?"  I said.

"It's not just the train ride to Greenville.  It's finding a way to get
from Greenville to Gap Creek that is the trouble.  You have to hire
carriage or a buggy or some such.  It's an all-day operation."

"So you growed up here on Gap Creek?"  I said.

"Only for a while," Caroline said.  "But I have such happy memories of
this house."  Her voice broke and she cried again.

I hoped I didn't have to throw up while they was there.  I didn't want
to have to turn my back on them and run away and puke.  I was
embarrassed enough as it was.  I felt sorry for her, and I was scared
she would find out I had give away the money.

"How much rent are you all paying?"  Caroline said and blowed her
nose.

"I don't know," I said.

"You don't know?"  she said.

"Because I kept the house and cooked for Mr.  Pendergast."  I said. 
"You mean you was the housekeeper?"

"Hank, my husband, made an arrangement with Mr.  Pendergast for us to
live here " I said.  I had never knowed exactly what the arrangement
was.

There was a wrenching in my belly and I felt something push like a fist
right up in my throat.  The sour taste reached the back of my mouth
before I could stop it.  I stood up and put my hand over my mouth and
started running toward the kitchen.

"Are you all right, honey?"  Caroline Glascock called after me.

As I run into the dark kitchen I tried to think what I could throw up
in.  There was the slop bucket behind the stove, but it would take too
long to find it and get it out in the open.  There was the dishpan, but
if I used that I'd have to wash it out.  The kitchen still smelled like
the baked turkey, and that made me even sicker.  I run out the back
door and down the porch steps.  At the corner of the porch I bent over
and retched so hard it felt like my tailbone was coming up through my
belly.  I heaved like I was trying to get rid of everything I had ever
eat.  I heaved like I was trying to turn myself inside out.

When I quit heaving I was so weak I had to hold on to the post of the
porch.  I was wet with sweat and felt like I had just been born.

"Are you all right?"  Caroline Glascock said.  She had come out on the
back porch and her husband Baylus stood in the doorway behind her.

"I must have eat something " I said.

"You must have been poisoned " Caroline said.

I was so stiff and weak I had to walk slow to the steps and up the
steps.  I was sore inside, like every muscle in my belly had been
strained.  I hobbled up the steps one at a time.  "You be careful, girl
" Caroline said.

They followed me back to the living room where I stood by the fireplace
trying to catch my breath.  I felt clean and steady, but weak.  "How
much do you want to charge for rent?"  I said.

"We'd rather sell the place than rent it " Caroline said.  "We already
have a house in Columbia."

"I don't reckon we can afford to buy a house yet," I said.

"Leasing is better than renting " Caroline said.

"I don't think we've got much money' I said.

"We need to find somebody to buy the house' Caroline said.  "Much as I
hate to sell Pappy's place, I know it has to be done."

Hank come in the front door He looked cold, like he had walked a long
way, cold and tired.  I was so relieved he had come back I could have
cried.  "This is Caroline Glascock " I said to him, "and her husband
Baylus.  She's Mr.  Pendergast's stepdaughter."

"Pleased to meet you:' Caroline said.

"How do " Hank said and took off his mackinaw coat.  He stretched out
his hands to the fire.

"Mr.  and Mrs.  Glascock say we might be able to rent the house," I
said.  It seemed polite to mention both of them, though Caroline had
done all the talking.

"We'd like to sell the place " Caroline said.  "Baylus and me don't
have any use for it."

"What are you asking?"  Hank said.

"We want to be reasonable " Caroline said.  "We just want to get a
decent price for the place, don't we, Baylus?"

Her husband nodded and didn't say anything.

"I ain't got a lot of money' Hank said.

"This place will pay for itself in a short time:' Caroline said. 
"Pappy raised a ton of hogs and sold the hams down in Greenville.  He
raised everything here, corn and sorghum and cotton."

"Ain't seen no sign of cotton," Hank said.

"It's been a while since he raised cotton," Caroline said.  "He got too
old and feeble to raise cotton after Mama died."

"I thought this was above the cotton line " Hank said.  "I thought they
never did grow cotton north of Traveler's Rest."

Caroline looked at Hank and wiped her eyes.  "Pappy knowed how to do it
" she said.  "It would grow here on the valley floor, protected by the
mountains."  The fire popped and I heard a wagon rattle by outside.  My
sides was sore from all the throwing up, and there was a sour taste at
the back of my mouth.  I needed a drink of cold water to freshen my
mouth and clean my throat.  But my belly felt cool inside, almost cold.
I was glad it was settling.

"Mr.  Pendergast let us stay here cause Julie kept house for him and
cooked his meals," Hank said.

"We need to sell the place " Caroline said, "much as we'd like for you
all to stay on."

"But you might rent the house to us?"  I said.

"We'd prefer to sell' Caroline said.  "And we could use the money. Just
last summer I had an operation we're still paying for."

"How do I know you all are who you say you are?"  Hank said.

"Who else could we be?"  Caroline said.  She opened her purse and took
out a card.  Hank looked at the card and then handed it to me.  "Mr.  &
Mrs.  Baylus Glascock" it said on the card, and give an address in
Columbia.

"I just wanted to be sure," Hank said.

"I don't blame you, the way people are these days' Caroline said .

"How much would you rent it for?"  Hank said.

"We could only rent it till we found a buyer' Caroline said.

"If we could afford to we'd like to stay here " Hank said, "at least
till the baby's born."

"I thought you might be going to have a baby' Caroline said and smiled
at me.  "When is it due?"

"Around May or June " I said.

"We need to sell " Caroline said, "but you all look like decent
people."  She looked around at her husband and back at me.  "Maybe you
could stay here till after the baby is born."

"How much rent would you charge?"  Hank said.  "I ain't got a lot of
money"

"Did you say you are a carpenter?"  Caroline said.

"I do carpentry and masonry' Hank said.

"Maybe in the spring we could hire you to fix up the place."  Caroline
said, "to get it ready to sell."

"I can do any kind of work " Hank said.

"How much could you pay now?"  Caroline said.  "We want to be
reasonable."

"I ain't got but five dollars to my name " Hank said.  He reached into
his pocket and took out five silver dollars.  I reckon that's all he
had left from working at the mill in Lyman.  The coins sparkled in the
firelight as he held them in his outstretched palm.

"Ain't you got something you could pawn?"  Caroline said.

"All I've got is my tools " Hank said.  "And I have to keep them if I
go back to work this winter."

"I've got a necklace and a brooch Mama give me " I said.

"I couldn't take your brooch," Caroline said.

"It's got gold around the edges' I said, "like a little picture frame
"

I got the brooch and necklace from the bedroom and showed them to her.
"They're worth about five dollars " she said.  She held on to the
jewelry.  I tried to think of something else that could be sold.  Mama
had give me an alarm clock, but it was only worth a dollar or two, even
when it was new.

"Tell you what we'll do," Caroline said.  "Give us the five dollars and
the necklace and brooch as a kind of down payment, and we'll give you a
receipt.  Then the rest you can work out by fixing up this house.  That
should be good enough, don't you think, Baylus?"  "That is mighty
understanding of you."  Hank said.

"It's hard to sell a house in the wintertime anyway," Caroline said.

"We're obliged to you," I said.

"You all helped take care of Pappy."  Caroline said.  " I'd like to
know a young couple was getting some good out of this place.  Besides,
it needs some fixing up."

"We'll take good care of it," Hank said.

"We'll come back in March to talk about the repairs," Caroline said,
"and to buy what materials you need."

I couldn't believe what was happening, that we was renting the place
and would have somewhere to live until after the baby was born .

"Don't you all want to stay the night?"  I said.  "It's getting late
and there's plenty of room."

"Honey, we've got to get back on the road," Caroline said.  "We've got
to go back to Greenville to catch the train to Columbia.  Baylus has to
work tomorrow."

"You can at least stay for supper," I said.  "We have plenty of turkey
left"

"That's sweet of you," Caroline said.  "But we really do have to be on
our way.  And this place makes me sad.  I have too many memories here."
She opened her bag and looked inside, and then closed it.  "I will mail
you a receipt for the five dollars and the jewelry" she said.

"You don't have to do that," I said.

"Business is business," Caroline said.  "I believe in cioing things
right and proper"

I was so thrilled my head was buzzing.

"You all should stay the night," Hank said.

"We're much obliged for your invitation," Caroline said.  "But there
are a few things in the house we should take.  They belonged to Mama
and they have sentimental value."

"You take whatever you want " Hank said.  It had been a while since I
had seen him so cheerful.

"I'll just get a few of Mama's things " Caroline said.  She took the
clock off the mantel and handed it to her husband.  Then she went into
the kitchen and gathered a lot of silver from the drawer into her big
handbag.  There was a little silver cream pitcher on the table and she
took that too.

"Is there anything you can't find?"  I said.  I could understand why
she would want her Mama's things.

Caroline took a lamp into the front bedroom and looked through all the
drawers of the bureau.  She got some jewelry and a comb and brush set.
Baylus come back in and carried another load out to the carriage. There
was a mirror on the bedroom wall and Caroline took it down.  She got
Mr.  Pendergast's rifle out of the closet, and a revolver she found in
a drawer.  She looked in the attic but didn't find anything she wanted
to take.

"You all come back and see us " Hank said as they climbed into the
carriage.

"We'd love to come back to the mountains in the summertime " Caroline
said.  "We'll come back and have a picnic by the creek."

"You all come back any time," I said.

"We'll see you along about March," she said as Baylus drove them away.
"And I'll send you a receipt for the rent."  But there wasn't ever any
receipt come from Columbia for the rent on the house.  We waited every
day and Hank walked to the little post office down at the crossroads. I
got a letter from Mama, and Hank got a letter from Ma Richards.  But
nothing ever come from Caroline Glascock or her husband Baylus.  As the
days passed and Christmas got closer, I wondered if they had been who
they said they was.  After two weeks I figured they wasn't.

It was hard enough to lose the five dollars and my brooch and necklace,
and all the things they had took from Mr.  Pendergast's house.
Christmas was coming and we didn't have no money at all, and no way of
getting any.  But that wasn't as bad as what it done to Hank.  He could
blame me for giving away the jar of Mr.  Pendergast's money, and I had
to take the blame.  It made Hank feel better that he could blame me and
call me a stupid heifer.  But now it was him that had been outfoxed.
There was no way he could deny that he had give the money and the
jewelry and all the things from the house away.  And he had been just
as pleased as I was at the thought of renting the place with such a
little payment, and fixing up the house in the spring.  His feelings
was hurt because he took such pride in his judgment of people.  Hank
never liked to admit he had made a mistake.  Men are like that.  They
care more about their pride than anything else.  It made him mad that I
knowed he had been suckered just as bad as me.  It made him angry at me
more than at the Glascocks or whoever they was.

I seen how he felt and tried to soothe him.  "It was me that was fooled
by them first," I said.  I wanted to make it sound like I was taking
part of the blame.

"You should have seen them for what they was," Hank said.

"I know I should have," I said.

"Any fool could have seen through them," Hank said.

"I should have knowed better when Caroline didn't remember what Mr.
Pendergast kept his money in " I said.  If I let Hank criticize me it
would make him feel better and then he wouldn't be so mad at his self
Nobody likes to be criticized, and I hated to be criticized, but I seen
it was easier to let him blame me than to live with a man who was
enraged at his self  And once he got over his anger I hoped he would be
fair to me again.  When Hank pouted like a little boy the best thing
was to treat him like a little boy.

"You should have threatened to call the law," Hank said.

"Except I didn't know any law to call," I said.

"They'll never be caught " Hank said.  He was feeling so bad he talked
in a low voice, almost a mutter.

"If we tell the sheriff what they took, they might be caught selling
the clock or silverware, the cream pitcher That would prove we didn't
take them."

"I ain't going to the sheriff," Hank said.

"Wnat if we get accused of selling off Mr.  Pendergast's things?"
said.

"Nobody knows what was in this house," Hank said.

"It would be better if we made a list of what they took," I said. 
"That way if the real heirs turn up, we'll have something to show
them."

"Are you telling me what to do?"  Hank shouted.  He looked at me hard,
like I had insulted him.

"I'm just saying it might pay us to make a record of what happened, and
let the sheriff know' I said.

"I'll decide when it's time to tell the sheriff," Hank said.

"I know you will," I said.

"What does that mean?"  Hank said.

"That you will tell the sheriff when you want to:' I said.

Hank was ready to answer like I was arguing with him.  But there was
nothing to argue with in what I had said.  He opened his mouth and then
turned away.  He picked up the sugar bowl and throwed it at the stove,
and sugar scattered all over the stove and floor like snow.

"It don't matter' I said.  But he didn't answer.  He was already out
the back door, and I didn't see him again till after dark.  MOST TIMES
WE stayed away from the store, because we didn't have any money to
trade there.  A store is a sociable place in a valley like Gap Creek.
But after losing our money to Caroline Glascock we didn't feel like
seeing anybody.  And women don't hang around a store that much anyway,
not the way men do.  Some men seem to slouch around the store every
day, setting by the stove in winter spitting tobacco juice in a bucket
and playing checkers, or setting on the bench out front in the summer.
They keep up on the gossip, I reckon, though most of the time you don't
hear them say much.  It's one thing for a woman to go to the store when
she has money to spend.  But I didn't have money, and I stayed away
from the store at the crossroads.  But along in December we run
completely out of coffee, and then we got so low on sugar I done
without it in everything but the rare cake for Sunday dinner.  Now you
can live without coffee, though it don't hardly feel like living when
you get up in the morning and have nothing to go with your grits but
water And you can use honey or molasses if you have them, instead of
sugar.  But nobody would do without either if they had any choice.

I tried to think of something to trade at the store for coffee and
sugar.  We didn't gather enough eggs to have one a day for ourselves,
so it would take weeks to save up two or three dozen, even if we didn't
use none.  I didn't have enough butter to sell.

But sometimes the Lord puts a thought in your mind at the right time. I
recalled that people had said Mr.  Pendergast had been a digger of
ginseng roots.  Several had mentioned that to me, and I had seen a
little sang hoe on the back porch.  But I hadn't seen any roots around
the place.  He must have been too feeble lately to climb up on the
ridge looking for ginseng, which was usually found far back on the
ridges.  Then it occurred to me I had seen some roots hanging from a
rafter in the attic when I climbed up to the loft to get the single bed
for Ma Richards.  I had noticed the roots up there and then forgot all
about them.

I dropped what I was doing and run right up the stairs and climbed the
ladder to the attic.  I'd not been up there since we first come to Gap
Creek.  There was light from the two windows in the loft, and I was
struck by the powerful smell of smoke and old wood.  I hadn't stopped
to bring a lamp, so l had to let my eyes get used to the dim light. 
There was chairs and old trunks, dirty fruit jars, coils of rope and
rusty steel traps.  Some leaves of bleached-out tobacco hung from nails
in a rafter, with hammocks of spiderwebs between them.  It was warm by
the chimney

And then I seen the roots, hanging on a piece of twine not far from the
chimney.  Mr.  Pendergast must have hung them there and then forgot
them.  There must have been thirty roots, all covered with cobwebs.
Some looked like dried sweet taters and some like shriveled figures of
people, and some like the private parts of a man.  I felt one and found
it dry and scaly.  Was it too dried up to sell?  I untied the roots
from the string and gathered them in my apron.  If there was a pound of
them they could be worth two or three dollars, maybe more.  But I
didn't think they amounted to a pound, they was so dry and brittle.
Holding the closed apron in my left hand I climbed back down the
ladder

Hank had gone out in the woods looking for another turkey, I reckon. He
had been feeling so bad lately I didn't want to ask him too many
questions.  And I didn't want to wait for him to come back to take the
ginseng to Poole's store.  I got a paper bag to carry the roots in and
put on my coat.  It was a sunny day, and the road was little muddy from
thaw.

The crossroads was only a mile and a half away.  When I reached the
store I seen George Poole setting by the stove playing checkers with a
man named Slim Rankin.  And Pug Little was watching them play.  I had
met them before at Mr.  Pendergast's funeral.  George looked surprised
to see me, because I almost never come to the store.  "Hey, Miss Julie
" he said.  He always called me Miss Julie, never just Julie.

"Howdy' I said and nodded to him and Slim and Pug.

"To what do we owe the honor of your visit?"  George said.  He turned
his eyes back to the checkerboard.

"I have brought some roots " I said, and placed the bag on the
counter.

"What kind of roots?"  George said.

"Sang roots " I said.

George made a move on the checkerboard.  "It's mighty late in the
season to be digging sang roots " he said.

"These was dug last year' I said, "and have been drying ever since."

All the men looked at me, for they must have guessed the roots was Mr.
Pendergast's.  George stood up and walked around to the other side of
the counter He emptied the poke I had brought on the counter.  The
roots looked littler than they had in the attic.

"You ain't been digging sang roots, have you?"  Slim Rankin said.

"I didn't know Hank was a sang digger," Pug Little said and grinned at
Slim.

"Mr.  Pendergast left them in the attic " I said.

"Pendergast wasn't able to go digging for the past year," Slim said.

"I don't know when they was dug:' I said.  All the cans on the shelves
behind George looked like roosting birds staring at me.  The store
smelled of harness leather and coffee and wood smoke.

"These is awful dry' George said.  He took a pan off his balance scale
and heaped the roots in the pan.  Then he placed the pan on one side of
the scale and added little weights to the other side.

"Preacher Gibbs used to dig ginseng " Slim said.

"Everybody used to dig sang," Pug said, "back when there was still some
to dig"

"There ain't but three quarters of a pound here," George said.

"Is that all?"  I said.

"And these is so dry and old I don't know if the man in Greenville will
take them " George said.

"He just sells it to the Chinese, and the Chinese will buy any kind of
ginseng," Slim said.

"Being dry don't hurt sang:' Pug said.

"The price is down for roots anyway' George said.  I figured George was
going to tell me he couldn't buy the roots, that I had wasted my time
taking them down there.  I wondered if he thought the roots wasn't mine
to sell.

"Whatever you give me I'll later give to Mr.  Pendergast's heirs,"
said.  "When they can be found."  I was glad nobody knowed about us
giving the things to Caroline Glascock.

George worked with a pencil on a sheet of brown wrapping paper on the
counter.  "At two dollars and seventy-five cents a pound can pay you
two dollars and six cents " he said.

"You mean you'll pay me two dollars?"  I said.

"And six cents " George said.

"Make sure he gives you the six cents," Slim said.

"You have to watch old George " Pug said.

I had not seen that much money since Hank give his five dollars to
Caroline Glascock or whoever the woman was.

"Honey, I wish it could be more."  George said.  I guess he seen the
astonishment on my face.

"George is a terrible skinflint " Slim said.

"I would hate to see George try to go through the eye of a needle into
heaven " Pug said.

I decided not to ask any more questions.  I wanted to take my coffee
and sugar and get out of there.  I wanted to tell Hank about our good
fortune.  Maybe it would cheer him up.  "Can I get five pounds of sugar
and five pounds of coffee beans?"  I said.

"If you can carry that much," George said.  He scooped out the beans
and sugar into paper bags and tied them with string.  I took bag on
either arm like twin babies.

"You have twenty-seven cents left over:' George said.  I put the bags
back on the counter and took the coins.

"Thank you, George," I said.

"I almost forgot: you have a letter," George said.  He stepped over to
the pigeonholes that was the post office at the far end of the counter
and brought back an envelope with pencil writing on the front.  I put
the letter in my pocket because I didn't want to read it in front of
George and Slim and Pug.

As I walked up the road with the bags in the crooks of my arms and the
envelope in my pocket, I kept thinking of the letter.  From the
handwriting I could tell it was from Mama.  Was she writing to say that
somebody was sick, or a relative had died?  Was she asking how I felt?
Was she coming down for a visit?

There was a big white pine by the road about halfway back to Mr.
Pendergast's house.  When I got to the big tree I told myself I needed
a rest.  I was breathing for two and didn't want to hurry.  And I
couldn't wait no longer to see what was in the letter.  I climbed the
bank and set down in the needles under the tall tree.

The letter was wrote on two sheets of lined tablet paper in Mama's neat
hand.  "I hope you are well, we are well.  I hope everything is all
rite with the baby' Mama wrote.  "There is no news here accept that LOU
and Garland is getting married and they are coming down to Gap Creek
for a visit afterward."

I turned over the page and read the back, as the breeze fluttered the
papers in my hand.  "And Carolyn is coming with them " Mama said.
"Carolyn is going to stay a few days with you and Hank while LOU and
Garland goes on to Greenville."

My hands was shaking with the news.  It would be so wonderful to see
LOU.  Except I hated for her and Garland to see how poor we was.  I
turned to the last page to see when they was supposed to arrive.

"They will come down to Gap Creek next Wednesday," Mama said.  I tried
to recall what day of the week it was.  It was already Wednesday,
because it had been four days since Hank went hunting for turkeys on
Saturday.  They was coming today.  They might already be there.  I
stuffed the letter in my coat pocket and gathered up the two paper
bags.  I hoped they hadn't arrived at the house while I was away and
seen my dirty dishes, and the bedroom where nothing had been picked up.
YOU KNOW HOW it is when you're trying to hurry.  You stretch your legs
but your feet stick to the ground.  The road ahead grows longer and
longer.  I hurried toward the house, and finally when I come around the
bend I seen Daddy's old wagon parked in the yard with Sally still
hitched between the shafts.  LOU and Garland and Carolyn was already
there.  They had seen my dirty house.  I slowed down and caught my
breath.  My belly felt uneasy, and I stopped to rest a little before
climbing the steps.  There was voices in the living room.  Hank's gun
was leaning by the front door, but I didn't see no sign of a turkey.

"Well look what the cat drug in " LOU said as I come through the
door.

"And look what washed down off the mountain' I said.  LOU shrieked and
run to me for a hug.  I hadn't seen her in nearly three months.

"Don't want to press you too hard " she said and patted my belly It
felt so good to see LOU.

"You're looking mighty pert " I said, and set the paper bags on the
sofa.

"I said to Garland when he asked me to get hitched " LOU said, "I said,
I'll marry you if you'll take me down to Greenville so we can stop and
see Julie and Hank on the way."

Garland stood by the fireplace and tipped his hat to me.  "Take off
your coats and stay awhile " I said.  I wondered why LOU had decided to
take Garland back.  I figured she would tell me when we was alone.

"And welcome, Carolyn " I said.

Carolyn was talking to Hank in the doorway to the kitchen and I patted
her on the shoulder.

"Mama sent you some things " Carolyn said and pointed to a box on a
chair.  There was a ham wrapped up in brown paper and several jars of
jelly and jam.

"Why don't we all set down," I said.  "And I'll take these things to
the kitchen."

"We'll help you out " LOU said, and picked up the bags from the couch
.

"I can do it " I said.

"You ought to be careful," Lou said.  "Grab that box " she said to
Carolyn .

"Expecting a baby is not a sickness " I said.

"Didn't say it was " Lou said.

"I was going to clean this house up," I said, "but I had to go to the
store."

"We can help you," Lou said.  "Can't we, Carolyn."

"Hank said he would show me the barn and the springhouse," Carolyn
said.

"You can do that later' LOU said, sounding just like Mama.  I had
forgot how much LOU'S voice was like Mama's.

"I wish Mama could have come," I said.

"Mama won't never leave the place anymore, except to go to church " LOU
said.  "I think she's got arthritis in her back, because she walks
stooped over"

"I wish I could see her' I said.

Carolyn walked around the kitchen looking into pots and boxes and
inspecting cans and bottles on the shelves.  She opened the sugar
canister and seen it was empty "Where is your sugar?"  she said.

"I got some today at the store:' I said.  "And some fresh coffee
beans."

"You don't need to fix anything special for us," LOU said.

"It's your honeymoon:' I said.

"Yeah " LOU said and hugged me again.  I'd never seen her so happy

"I want to go to Florida when I have a honeymoon," Carolyn said.

"You will, darling, you will " I said.  Carolyn had never had to work
like the rest of us, and she was the most romantic of all us sisters
.

"I sure don't want to go to Greenville on my honeymoon, or Gap Creek:'
Carolyn said.

LOU and me looked at each other and grinned.

"Honey, whoever you marry will have some say about where you go' LOU
said.

"I want to marry somebody that likes to travel " Carolyn said.

"Well, I hope you do," I said.

Carolyn drifted back into the living room, and Hank took her and
Garland out to the barn to unhitch Sally and look around at the
outbuildings.  LOU and me lit in to clean up the kitchen and get some
supper started.  I poured the coffee and sugar into their cans and
ground some fresh coffee beans.

"Fresh coffee always reminds me of Rosie " I said.

"Don't nobody love coffee like Rosie " LOU said.

"She likes her coffee and baking better than she'll ever like any man "
I said.  - "She may be right about that " LOU said and laughed.  I
looked at her and broke out laughing myself.  It was like old times,
when we talked about boys and made light of boys, and girls that was in
love with boys.  Now we was both married, but it was fun to be like our
old selves.  "If boys is so bad why did we both get married?"  I said.
""Cause it's the bad in boys we like " LOU said, and we laughed
again.

I swept the kitchen and LOU got a bucket and the mop and mopped the
kitchen and living room floor.  Then we attacked the bedroom and picked
up everything and made the bed in Mr.  Pendergast's room.  Hank and me
would sleep there while LOU and Garland was visiting.

When we finished downstairs we climbed up to the bedroom Hank and me
had been using.  "Only problem with this bed Is it falls apart when it
gets shook," I said.

"Well, thanks " LOU said.

"That's what happened to us our first night here " I said.  "But the
next day I fixed it."

LOU looked at the bed and patted the post.  I expected her to make some
smart remark.  But of course she didn't.  She was a woman on her
honeymoon.  I told her the story of the bed crashing down on our first
night while we dusted the room and put on fresh sheets and pillow
cases.

"You think old man Pendergast left it that way on purpose?"  LOU
said.

"The bed was ready to collapse," I said.

"What a dirty old man," LOU said.

"You should have seen the figures he liked to carve with his
pocketknife," I said.

I was waiting for Lou to tell me why she had decided to marry Garland
after all.  I knowed she wanted to tell me.  Out the window could see
Hank pointing out to Garland and Carolyn the boundaries of the pasture
where it run up the mountainside.  At a distance Carolyn looked like a
full-grown woman.  Her figure had filled out since I had left home in
early fall.  She took Hank's arm as they walked around the barn.
Carolyn was laughing at something Hank or Garland had said.

"Was you surprised to hear I was marrying?"  LOU said.

"I was, a little " I said.

"You know I always loved Garland " LOU said.

"I know you did " I said.  I was going to let her tell me in her own
good time.  I was not going to hurry her with questions.

"I finally decided that it didn't matter about that girl over at
Pleasant Hill," LOU said.  "Really?"  I said, and plumped a pillow with
a fresh case on it.

"He said he had give her up' LOU said.  "He said she never meant
anything to him."

"Didn't she have a baby?"  I said.

"She had a baby, but Garland said it didn't belong to him " LOU said. I
thought there must be a grin on her face, but there wasn't.  When LOU
talked about Garland she always got serious.

"I just want you to be happy' I said.

"I don't think Mama was too happy I got married " LOU said.

"Mama always worries " I said.

"Older women don't believe in romance " LOU said.

"Mama is just afraid for you " I said.  IT WAS THE first time LOU and
me had ever cooked together.  We had sawed wood together and we had
hoed corn together and pulled fodder.  But it was always Mama or Rosie
that was busy in the kitchen at home.  It felt good to have LOU in my
kitchen.  "Now you just set down while I fix supper' LOU said.  "I will
not " I said.  "You've been on your feet long enough," LOU said.

"How would you know?"  I said and we both busted out laughing.

I was so glad I had bought the sugar and coffee, for my cupboard was
bare, and there was only what was left of the canned stuff in the
basement.  But there was the ham Mama had sent, and that would give us
a feast for two or three days.  I put the ham in pan and basted it with
brown sugar and molasses.  It was just like Mama to send a ham.  I bet
she had sent the best piece of meat left in the smokehouse.

"You could put a little mustard or vinegar in that sauce' LOU said.

"I want this ham to be all sweet " I said.  After sliding the ham in
the oven I got more wood from the back porch for the stove.  Garland
and Hank and Carolyn was standing out by the bee-gums, watching
something above the trees.  I shaded my eyes and seen a wedge of geese
going over.  They sounded like a pack of beagles running after a
rabbit.  The geese was high enough to go right over the ridge.  They
was flying south, and by dark they would be far out of the mountains.

"Who has done the work at home since I left?"  I said.

"Most of the outside work has fell to me:' LOU said.

"I figured that would happen " I said.

"We sure have missed you, Julie," LOU said.

"Missed my wood chopping and hog killing " I said.

"Missed your complaining," LOU said, and we both laughed.

"Who is going to do the work now we're both gone?"  I said.

"Mama and Rosie will have to take turns' LOU said.  "And Carolyn is
going to have to learn to do her share."

"Why did Mama want Carolyn to come with you?"  I said as I mixed batter
for cornbread.

"It was not so much Mama wanting her to come as Carolyn begging to
come," LOU said.

"She wants to see new places " I said.  "That girl is so spoiled I
could smack her sometimes:' LOU said.  "We have all spoiled her' I
said, "after Masenier died."  "I wouldn't have minded some spoiling
myself:' LOU said.  "Maybe it won't hurt her," I said.  "She just
turned fourteen."  "What does a fourteen-year-old girl know?"  LOU
said.

"About dS much as a seventeen-year-old girl " I said.  We both laughed.
I opened a can of green beans into a pan and placed them on the stove.
I wished I had got some sweet taters to bake, but I hadn't.

"Was you scared when you got married?"  LOU said.  "I mean on your
wedding night."

"I guess everybody's a little scared at first" I said.  But I couldn't
look at her as I said it.  LOU and me had talked about marriage before
I was married, but in a general way.  I was embarrassed to talk, now
that I was married and going to have a baby.  I would not have thought
I would feel that way, like I would be violating a confidence.

"I'm a little scared of being hurt " LOU said.

"No need to be afraid of being hurt " I said.  I still couldn't look at
her.  Lou was older than me, and here she was asking me questions.  "At
least in that way," I added.

"What way?"  she said.  I looked at her and we both laughed.

"If you get hurt it will be your feelings that are hurt," I said.
started setting the table and Lou got the silverware from the drawer
and begun to lay it in place.  I was glad I had polished what was left
of Mr.  Pendergast's silver a few days before.

"I just hope I can make Garland happy' LOU said.

"You will " I said.

"I would hate to think he will be disappointed " LOU said.

"You have married him," I said.  "That should make him happy."

"You know what I mean " LOU said.

"I know he's mighty lucky to have you," I said.  "After the way he's
acted."

"That has all been forgive " LOU said.  "I told him I would forget"

"He's a lucky man," I said.

The coffee was boiling and I set it off to the side of the stove.  The
smell of coffee and the baking ham filled the kitchen.  It reminded me
of Mama's kitchen.

"I wish Rosie was here to bake one of her coconut cakes," I said.  I
had only two eggs, and I certainly didn't have a coconut.

"Rosie sent you a cake," LOU said.  "I forgot all about it."

"Where is it?"  I said.  I looked in the box where the ham had been.
There was only jars of jam and jelly

"It must still be in the wagon," Lou said.  She run out the back door
and around the house and come back in with a box tied up with string. I
untied the string and looked inside.  It was a beautiful coconut cake,
the kind that Rosie always made.  But the bouncing of the wagon had
made the top layer shift and slide over.

"Dear lord!"  Lou said when she saw it.  "Rosie would be mortified."

"Rosie will never know," I said.  With a pie server I lifted the edge
of the top layer and scooted it back on the cake.  The icing was broke
and flakes of coconut had fell off in the box.  I took a knife and
smoothed the icing around the sides like a mason would a joint of
mortar and then sprinkled the spilled coconut over the repaired seam.

"That'll be as good as new:' I said.

Carolyn come to the back door and looked in the kitchen.  "Where is the
milk bucket?"  she said.

"Right here on the counter:' I said.

"Hank is going to teach me to milk " Carolyn said.

"Don't you ruin your Sunday frock " Lou said.  Carolyn was wearing one
of her pink dresses with lace and ribbons on it.  And her shoes looked
new.

"Don't treat me like a baby' Carolyn said.

"Don't you act like a baby," Lou said.

"We just don't want you to get your dress dirty' I said.

Carolyn did not slam the door as she went out, but she banged the
bucket on the door post loud enough so you knowed it wasn't no
accident.  It was her way of showing her resentment.

"That girl has some growing up to do," Lou said.

"She'll grow up " I said.  "She better."

"But grow up to what?"  Lou said.  And we both laughed again.  I felt a
little light-headed with all the smell of coffee and ham and bread
baking, and all the talk with Lou.  I wasn't used to much conversation
with another woman, and I hadn't seen any of my family since I got
married.  "YOU KNOW, I never could see Mama and Papa together' Lou
said. "What do you mean?"  I said.  "You know what I mean " Lou said,
"as man and woman"

"What else could they be?"  I said.  But I was just pretending not to
understand her.  I knowed what she was saying.  It was something I had
thought about before.  I could not imagine Mama and Papa together in
bed.  It just seemed impossible.  It was silly to think that, since
they had all us girls.  But I just couldn't think about them in bed
naked and loving.

"If they wasn't together as man and woman, how do you explain us?"  I
said with a giggle.  That got us to laughing again.

Before we set down at the table for supper, I got some candles I'd
found in the bedroom closet and put them right at the center of the
table.  The candles give the kitchen a glow warm as a ripe peach.

"How romantic " Carolyn said when we was all seated.

"It's a romantic occasion " I said, and looked at Lou and Garland.
Their eyes was bright in the candlelight and Garland took Lou's hand.
"Nothing is more romantic than the day you're married " I said.

We all held hands around the table while Hank said the blessing. "Lord,
give Lou and Garland a long and happy life together," Hank prayed. 
"And bless their union with children.  And give them work worthy of
their talents, and give them the bounty of your love."

"Amen," we all said.

"When I get married I want to ride on the train somewhere far away'
Carolyn said.  Carolyn read novels and magazines when she could get
them, and the way she talked showed the things she had been reading.
"Maybe to the Rocky Mountains, or even to California," she said.

"I'm sure you will, honey' Lou said, "if you're lucky."  Lou looked at
Garland and they smiled at each other.

Hank sliced the ham with our sharpest butcher knife and passed the
plate of slices around.  Everything looked gold and mellow in the
candlelight.

"We're celebrating Julie and Hank's baby also," Lou said.

"I don't want no baby' Carolyn said, "till I'm at least forty years
old."

"Fe)rty is too old to have a baby' Lou said.

"It is not," Carolyn said.  "Is it, Hank?"

"There are women that have babies at forty, and even forty-five," Hank
said.

"But it's more risky' I said, "the older you are."  I felt so warm and
at ease to have some of my folks around me, to have Lou with me.  Hank
had been feeling too low to be good company for the past few weeks.

"It'.s not romantic to have babies when you're young " Carolyn said.

"How would you know?"  Lou said.

"Ain't that right?"  Carolyn said to Garland.  All eyes turned to
Garland, and in the candlelight his face went red.  I felt my own face
get hot.  I don't know if Carolyn intended to speak to Garland because
his girlfriend at Pleasant Hill had had a baby or not.  Maybe what she
said just slipped out.  Everybody looked away from Garland to pretend
there was no special meaning to Carolyn's words.  I got up to pour the
coffee and cut everybody a slice of Rosie's cake.  "WFJERF ARE YOn all
planning to live?"  I said to Garland when I set down again.  "We're
going to rent Cyrus Willard's old house," Lou said.  Garland wasn't
much of a talker and I could see that Lou was going to answer for him
most of the time.  "That's a mighty pretty place out on the ridge,"
Hank said.  "You can see Mount Pisgah from Cyrus's place," I said.

"I've heard there's snakes in that old house," Carolyn said.  She
helped herself to a second piece of cake.

"Where did you hear such talk?"  Lou said.

"I heard it from Wilma Willard."  Carolyn said.  "I heard that when her
grandpa was old and sick and living there by his self a snake fell
through a crack in the ceiling onto his bed and he had to lay still all
night till it crawled away."

"You never heard such a tale from Wilma " I said.  "Papa used to tell
that tale about one of the Edneys a long time ago."

"Wilma swore it was the truth," Carolyn said.

"A snake could get into any house," Hank said.  "Snakes like to crawl
up into attics where it's warm.  I've heard of people finding fifty
rattlesnakes in an attic in October or November"

"I'm glad we got off on a romantic subject " Lou said.  "You all are as
bad as Papa to tell snake stories at bedtime."

"Speaking of bedtime," I said.  "I know you all has had a long trip
today And you'll have an even longer trip tomorrow.  Whenever you want
to go to bed, the room is ready upstairs."  I didn't want Lou and
Garland to feel embarrassed when they went off to bed.

"It's too early to go to bed," Carolyn said.

"When does Mama make you go to bed?"  I said to Carolyn.

"She has to go to bed by nine " Lou said.

"That was last year, when I was little " Carolyn said.

"That was last week, when you was little," Lou said.

"You can sleep in the room with the single bed upstairs," I said to
Carolyn.  I got up and started clearing the table.

"I'm going to help you wash the dishes," Lou said.

"No you're not " I said.  "You're going on to bed, and Carolyn is going
to help me clean up."

"I can help with the dishes " Hank said.

"If them is my orders I might as well go on to bed " Lou said.

"Them is your orders " I said.

"Come on, Garland " Lou said.  "Julie wants to get us out of her way"

"I reckon we might as well " Garland said.

"Let's have a short prayer' Hank said.  We stood there in the kitchen
and held hands in a circle while Hank prayed.  "We are thankful for the
fellowship of our family, and our family in Christ " he said.  "We are
thankful for the promise of salvation and for the watchful eye over our
lives.  We are thankful for your love and for human love.  Guide us as
we go ahead in our lives, and help us to accept the gift of life and
your blessings."  It was good to see Hank in a better mood.

"Good night " I said and hugged Lou, and then hugged Garland.

"Good night " Lou said as they started toward the stairs, holding
hands.

"Let's you and me start cleaning up " I said to Carolyn as soon as they
was gone.

"Can't we wait till morning?"  Carolyn said.

"You should always clean up a kitchen before going to bed " I said.

"I can help:' Hank said.

"We will all help " I said.  I gathered up the knives and forks and
spoons and plates and cups and made as much noise as I could scraping
the plates into the slop bucket and putting leftovers in the bread
safe.  I made even more noise going out for water to boil in the kettle
.

When the water was boiling, we formed a line.  I plunged the dirty
bowls and dishes into the pan of hot soapy water and scrubbed them with
a rag.  Then I passed a suds-covered plate to Hank, who rinsed it by
pouring water from the dipper over it into the second dishpan.  Hank
handed the dripping plate to Carolyn, who rubbed it with a towel and
set it on the counter.  As she waited for a plate to be handed to her,
Carolyn stood with one hand on her hip, like she was bored.  I ground
the spoons and knives and forks on the bottom of the dishpan, making
them rumble and rattle.

"I don't see why we have to do everything right now," Carolyn said.

"Everything will be clean and fresh in the morning " Hank said and
glanced up at the ceiling.  Then he looked at me and grinned.  It had
been weeks since I had seen him grin.

"It's hard to sleep knowing you have a kitchen full of dirty dishes " I
said.

"That wouldn't keep me from sleeping " Carolyn said.

"It's hard to rest if you ain't done your work " I said.

"When I get married I'm going to have a servant to wash dishes "
Carolyn said.

"In that case you won't need to worry' I said and giggled.

We washed every single cup and saucer, bowl and fork and spoon.  I took
a wet rag and wiped the table and counter.  "Would you sweep the
floor?"  I said to Carolyn.

"You can sweep the floor and I will mop " Hank said.

"I never heard of mopping the floor in the middle of the night "
Carolyn said.

"You will sleep better, knowing the floor's clean " I said.  I took
damp cloth and wiped off the shelves in the kitchen.

"You never used to work in the kitchen at home:' Carolyn said.

"Didn't need to " I said.  "Rosie and Mama done it all."

When we was done and the kitchen was sparkling, there was nothing to do
but go into the living room.  There was still a fire in the fireplace
and Hank throwed on some more sticks.  "What we need now is popcorn," I
said.

"Too bad there's no popcorn in the house " Hank said.  The wind had
rose and rattled in the eaves and at the windows.

"Mama sent a bunch of popcorn " Carolyn said.

"She did?"  I said.  "Where is it?"

"In a jar, in the box " Carolyn said.

I run to look in the box in the kitchen and sure enough, one of the
jars I figured was jam or preserves was filled with popcorn.  "Mama
thinks of everything " I said.

I got a pan and salt shaker from the kitchen, and a lid for the pan.
After I poured corn in the pan, Hank held it over the fire.  For a long
time the pan was quiet.  As he shook the pan you could hear the seeds
rattle around inside.

"Maybe the popcorn is too old " Carolyn said.

"Takes a while to heat up' Hank said.  Suddenly there was a plunk in
the pan.

"We'll get at least one kernel to eat:' Hank said.  There was a ping on
the lid, and then another.  Then two more little explosions, and pause.
And suddenly it sounded like a string of firecrackers going off in the
pan, chattering on and on.

"Glory be:' I said.

"I'm too full to eat popcorn:' Carolyn said.  AFrER LOU AND Garland
left the next morning in the wagon for Greenville, I asked Carolyn what
she wanted to do while she stayed with us.  I was determined to treat
her not only as my little sister but as a guest.  She was growing up,
and it was time to treat her like she was growing up.  Because I had
usually worked outside at home, and because I had always thought she
was spoiled, I'd never made friends with Carolyn the way I was friends
with Lou and Rosie.  It was time to become friends with her, if I was
ever going to, while she was visiting us, and while she was still
young.  "What would you like to do for the next week?"  I said.  "I
don't know' she said.  "What is there to do on Gap Creek?"  "We could
start a quilt " I said.  "There's an old frame upstairs."

"I don't like to sew," Carolyn said.  "Every time I use a needle I
prick my finger."

"You could wear a thimble " I said.

"Too boring " Carolyn said.  She was at the age to belittle everything
somebody else suggested or praised.  I could remember being that way
myself, though not as bad as Carolyn.  It's a way of showing people
that you have your own mind, that you will not be pushed around, or too
easy to please.  I was going to act like a mother and not be put off by
Carolyn's contrariness.  It would be good practice.

"We can go down to the store " I said.

"Would we have to walk?"  Carolyn said.

"It's not even two miles " I said.

"I need to rest up from the awful trip down here " Carolyn said.  "I'm
sore all over from being banged around in that old wagon"

"The Pooles have a mighty handsome grandson " I said.

"Who are the Pooles?"  Carolyn said.

"They run the store at the crossroads " I said.  "Their grandson is
named Charles, I think.  And there is other boys in the community
too"

"I bet they all have pimples on their faces " Carolyn said.

"I've only seen them once or twice " I said.

"I'll bet they're just mountain hoojers " Carolyn said.

"All boys act like mountain hoojers when they're young " I said and
laughed.  Carolyn laughed a little.  It was good to see her laugh.  It
was the talk about boys that had cheered her up.

"We can walk down to the store one day and buy a candy bar or some soda
pop' I said, remembering the twenty-seven cents I still had from
selling the ginseng.

"Do they sell magazines at the store?"  Carolyn said.  "They sell a
few," I said, "but they cost ten or fifteen cents."

"Mama give me fifty cents " Carolyn said.  "I want some magazines that
has pictures of new dresses in them."

"I have a Sears and Roebuck catalog," I said.  "That has lots of
pictures of new dresses"

"The catalog just has old, ugly stuff " Carolyn said.  "I want to see
some really new things."

"Fifty cents won't buy you a dress," I said.  But I wished I hadn't
said it, just when Carolyn was showing interest in something.

"I know what we can do today' I said, with all the cheer I could
muster.

"What?"  Carolyn said, like she knowed already it would be something
boring.

"We can go up on the mountain and look for chestnuts"

"It's too late for chestnuts " Carolyn said.

"These are chestnuts that got lost in the leaves " I said.  "We can
bring them back and roast them by the fire."

"I don't like chestnuts " Carolyn said.

Just then Hank come in from the barn.  I guess he had been out to feed
the horse and turn it loose in the pasture.  He stepped to the fire to
warm his hands.  I think Hank felt a little awkward with two women in
the house.  I was afraid his moods would return.  "It's a pretty day'
he said.

"Too bad it's cold," I said.

"Going to warm up by this evening " Hank said.

"Maybe it's a good day to look for buried chestnuts " I said.

"I found some on the ridge above the pasture yesterday' Hank said .

"We could find all that the squirrels have missed," I said.

"Let's go up there and gather some chestnuts " Hank said and clapped
his hands.  He patted Carolyn on the shoulders with both hands.  "We'll
have a good old time," he said.

"Let's go " Carolyn said with a big smile, like it was what she had
been waiting to be asked to do.

"I'll have to get my boots on," I said.

"I'll have to get my scarf," Carolyn said.

It was a bright sunny day, but the wind coming across the ridge had a
razor in it, like it had crossed ice and snow not too long before.
There is something exciting about winter wind.  Clouds flew by overhead
with their bottoms flattened, a sign of strong winds.  And cloud
shadows raced over the valley The bare trees on the mountain
sparkled.

As we crossed the pasture Hank took my left hand in his right, and
Carolyn's right hand in his left, and we walked along swinging our arms
like we was playing the game Red Rover.  I had not seen Hank feeling so
carefree in a long time.  It was seeing people from home that had
cheered him up.  I reckon talking to Lou and Garland had took his mind
off his own worries.

As we got to the upper edge of the pasture we almost run, past the salt
block on its post, past the sweet gum trees, to the fence.  When we
stopped to crawl over the fence I was almost out of breath .

"You shouldn't be running," Hank said to me.

"I can run as well as I ever could " I said.

"I'm afraid you're not in any condition to climb either " Hank said.

"Who says?"  I said and laughed.

"You've got to be careful " Hank said and patted my stomach.

"I'm just fine " I said.

But as we started climbing on the dry crackly leaves I found myself out
of breath more than I expected.  My chest felt tight and sore.  It was
like I couldn't take in as much air as I needed.  I stopped and put my
hands on my knees.  I should not have run across the pasture.

"You don't have to climb up here " Hank said.  "You don't have to hurry
so " I said.

Hank and Carolyn stood about ten feet ahead of me up the mountain.  I
didn't feel like I wanted to climb another step.  I felt like setting
down in the leaves.

"Maybe you should go back to the house " Hank said.  "We can bring you
some chestnuts."

"I want to help you find them:' I said.

"Where is the chestnuts?"  Carolyn said.

"Up where the chestnut tress are, and all down the ridge below' Hank
said.

"We'll bring you some:' Carolyn said.

"We'll bring you a poke full to roast by the fireplace " Hank said.

"If you want to go on without me, fine " I said.

"I just don't want you to overdo yourself," Hank said.

"We'll bring you a bag full," Carolyn said.

Without another word I turned and started down the mountain.  I kicked
the dry leaves and didn't look back.  But by the time I reached the
pasture fence I told myself it was silly to get mad.  Hank was just
worried about me because I was out of breath.  And Carolyn was just a
silly girl trying to get the attention of any man around.  She was my
little sister, and my guest.  I was supposed to look after her, not get
mad at her WHEN HANK AND Carolyn come back from the mountain it was
late afternoon.  They was laughing and their faces was flushed from
being out in the wind.  They had a bag full of chestnuts, which Hank
put down on the kitchen table.  "Carolyn didn't find a one of these,"
he said and laughed.

"How could I find them?"  Carolyn said.  "You always run ahead and
grabbed them first."  She shoved his shoulder.

"I think Carolyn needs glasses," Hank said.  "I didn't know what to
look for," Carolyn said.

"I think you need some granny glasses " Hank said.  He was teasing
Carolyn, like he was fourteen his self  I'd never seen him so
lighthearted .

"I'm glad you all had such a good time " I said.

"It was terrible."  Carolyn said.  "Hank walked too fast and found all
the chestnuts before I could get to them."

"They're mighty sweet chestnuts," Hank said.  "Ain't you going to try
one?"

"My stomach don't feel too good " I said.

"I was afraid you overdone yourself climbing the ridge," Hank said.

"It has nothing to do with climbing the ridge " I said.  "I've been
working ever since getting back to the house."

"You ought to set down " Carolyn said.

"I'll set down when I feel like it " I said.

"We picked the chestnuts for you " Carolyn said, "to bake by the
fireplace."

"Maybe I'll feel like eating them later," I said.

I knowed I shouldn't let Carolyn irritate me so much.  She was only
fourteen, and Hank and me was supposed to make her feel at home.  She
was at the age to be crazy about every man she seen, specially one as
handsome as Hank.  But she was spoiled, and already a flirt in her
ribbons and pink dresses.  That's what got to me, I told myself.  She
never had done no work.  She thought her purpose in life was to have a
good time.  She was so young she thought other people was there to
serve her.

I was used to being alone with Hank.  I wasn't used to other women
paying attention to him.  Maybe I was a little spoiled myself.  A man
will pay attention to any woman that flirts with him.  A man won't
understand how a woman knows how to play up to him.  Any girl can get a
man's attention just by looking him in the eye.  l told myself that
Hank had had a hard time that fall and deserved to be cheered up. 
Carolyn's visit seemed to make him feel good again.  He seemed to have
got over his terrible blues.  I should be grateful to Carolyn instead
of resentful, I told myself.  And I should give her a good example of
how to behave.

"Go down to the cellar and see if you can find any taters that are
still good " I said to Carolyn.

"It's dark down there " Carolyn said.

"You can take a lamp," I said.

"I'm afraid of the dark " Carolyn said and giggled.  "What if there is
a booger down there?"

"You'll scare it away' I said.

"In the dark I can feel wet fingers touching me " Carolyn said.

"Don't be silly:' I said.

"I'll go look for some taters " Hank said.  He took the pan from the
counter and headed toward the door

"I'll go with you " Carolyn called.

"Takes a lot of hands to get a few taters:' I said.  "LET'S BURN OFF
the creek bank " Hank said two days later.  "Oh goody' Carolyn said. 
"Why do you want to burn off the bank now?"  I said.

"To get rid of the stubble and brush " Hank said.  "Everybody down here
burns off their creek banks."

"Why can't you wait till spring?"  I said.

"If we do it now the ashes will soak into the ground " Hank said.
"Ashes make the best fertilizer if they mix with the dirt."

"Can I set fire to the brush?"  Carolyn said.  "I love to set fires."

"You don't want to get dirty in the smoke and dust " I said.  Carolyn
had on another one of her pink dresses with lace around the neck and
sleeves.  "I won't get dirty' Carolyn said.  "All I want to do is
watch."

Hank took the box of matches from the shelf beside the stove, and got
his hat from the nail by the door.  "What we need is a hoe and a rake."
he said.

I followed him out to the back porch.  There was a light breeze coming
down the valley, but it was a perfectly clear winter day.  The sun was
bright on my face.

"I hope the wind don't get any stronger:' I said.

"Wait for me:' Carolyn called, and run out wearing her pink shawl .
"There's just enough wind to take the smoke away" Hank said.  "Can I
light the fire?"  Carolyn said again.  "Don't get that dress dirty' I
said.  "You sound like Mama " Carolyn said.  "Here, carry this hoe " I
said to her.

I seen I was going to have to go along to see she didn't ruin the
dress.  I was responsible for Carolyn for two more days, and Mama and
my other sisters would never forgive me if I let anything go wrong.  I
got my jacket and grabbed another hoe off the back porch.

"You better be careful " Hank said to me.

"Don't worry about me " I said.

"What if you was to fall?"  he said.

"Then I'd pick myself up again " I said.

"You don't need to come:' Carolyn said.  "I can help Hank."

"Somebody has to look after you both:' I said.  MR.  PENDER(;AST s
FIELD run right along the bank of the creek.  The field was full of
stubble of cornstalks and bean vines and big briars and weeds.  And the
bank of the creek was even worse.  There was stalks big as saplings of
ragweeds and hog weeds goldenrods and Joe Pye weeds, ironweed and
pokeweed.  It must have been a jungle the summer before, full of snakes
and spiders, hornet nests and sting worms.  Mr.  Pendergast had not
touched it with a mowing blade.  The stalks was higher than my head. 
They must have been higher still when they was green.

"You want to set the fire upwind," I said, "and dig a fire break
downwind "

"There's hardly any wind," Hank said.

"But one could spring up " I said.

I had helped Papa burn off the field by the branch and seen how the
wind can change before you know it, once a brush fire is going.

Hank give the box of matches to Carolyn and she struck one and held it
to the leaves of a dry rabbit tobacco stalk.  I didn't see any flame at
first, but smoke lifted from the gray curled leaves.  That's the way it
is with a grass fire.  You see smoke, but hardly any flames.  The weed
stalk smoked more and more and a little rag of flame jumped to the next
stalk.  There was a pop and crackle, and another stalk caught fire.

"Just look at that' Carolyn said, proud of herself.  She stood holding
her shawl in each arm, watching the tiny fire she had set fling from
stalk to stalk, spreading itself from weed to dry weed.  The fire
spread out like a wave flung slowly through the stubble, tossing smoke
on the breeze down valley.  It was quite a sight, the sparkling water
in the creek, the glitter of the silver weeds, and the fire chewing the
brush and stalks into smoke that jumped away.

As I watched the fire turn the stubble into ash and clear the ground to
soot, I seen why people liked to burn off their fields so much.  It was
a purifying thing, a sweeping away of the old clutter so things could
start again and sprout again, down where the old weeds had been a mess
and tangle.  The fire turned the banks to bare ground.  The fire made
the grc)und naked and fertile.

"Whee!"  Carolyn sung and clapped her hands as the flames leapt to the
tops of the stalks and danced and spun in the breeze.  Hank grabbed up
stubble from the corn patch and tossed it on the flames.  The weeds
popped like there was firecrackers and cap pistols inside them.  Sticks
and stalks snapped in the fire and spit out sparks as the canes and
damp roots got hot.  White smoke billowed and turned around and leaned
far out over the creek.  Giants of smoke loomed above the stream and
marched down the valley in ranks and choo-choo puffs.  "You better dig
a firebreak at the lower end," I hollered to Hank.  "The branch is the
firebreak," he yelled back.

The flames and the smoke give me a soaring feeling.  The flames
appeared to clap their hands and the river cane by the water barked and
spit puffs of smoke.

Now the thing about fire in dry grass and weeds is it spreads in any
direction.  It will seem to be headed left and then jump to the right.
It will leap ahead and then back into the left corner of its track.  I
seen that Carolyn was standing too close to the fire as it edged into
the thatch at the side of the cornfield.

"You'll get smoke in your hair and clothes," I called to her But she
didn't hear, or she didn't pay no attention.  She tried to fan the
flames with the ends of her shawl, like she was shooing chickens or
flies away.  I was going to tell her again to be careful, but stopped
myself.  I was sounding more like a mama than an older sister.

But the breeze must have made an eddy where she was standing, or there
was a sudden change in direction of the wind.  For I seen a flame jump
right back on the hem of her dress, like it reached up to grab the
cloth.  I don't think she even seen it in the smoke and crackly noise.
It was a full pink skirt, flapping where she swung it around.  It was
like the flame leaped back to attach itself to the lacy, silky
material.

"Watch out, Carolyn!"  I yelled.

"What?"  she said and looked toward me.  I pointed at the skirt and she
seen the smoke coming from the fabric.  She screamed and run back from
the flames.

"Don't run " I hollered.

She shook her skirt like she was trying to shake the flames out of the
cloth, but that only made the fire take hold.  Carolyn started
screaming.

"Hold still " I said.  But she kept backing away into the muddy
cornfield.  I picked up wet dirt in both hands and throwed it on her
skirt, but it didn't smother the flames enough.  Carolyn kept backing
away and shaking her skirt like it had bees in it.  I wondered if I
could tear the dress off at the waist.

"Watch your shawl " I said.  But Carolyn was too scared to listen.  She
was screaming and backing into the muddy stubble.  The flames was
climbing up toward her waist.

"Lay down and roll in the dirt," I yelled.  That was her only hope. 
But she didn't listen.  She fought the flames with her hands and the
ends of her shawl.

Just then Hank come running across the field.  He had been at the lower
end where the branch runs into the creek.  "Lay down!"  he hollered to
Carolyn.

But Carolyn was too panicked to hear anything.  She turned to run
across the field, with the smoke and fire crawling right up her dress.
"Please, Lord " I prayed.  "Don't let anything happen to Carolyn ."

Hank run right up to Carolyn and pushed her down on the ground.  Then
he grabbed her arm and rolled her over.  He took her shoulder and
roiled her over again.  I run up and started throwing wet dirt on the
skirt.  Hank grabbed up handfuls of dirt too and we covered the flames
until there was nothing but muddy cloth and smoldering.  I pressed mud
into the smoke with my fingers.

"Are you burned?"  Hank said to Carolyn.  But Carolyn was crying so
hard she couldn't answer.  She had mud on her face and pieces of
stubble stuck to her tears and in her hair.

I lifted the muddy hem and seen her legs was not burned.  There was not
even any holes in her stockings.  Her dress was ruined and her shawl
was covered with mud.  But it didn't look like she got burned at all.

"You're all right," I said.  Carolyn kept on crying and I helped her
up.  Hank got on one side and me on the other and we started walking
toward the house.

"Oh leave me alone " Carolyn said and flung our hands away.  She walked
out ahead of us so we couldn't see her face.  THAT NIGHT I woke in the
dark and thought there had been a noise.  remembered there had been a
loud noise.  But since I had been asleep I couldn't recall what it was.
I listened to the house creak and to the roar of the waterfall up the
valley.  It was impossible to tell what time it was.  The dark was so
thick it felt like two or three in the morning.

I rolled over on my side trying not to disturb Hank.  When I got up to
pee I tried not to bother him.  Once he was woke up it was hard for him
to get back to sleep.  My belly felt a little uneasy and I reached out
to turn myself again.  But I reached out further than I had meant to,
into Hank's side of the bed.  And that side was cold, and empty.

Maybe the noise I heard was Hank getting up.  But the sheet beside me
was so cold he must have been up a long time.  I listened to the dark
hollse and thoughtt I heard a noise.  Setting up in bed I listened, and
it sounded like there was a groan or moan somewhere in the house. There
was a knock, like wood had hit wood.

Should I get up and see what was happening?  Had Hank took sick in the
night?  Had he gone out to relieve his self  He did not like to use the
chamber pot in the bedroom except in the worst weather.  But he had
been gone too long to just be relieving his self  Should get up and see
what had happened to him?  Maybe I didn't want to see what was
happening. Sometimes it's better to let well enough alone.

Then I heard somebody talking.  I thought it was Hank's voice, but it
was still so low I couldn't be sure.  It was like somebody whispering
almost.  And then I heard the moan again, like an "Oh" dr awed out. 
And somebody said, "Shhhhh."

I told myself I should not go look.  And then I told myself I had

"Wake me up for what?"  I said.

"Carolyn has a terrible colic " Hank said.

"I think it was the smoke I breathed that made me sick.  I have a pain
down here " Carolyn said and rubbed her lower belly

"I have fixed some soda water for her," Hank said.

"You should have waked me," I said.

"Carolyn didn't want to wake you," Hank said.  "She was trying to be
considerate."

"I just feel bad," Carolyn said.  There was tears in her eyes.

"Soda water won't do her no good " I said.

"Oh!"  Carolyn cried out.

"You go on back to bed," I said to Hank.  "This is a problem for to)
see what was going on.  Whatever was happening was happening women."
There was a look of embarrassment on Hank's face.  He in my house.  Had
somebody arrived in the night?  Had Lou and Garland come back from
Greenville early?  Had Hank took sick?

The bed groaned when I got out of it, and I stumbled on the cold floor
It was so dark I had to feel my way to the wall where my robe hung on a
peg.  I tied the robe around my waist and stepped quietly as I could to
the door.  From the living room I could see there was a light in the
kitchen.  And I could hear low voices.  It was definitely Hank and
Carolyn muttering about something.

I stood and listened and then thought it was bad to spy on them.  If I
stood and eavesdropped I would show how suspicious I took a step
back.

"Let me know if there's anything I can do," he said.

"You don't need to do nothing " I said.

I got kindling from the box and tossed it in the stove.  And I poured
some water in the kettle.  "I'll make a hot water bottle for you " I
said to Carolyn.

"Won't do any good," Carolyn said.

"Sure it will," I said.

I set up with Carolyn for about an hour while she sipped hot tea and
held the hot water bottle to her belly.  was.  I stepped forward still
trying to be quiet.  When I got to the door "You have been good to me "
she salcl.  of the kitchen I saw a lighted lamp on the table.  Carolyn
was setting "You are my little sister," I said and put my arm around
her in a chair and Hank was bent over her with his arm around her.
shoulder.

"Take this," he whispered to her.  "It'll make you feel better"

I must have bumped into a shelf when I stepped into the room, for a pot
rattled on the wall.  Hank and Carolyn jerked around to see who was
there.

"What are you all doing?"  I said.

"We didn't want to wake you up," Hank said.  A package come to us from
Mama later that month, just a week before Christmas.  One of the
Hensleys that was driving a wagon load of hams to Greenville stopped by
the house to leave it.  It was Mama's Christmas presents for me and
Hank: a cardboard box with jars of jam and preserves and honey.  And
there was things Mama and Rosie and Lou had sewed for the baby.  Mama
had crocheted a blanket and made several little gowns with embroidery
on them.  Rosie had knitted booties and a little cap.  Lou had made a
baby quilt.  It was the prettiest little quilt I had ever seen, with
orange and brown and yellow squares with a green underside.

I got all the pieces out and laid them on the sofa to look at.  Tears
come to my eyes when I thought of all the work Mama and my sisters had
gone to to make those things.

There was one other present in the box.  It was wrapped up in tissue
paper and had Hank's name wrote on the paper with a pencil.  But I
could tell what it was.  It was a pocketknife.  Mama had gone down to
the store at Flat Rock and got Hank a new knife.

"Hank, look what Mama has sent you " I said.  " "I didn't ask for no
Christmas present " Hank said.

"She wanted to give you something " I said.  "It's Christmas."  It was
a fine knife with a bone handle.  Hank tested the sharpness of the
blade with his finger, then folded the knife and put it in his
pocket.

After Lou and Garland had come back and picked up Carolyn, Hank had got
moody again.  He would go for days without hardly saying anything.  I
didn't say much either when he acted like that, for I had learned that
when I tried to cheer him up he just snapped at me, like a dog that has
been hurt and don't want to be bothered.  It grieved me to see him so
unhappy, and to know there wasn't a thing I could do about it.  WHEN IT
WAS three days before Christmas I made up my mind to decorate the
house, even though we didn't have any money to buy presents and had not
felt like celebrating.  It was a cold morning without any frost, and I
told Hank we ought to get a Christmas tree.  And put some holly and
mistletoe in the living room.  "Nobody will see it " Hank said.  "We'll
see it " I said.

I wanted to make Mr.  Pendergast's house feel like a home that
Christmas.  I imagined the baby, even though it was unborned, would
somehow know there was a Christmas being celebrated, and that it was in
a home where people loved each other and give each other gifts and
celebrated the birth of Jesus.  And I thought trimming the parlor and
fixing up a tree might make Hank feel more like his old self too.  He
had lost faith in his self  And because he had lost his job, and was
ashamed of his self it kept him angry.  And because he was always
angry, I was beginning to get angry I had to try something.  I guess my
own patience was starting to run out.

"I'll go out looking for a tree " I said, "but you'll have to help me
carry it in."

It was one of those mornings when my belly felt gray inside and off
balance.  When I was grinding coffee on the back porch I could hear my
stomach muttering.  While I was frying eggs and boiling grits, my belly
was starting to churn, but I swallowed hard and moved real slow.  And
by the time I had got breakfast on the table felt a little better.  I
had found that if I went slow enough the sickness would pass.

I set down at the table with Hank and sipped some coffee.  I wouldn't
feel like eating breakfast until later in the morning.

"You're not in no shape to go looking for a Christmas tree," Hank
said.

"I'll be all right directly," I said.

"We don't have to have a Christmas tree," Hank said.

I felt you couldn't have Christmas without a tree, and you couldn't end
one year and start another without a tree with candles on it.  It was
hard to say why I felt a tree was so important.  But I didn't want to
live through Christmas in a house without a tree.  I wanted to do what
needed to be done.  "I want me a Christmas tree," I said.

"I'm going down the creek to look for muskrat sign," Hank said.  "I may
do some trapping later"

It took just about an hour for my stomach to settle down.  I sipped the
coffee and nibbled on a biscuit.  Then I washed the dishes and set the
rest of the breakfast in the bread safe, to eat later.  I put on my
coat and tied a scarf over my head and got out my old gloves that I
used for chopping wood.  It was cold outside and there was plenty of
sun, winter sun.  But you could see clouds gathering in the norttl,
over the ridge. I got an old saw from the shed by the barn and started
across the pasture, going slow so as not to make myself sick again. 
The best place to find a Christmas tree was in a growedover field,
where the pines and cedars had come up full and thick.  I'd seen such a
field beyond the pasture, beyond where the salt block was at the foot
of the mountain.

In the field beyond the pasture there was mostly blackberry briars and
dried weed stalks.  The goldenrod stalks give off thistledown when I
touched them, a glittering smoke that drifted in the breeze.  There was
pines scattered here and there among the brush, but they was mostly
yellow pines, bastard pines Papa used to call them.  Yellow pines and
black pines don't have any shape for a Christmas tree.  And their color
is not so pretty either as a white pine.  I was looking for a white
pine, or a cedar.  A cedar is fuller and stronger for holding
ornaments, but a white pine has that icy blue color and is usually
rounded and pointed at the top.

It was on the other side of the field that I found the white pines.
They had been planted there by two big pines that loomed on the ridge
above.  There must have been a dozen little white pines scattered among
the scrub.  And in the weeds there was dozens more seedlings, growing
in the stubble like blue sparks of needles.  I looked for the right
one.  Each seemed to have something wrong with it.  One was too lean
and too long between its levels of limbs.  A white pine grows its limbs
in a circle around the stem, one set of limbs for each year it's lived.
Another had been crowded by briars so it was lopsided.  And another had
lost its top.  Some trees was too little, and one was too tall.  Some
didn't look round enough.

I searched across the field to see if there was any cedars in sight.
Didn't seem to be any cedars in the field or along the edge.  Cedars
will often grow in ditches or along fences.  They will plant their
selves in thickets and in a gully.  I was going to have to choose the
white pine that was least wrong and make the best of it.  I walked
around the trees, parting the brush to get a better look.  There was
one that was almost perfect in its shape, prouder and fuller than the
rest.  Its flaw was a hollow place near the bottom, where the limbs had
been broke or died.  I figured I could turn that side to the corner of
the living room and the tree would look almost perfect.

It was getting cloudy by the time I sawed the tree down and carried it
to the edge of the pasture.  I left the Christmas tree by the fence
while I climbed higher to find some holly and other greens.  It would
be good to have mistletoe, but the only way to get it would be to shoot
out a bunch with a shotgun, or climb one of the oak trees on the
mountain.  I didn't feel like climbing no oak tree.

Just while I was looking for the Christmas tree, the clouds had moved
in and blotted out the sun.  The pasture and the valley looked
different in the shade, like they had shrunk or got closer The clouds
filled every space in the blue sky It felt colder all of a sudden.
pulled my coat tighter around me and started climbing.

What I was looking for was turkey's paw, what some people call ground
pine.  It's a kind of club moss and grows in thickets, and on the north
sides in damp shady places.  It grows along a vine that runs under
leaves and litter and lifts up yellow green leaves that look like
turkey's feet.  It's the perfect decoration for hanging along mantels
and over doorways.  It can be wound around porch posts and along the
railings of stairways.

It was too far to walk to the north side of the ridge, but I found some
turkey's paw in a dark place above the maple swamp.  There was a small
bed of it just below a laurel thicket and I pulled five or six strings
out of the leaves like I was unlacing or pulling out thread.  Holly was
easier to find, for there was a tree with berries on it in the maple
swamp just below the laurel thicket.  I broke off several limbs and
headed back to the house.  When I come to the cut tree I took the white
pine by one of its lower limbs and drug it across the pasture.  The
clouds was thick and dark by the time I got everything to the house. It
looked like it was going to snow, but I didn't think it was cold
enough.  WIEN HANK SEEN the tree the first thing he said was, "That
thing is lopsided as a goose."  I thought about saying You could have
got one yourself, but I didn't.  I didn't want to make him even more
moody.  It wouldn't be Christmas without a tree, and I had got the
prettiest one in the field.

Hank sawed out four sections of a plank and nailed them to the bottom
of the pine to make a stand.  We put the tree in the corner of the
living room so the hollow place didn't show.  I strung the strands of
turkey's paw over the doors and along the mantel.  And I put holly in
vases on the mantel and on the table.

"Don't see any reason to make such a fuss' Hank said.  "This house
ain't even ours."

"It's ours for the time being:' I said.

"I don't feel much like celebrating:' Hank said.

"I know you don't' I said.  Hank was like Ma Richards.  He looked at
things in the hardest way and said things in the harshest way.  I was
glad I had decided to celebrate Christmas.  If you waited till
everything was perfect to celebrate, you might never celebrate
anything.  I would try to act like things was going to turn out all
right, and it just might happen.  I had to make a house for me and
Hank, and the baby.

I had looked in the closets and in the attic for Christmas decorations
that Mrs.  Pendergast might have had.  The only thing I found was one
glass ball that must have hung on a Christmas tree years ago.  I
brought it downstairs and tied it to a limb of the pine tree.

It was up to me to think of decorations.  There had to be a candle on
the tree.  I fixed up a holder out of wire and put a candle on the very
top.

There was some sheets of tinfoil in the kitchen, and I sliced them with
the scissors and hung the strips on the tree to look like icicles.  The
strips glittered in the firelight and in the candlelight.  Next I
popped a bunch of Mama's popcorn and strung it on threads, which I
wrapped around the tree.  Last I cut some angels out of the pages of a
magazine and hung them on the limbs.

With the candle lit on the top, the tree really did make the room look
like Christmas.  I set down by the fire and just looked at the tree, I
was so proud I had got it done.

When Hank come in with an armload of wood I hoped he would say
something about the tree.  But instead he announced it was starting to
sleet.  I run to the door and looked out.  Sure enough, there was white
on top of the fence posts and on the fence wire, on the boxwoods and on
the trees across the creek.  The limbs of the arborvitae was beginning
to droop like they was weighted with lead.  Icicles stretched along the
eaves and hung from the clothesline.

I had been hoping for snow on Christmas, and instead it was coming an
ice storm.  It was getting dark, but everything outside appeared to
glow with the ice on it.

"The road up the mountain will be slick as glass " Hank said.

"Do you think it'll turn to snow?"  I said.  I wanted to see a white
Christmas.

"Sleet always turns to rain " Hank said.

"Why is that?"  I said.

"It always warms up after a sleet," he said.  "I don't know why."  I
FIXED SUPPER and we eat quiet.  In the house you couldn't tell it was
sleeting.  It's almost never windy during a sleet.  Sleet is like the
most gentle rain that don't run off and don't drip and patter on the
roof or windows.  A sleet is silent because the fine droplets turn to
ice as soon as they touch.  Sleet attaches itself to everything and
thickens like coats of paint, and you don't hear it.  We eat
warmed-over turkey and cornbread and gravy, and you wouldn't have
thought anything was going on outside.

It was later, as we was setting by the fireplace, that we heard the
first pop and crash.  I couldn't tell exactly what direction it come
from.  "Was that an apple tree?"  I said.

"Most likely an arborvitae," Hank said.  "Sleet is heaviest on
evergreens "

"Hope it don't fall on the house," I said.  Pretty soon we heard
another pop and crash, but this time from farther away.

After we went to bed I heard a crack in the woods across the creek,
like a rifle had been fired.  Limbs was breaking all over the woods,
and the tops of trees was snapping with the weight of ice.  The house
groaned and creaked with the load of ice on the roof.  Everything was
heavy as if it was wearing armor.  I hoped the barn didn't crash down
on top of the horse and cow.

After we went to sleep I was awakened by a crack and a whoosh, as a
tree on the mountain broke and fell.  I hated to think of all the
hemlocks and pines that was falling.  The woods would have gaps and
roads would be blocked by knocked-down trees.  The sleet was doing its
work in the dark.  There was so many pops on the ridges above it
sounded like somebody was hunting or starting a war.  Even after I went
back to sleep I heard in my dream a boom, and then another boom.  I
dreamed the trees was skeletons of ice breaking up into little bones as
they walked in the glare of lightning.

But by the time we woke in the morning the popping and creaking had
stopped.  It was still dark when I got up to start a fire in the
kitchen stove.  As I laid in the kindling and cobs, I heard the
dripping from the eaves, like all the ice was melting.  And it did feel
a little warmer, though the air was so damp the chill soaked into your
bones.

When I opened the door to get more wood off the back porch I heard the
rain.  It was a quiet steady rain.  The yard was a sheet of ice, but
grooved where runoff had started melting it.  "Didn't I say it would
warm up?"  Hank said as he took the bucket out to milk.  "You sure
did:' I said.  "Too late to do the trees any good " he said.

After daylight we could see the trees down along the edge of the
pasture and across the road.  The ridge above the creek looked like it
had been hacked with a mowing blade in places.  There was still ice on
the trees on top of the mountain.  But in the valley most of the sleet
was gone.  There was only the broke trees, and the limbs laying
everywhere, to show what a sleet had passed in the dark.

It was the day before Christmas and I had hoped to get outside and look
for some ivy to string along the mantel and doorways with the turkey's
paw.  And if I couldn't find ivy I would gather galax, for I had seen a
whole bed of galax on the ridge below the laurel thicket.

But all day the rain kept on.  I expected it to slack off and the sun
to come out.  But instead it rained harder.  It was a steady straight
down rain.  Water stood in pools in the yard and the pasture looked
more like a lake, or a bunch of little lakes.  It was so wet the horse
didn't want to go outside, and the cow stayed close to the overhang of
the stall.  Hank got soaked just carrying in wood from the shed.

"Creek's getting up:' he said.

I walked to the living room and looked out the window.  The creek was
an ugly red and frothed high between its banks.  Where it rushed
against a log, the creek water seemed to clap its hands and reach out
for the weeds along the bank.

"We could have a flash flood " I said.

"We're already having a flash tide " Hank said.  IT KAINED ALL day,
never a lashing, harsh rain, but steady rain that filled every bucket
and tub and sinkhole.  The yard looked like a garden growing necks and
blossoms of splash.  The road looked like a creek, and the creek was
running wild and red and wide as a river Floodwater appears angry
because it's dirty and goes where you don't expect to see water.  All
the ice on the mountain had melted far up as I could see.  "The barn is
leaking' Hank said when he come in from milking.  "No wonder' I said.

And when I started to make supper, lighting a fire in the stove and
grinding up some of the chestnuts gathered by Hank and Carolyn to make
chestnut bread, I heard a plop in the corner of the kitchen.  I took
the lamp and looked and seen a puddle on the floor.  I raised the lamp
and seen a nipple of water stretching from a wet spot on the ceiling.
Wasn't nothing to do but put a dishpan under the drip and mop up the
mess on the floor.  Before I got the chestnut bread mixed and in the
oven, I heard another drip and got a bucket and put under that.  And
while I was getting the bread and grits and applesauce and side meat on
the table, I seen the wet streaks coming down the wall behind the
stove.  It was leaking around the flue.  It looked like the whole house
was going to melt.

"Not supposed to come a flood on Christmas " Hank said when we set down
to eat.  "Nobody ever heard of a flood on Christmas."

"That's because we've always lived on mountaintops before " I said. And
even as I said it I thought how narrow the Gap Creek valley was and how
steep the ridges on both sides.  We was below all the water that was
falling on the mountains.  All the rain on the mountains had to gather
down into the slender valley.

"What does that mean?"  Hank said.

"It just means we never had to worry about floods because we lived on
the ridge " I said.

I don't reckon Hank had thought about floods in Gap Creek until then.
We had moved there in early fall when it was dry The little creek had
behaved itself, staying in the bed of rocks that run like rough
cobblestones between the fields and woods, twisty as a playful kitten.
I could see by the look on his face how he thought for the first time
of the narrowness of the valley and how close the house was to the
creek.  "We are a good ways back from the creek," I said.  "Not far
enough," Hank said.

I had hoped we would be feeling some Christmas cheer, but instead a
wet, gray gloom had descended over us.

"If the creek rises we could climb up the mountain tomorrow and visit
Mama and my sisters," I said.

"If the creek rises we won't be able to get out of the house without a
boat," Hank said.  He said it like he was talking about the end of the
world.  He said it like Ma Richards would have said it, like there was
no hope anywhere.

"This house has been here a long time," I said.  "It must have seen a
lot of floods and not washed away yet."

But Hank didn't answer He buried his face between his hands.

"Do you think we might ought to go on up the mountain tonight?"  I
said.

"We can't leave the horse and cow here," Hank said.

"We can take the horse," I said.  "And we can leave the cow if we have
to."

"I don't think anything but a fish could travel in this rain " Hank
said .

When I went out to the back porch to get water to wash the dishes, it
was raining hard as ever.  In the dark you couldn't see nothing but
lamplight shining on falling drops.  It was like the air was sheets and
curtains of falling water Rain was coming down in ropes and clots and
tattered rags of water.  It felt like the sky was falling and the
weight of the rain was pushing everything down to the ground, down the
hill, down the valley.

After I finished the dishes and went to set in the living room, we
listened to the rain drumming on the roof.  The rain was harder and
faster now.  It sounded like an army marching over our heads, and it
sounded like millstones rubbing each other I heard a drip and seen
water splash right on the hearth.  It was leaking around the chimney
Hank got the ash bucket to put under the drip.  "This house is going to
fall apart like cardboard " he said.

"It is not " I said, trying to sound like the rain was a little thing.
But looking out from the back porch into the steady rain had Unnerved
me too.  In the dark it was like some force was coming out of the sky
to drown us in the mud and flood.  Whoever thought of an evil force
coming from the sky?  But it was like the air was threatening to
smother us and crush us.

To work against the gloom I got up and lit the candle on top of the
Christmas tree.  The tree stood in the corner pointing up toward where
all the rain was coming from.  I thought of a description I had heard
of the host of fallen angels being throwed out of heaven.  The air was
full of black angels falling in the dark, thick as snowflakes.
Crowflakes, I thought.  But the lighted candle pointed upward.

"We ought to sing some Christmas carols " I said.  I thought if we sung
it would make us feel better.  Hank always loved to sing.  It would
make me feel better to hear his fine baritone voice.

"I can't remember any Christmas carols " Hank said.

"I don't believe that," I said.  "You know all the Christmas carols." l
started humming "Silent Night" and then begun singing it.  But Hank
didn't join in.  I sung the first verse and stopped.

"We should have an organ," I said.

"We couldn't even afford a mouth harp," Hank said.

"I wish you had kept your banjo " I said.

"Ma made me give it up when I got saved," Hank said.

"You'll have to get another one," I said.

Hank looked toward the front door and fear come on his face.

"What is it?"  I said.

He pointed to the door and I seen a tongue of black water reaching over
the threshold.  It was in the shape of a bib spreading on the floor.
"It's just water from the porch," I said.  "That is the creek coming
into the house," Hank said.

"Put something under the door," I said.  I run to get an old blanket
from the bedroom and stuffed it along the bottom of the door, the way
you would to stop a draft.  Water soaked through the blanket quick.

"Won't do no good," Hank said.

"What will?"  I said.  We couldn't open the door, for that would only
let in more rain.  Rain must be blowing right across the porch, I
thought.  But all I heard was steady rain on the roof.

"Nothing " Hank said.  I looked at him, and listened.  And then I heard
the lips sound, the kissing sound and sucking that rising water makes
when it touches a building or rock wall.

"You mean that's creek water?"  I said.  Gap Creek had rose out of its
banks and crossed the road.  In the dark it had reached into the yard
and licked against the porch, then swirled up onto the boards of the
porch and was now pouring under the door.  Hank looked so worried I
felt sorry for him.  I tried to think of something to stop the water
from coming into the house.  I grabbed a lamp and run to look at the
back door, for I thought it was lower than the front.  But I had only
took one step into the kitchen when my foot hit something thick.  There
was a splash and I seen water already standing on the kitchen floor

I lowered the lamp to look at the water and seen pieces of kindling
floating arouIld under the table.  And there was cans and bottles
floating, and a cardboard box with some pinecones.  Even as I looked I
could see the water rising, washing in little tides across my feet.  I
turned to run back to the living room where Hank stood by the
fireplace, leaning against the mantel.

"There's water already in the kitchen," I said.  "It'll put out the
fire in a minute " he hollered.

Sure enough, water seeping under the front door had spread across the
living room to the hearth.  When it rose another inch it would be in
the fireplace and the fire would go out in smoke and steam.  I tried to
think of some way to protect the fire, to build a wall around the
hearth.  There wasn't no way.

"We've got to get out of here " Hank said.

"We can't go out in a flood in the dark' I said.  "We'd get
drowneded."

"We can't just stay here " Hank hollered.  I didn't like the look in
his eye and the shrillness that had come into his voice.

"Only a fish could get through a flood in this dark " I said.  "You
said so yourself."

"We've got to make a run for it " Hank said.  The tone of his voice
scared me as much as what he said.

"We can't go up the valley to the mountain " I said.  I wished more
than anything that we had gone home for Christmas.  I wished I was on
top of the mountains with Mama and my sisters.

"Do you want to drown here?"  Hank shouted, like I was responsible for
the flood.  He sloshed through the water in the kitchen and grabbed his
mackinaw coat off the peg, and he lit the barn lantern.  "Get your coat
" he said.

"Where are you going?"  I said.

"We've got to get out of this house," Hank shouted.  I seen there was
no use to argue with him.

"What can we take?"  I said.

"We can't take nothing if we have to swim," Hank yelled.  I'd never
seen him so scared.  The water was getting deeper by the second in the
kitchen, and his words echoed off the walls in an odd way.

I tried to think what was most valuable in the house.  We didn't have
any money left but a few cents in my purse.  There was a few pots and
pans I had brung with me, and the comb and brush set Rosie had give me
when we got married.

Hank swung the lanterrn like he was going to bash it on the wall, but
stopped his self  "iYou don't want to burn down the house," I said.

"What difference would it make?"  he said.  He started stomping in the
water so the splashes flung out like wings.  I grabbed my coat off the
peg.  I hated to get the bottom of the coat wet, but there was no way
not to.

Hank acted like he was beside his self  He stomped into the bedroom and
got Mr.  Pendergast's shotgun, which was about the only thing Caroline
Glascock had left.  He broke down the barrel and put a shell inside,
and he put another shell in his coat pocket.

"What are you doing?"  I said, shivering in the icy water up to my
knees .

"Let's get out of here," Hank said.  Holding the lantern and shotgun in
one hand, he grabbed my arm with the other and pulled me through the
kitchen to the back door.  When he opened the door more water swirled
into the room.  In the lantern light the flood looked an evil brown,
dark and smelly.  It was water that had poured through outhouses and
barns, graveyards and trash gullies.

The wind hit my face like somebody had slapped me with a cold wet hard.
The air was whirling sheets of rain.  Suddenly the air turned to
shining blue powder, and I seen it was lightning.  And I could see
clear across the yard to the barn and pasture.  There was nothing but
water curving and swerving in a rush as far as you could see.  Then it
was dark again

"Where are we going?"  I yelled.

"To higher ground:' Hank shouted.  "Or hell."  He pulled me into the
current and it felt like a sow or horse had rolled against my legs. 
The water hit so hard it bruised me and wrapped around my knees and
thighs and pulled at my coat.  " I can't stand up:' I hollered.

"Got to hurry!"  Hank yelled into the rain.  He held the gun and
lantern high and jerked me along with his left hand.  Every time I
lifted a foot it nearly got swept away from under me.  We lurched and
wrestled our way across the river toward the barn.  The closest high
ground I could think of was in the pasture, up where the salt lick was.
But that was beyond the barn and across the pasture.  I didn't see how
we could get that far in the awful waves.  In the dark I couldn't even
tell if we was past the woodpile or chicken coop.  It was black and the
rain and current made you feel crazy The glow from the lantern was weak
as a lightning bug.

"Lord help us:' I hollered.  Something hit my side like a floating
board or body The rain smothered me.

But we kept going, from one foothold to another, and I think we might
have made it to the barn, or even to the pasture fence, except that
Hank stumbled.  I don't know what happened exactly, but it was like he
stepped into a ditch or sinkhole, or the flood jerked his feet out from
under him.  I don't think he meant to let go my hand.  But down he
went, and his hand was wrenched away from mine, and I was on my own in
the middle of the raging water.

"Hank!"  I screamed, and seen the lantern go bobbing away until it went
out.  And then everything was black as tar around me, with wind and
rain in my face and water slurping and pawing at my legs and between my
legs.  I didn't know what direction to go in.  I couldn't remember
where the barn was, and where the house was.

"Hank!"  I yelled again.  But the wind hit me in the face and covered
up my voice.  I tried to listen, but heard nothing but wind.  I took a
step and the water got deeper.  Was Hank under the water?  Had he been
swept down the valley?  At the speed the water was moving he could
already be a long way off.  Should I try to look for him?  I couldn't
hardly stand up myself.  I couldn't think what to do because I couldn't
swim, and I didn't even know in what direction to move.

I don't know what I would have done, standing deep in that wild,
stinking water, twisting myself against the current, except just then
it come another flash of lightning that blinded me, and through my
squinted eyes I seen the barn ahead.  For a second the barn wall glared
like it was lit, and then it was gone.  Quick, before I lost the
direction, I pushed myself toward the barn.  Took all my strength to
reach one foot, and then the other, through the tide, bracing myself
and leaning against the current.  If I fell down in that flood I was
goner.

As I worked my way step by short steps toward the barn I wondered if I
should go back to look for Hank.  Was he out there somewhere clinging
to a fence post or tree?  Was he deep in the mud of the creek?  But I
would be lucky to save myself and the baby inside me.  It wouldn't do
nobody any good if I got carried off in the flood.

When I finally reached the barn I put my hands flat against the wall
and felt my way along to the door The cow bawled inside and something
banged like the horse lunging in panic.  The barn felt like it was
trembling in the grip of the flood.  I eased my way along to the
hallway door, and soon as I got into the passageway the current wasn't
so fierce.  The water was swirling through the stalls and it smelled
like manure and rotten leaves.

"Hank!"  I hollered, and held on to the slats of the cow stall.  I
could try to find the ladder to the hay loft and climb up there out of
the water.  But I couldn't just climb up to the dry hay and leave Hank
out in the flood.  If only I could see.  If only I had some rope or a
long pole I could help him.

"Hank!"  I yelled again.  The cow bawled inside her stall and something
banged against the barn like a log or floating outhouse.  I didn't want
to go back out in the flood, for I had to think of the baby It was my
job to save the baby But I felt bad about leaving Hank in the raging
water.

I worked my way along the wall hung with harness, plow lines and hares
and horse collars until I reached the ladder.  As I put my hand on the
step of the ladder to pull myself up out of the water felt a wet shoe.
At first I didn't know what it was, and then I thought, has somebody
left a boot out here?  And then I wondered if a stranger was hiding in
the dark barn.  Was it somebody like Timmy Gosnell?

"Who's there?"  I said.  There was no answer.  I pulled my hand away
from the wet boot.  "Is that you, Hank?"  I said.

Suddenly there was a flash of lightning from outside, and in the glow
from the doorway reflected from the water I looked up and seen it was
Hank above me.  He was holding the shotgun, and he was trembling and
had a terrible look on his face.

"I thought you was drowneded " I said.

"You almost pulled me under' he said.

"You let go of me " I said.

"I couldn't help you:' Hank said.  He sounded like a little boy that
was scared.

"I thought you was drowneded " I said.

"I'm going to shoot myself," he said.  It was dark and I couldn't see
his face, but it was like I could see his face in his voice.

"Don't talk crazy' I said.

"I didn't go to leave you:' Hank shouted.

"I know you didn't " I said.  I was glad I couldn't see his face.

There was a flash of light, and at first I thought the shotgun had gone
off.  But it was just another lightning.

"I ain't no good for nobody!"  Hank hollered.

"It's not your fault " I said.  I was afraid of what he might do with
the gun in the dark.  I didn't know what else to say I had never seen
Hank in such a state, or anybody else for that matter.  There wasn't
anything I could think of to say "You go on back home," Hank hollered.
"I have ruint your life."  "You ain't ruined nothing, yet," I said.
"This is all the flood."

Tears was mixed with rain in the corners of my eyes and down my cheeks.
Lightning flashed again and I seen the water outside the door like
wrinkled satin pulled away Hank had had his moods, but he'd never done
anything this crazy before.

"I ought to kill us both," Hank shouted.

"No!"  I screamed.  "You'll feel better tomorrow.  The Lord will help
us, if we pray' I said, my teeth chattering.  i was jerking I was so
scared and cold.  The horse whinnied and rammed against the side of its
stall.

I expected Hank to answer, but he didn't.

"The Lord loves everybody' I said.  I was saying whatever come into my
head.  I couldn't think of what to say.

"The Lord has kicked my ass " Hank said.

"Don't talk like that " I said.  I expected the lightning to hit the
barn and burn us up.  Instead thunder boomed on the roof like it was a
drum.  The pressure hurt my ears.  I put my hand on Hank's dripping
pants leg.  "Come on down," I said.

There was a blast of fire and a deafening roar and I heard a crash and
tinkle on the barn roof.  Heavy drops sprinkled around me.  It took me
a second to understand that Hank had fired the shotgun straight up at
the roof.

"Please, Lord, help us," I said.  "Help Hank to calm down, and show us
what to do"

It come to me what Ma Richards would say to Hank.  I heard her say it
in my mind.  "You think you're so important the Lord would make a
special flood just for you?"  I said.  "This flood is happening to
everybody."

Hank didn't answer.  I could smell the burned gunpowder.

"There ain't nothing special about your troubles," I said.  It was hard
words, but they was the truth.  I was so scared there was nothing to
say but the truth.  "Don't make no difference what I do;' Hank said.
"You're just feeling sorry for yourself:' I said.

"I should kill us both and have done with it," Hank said.  The cow
bawled and thunder slammed the roof of the barn again.

"You won't do it," I said.  "You're just showing out.?  It was a chance
I had to take, to shame him back to his senses.  I had to do somethiIlg
to get him calmed down.

The gun fired again, and it sounded like sand was ricocheting around
inside the hayloft.  I hoped that was the last shell Hank had.

"Think of the baby," I said.

"I can't think of nothing," Hank said.

"Let's go back to the house," I said.  "We're going to freeze to death
out here."

"We'll get drowneded," Hank said.

"I think the water's going down."  I said.  It did seem the water in
the hallway of the barn was not as deep as it had been.

"Might as well get washed away;' Hank said.

"Do you want the baby to die?"  I said.  "Do you want the baby to
freeze to death?"

"This ain't no world for a baby."  Hank said.

Anger boiled up in me.  All the confusion and scared ness in me started
turning to anger now that Hank was a little calmer.  "Get down from
there and act like a man," I said, and pulled at his leg.

"Wait till the water goes down."  Hank said.  "Be foolish to go back
now"

I seen he was right.  I was so cold and angry I was jerking, and I
couldn't stop.  I had to get out of the freezing water.  "Let's climb
up in the hay and get warm."  I said.

My feet trembled on the rungs as I pulled myself up the ladder in the
dark.  Even when there was a flicker of lightning you couldn't see much
up there except the cracks between boards.  I took Hank's hand and we
felt our way to the pile of hay and crawled into it.  I covered us up
with straw and leaned against Hank and tried to stop shaking.  The hay
smelled like must and old apples.  I hadn't been inside a hay pile
since I was a girl.

The flood roared outside and the horse whinnied and banged the stall
below us.  But I didn't hear the cow anymore.  She hadn't bawled since
Hank fired the shotgun the last time.

"You don't need to blame yourself," I said, and pushed up against Hank
and held his waist.

Hank didn't say nothing.  I guess he was wore out by all that had
happened.  He put his arms around me and we laid there in the scratchy
straw.  I quit shaking finally, and I must have drifted off to sleep,
for I thought somebody was calling to me.  They was calling from a
cellar, or down in a holler.  And then I found it was the horse
neighing.

I jerked up and listened.  The floodwaters wasn't so loud around the
barn as before.  Hank had dozed off too and I shook him.

"Listen," I said.

"What?"  he said and twisted his self around.

"The water is quieter," I said.

"I can still hear it " Hank said.

"We've got to get back to the house and put on dry things' I said.
"We're liable to catch pneumo ny

"You don't want to go back out in that " Hank said.

"We've got to," I said.

We pushed the hay aside and felt our way to the ladder.  I was stiff
and sore, but no longer jerking as I found the rungs with the tips of
my shoes and lowered myself into the water.  The flood had gone down
some, but was so cold it burned my ankles.  I held on to Hank's leg and
then his hand as he climbed down.  When we got to the barn door
everything was so dark we couldn't even see the house.  "We'll have to
feel our way," I said, "the way we come out here."  "I ain't no good,"
Hank said.

"It don't matter if you're any good or not" I said, "we've got to get
back to the house."

The flood tore at my legs as I stepped into it, but I pushed my feet
hard against the ground and held on to Hank's arm, both steadying him
and steadying myself.

"If I fall down just let me go " Hank said.

"If you fall down I'll fall down too," I said, "and we'll all be
drowneded."  But I knowed he wasn't going to fall down.  Hank was
strong as a big Percheron horse.  He was shaky in his head, but he
wasn't shaky in his big shoulders and powerful back.  He was strong as
a rock wall.  Without a lantern we couldn't see the crazy water, but it
splashed up on my chest and took my breath away.  I held on to Hank's
arm like it was an oak tree.

"Oh!"  I said when an icy splash hit my neck.  The shock of the cold
water on my chest and belly made me forget myself and stop.

"Come on " Hank said and jerked my arm.  I held on to him as the flood
thrashed between my legs.  Now that he was out in the wild stream Hank
come back to his self a little.  Lightning flashed and I seen the porch
was not where I'd thought it was.  We had been pushed by the current
below the corner of the house, past where the wash pot and clothesline
was.  We swung to the left in the ghostly light, and then it was dark
again.

By the time we got to the steps my feet was too numb to feel anything.
Hank had to help me up and across the porch.

"Let's go upstairs where it's dry' I said.

"I'll have to find a lamp," Hank said.  WHEN WE GOT to the bedroom in
the attic everything looked cold and damp.  The day of rain had made
everything clammy, and with the fire out the house was getting cold.  I
stood at the top of the stairs to let my muddy shoes and the bottom of
my skirt drip as much as they would.  In the bedroom I put the lamp on
the table and went back to the stairs and wrung out the hem of my
filthy skirt.  It was a good thing we had not moved downstairs to Mr.
Pendergast's room after Lou and Garland visited us.  Thank goodness
most of our clothes was upstairs.

"There's nothing to do but take off our wet things and get under the
covers," I said.  But Hank didn't answer.  He had set down on the bed
and put his face in his hands, and he was crying.  A chill went through
me, like an icicle had been drove down my spine.  I went to Hank and
took him by the shoulders.  He sobbed into his hands like a baby It
didn't seem possible a man as big and strong as Hank could be so
unstrung as he had been that night.

"Let's jump in bed and get warm," I said.  I got down on my knees and
untied his wet boots and pulled them off.  I slipped off his
soaking-wet socks.  "Get out of them wet overalls," I said.  He let me
undress him like he didn't care, like he was a sleepy baby that didn't
pay no attention.  I was shivering with cold as I got his flannel
nightshirt on him.  I took off my own clothes and put on my flanIlel
gown and got in bed beside him.  Our feet was cold as snow.  Hank had
turned on his side away from me.  He wasn't sobbing anymore; he was
just sullen and quiet.

"We'll be warm and dry up here," I said.  I listened to the rain and to
things rubbing and knc)eking on the he) use  I reckon boards and trees
in the flood was washing against the walls.  Once I felt the walls jar,
and wondered if the house had broke loose from its foundations.  It was
strange to think that I was stronger than Hank.  He was wore out and I
still felt like fighting.  I felt of my belly where it had begun to
swell a little.  I cupped my hands around my belly like I was
protecting it.  "I'm afraid," Hank said.

"I'm afraid too:' I said.  The fact that he was so scared made me feel
less afraid.  I couldn't explain it.  Hank turned and put his face
against my breast, and I pulled the gown to the side so the nipple was
exposed.  The nipple got hard and long and he put his lips to it.  I
run my fingers through his hair.

He leaned his head over and nibbled at my other breast, like he was
hungry.  He was so hungry he could never be filled.

"You don't never need to be so afraid," I said.

When I put out the lamp it was so dark in the bedroom you couldn't see
the dark.  Most times you can see the dark because there is just a
little bit of light.  But it was so dark I might as well have been
blind.  The sight had been took away, and there was no way of seeing.
The house shuddered as big trees or logs washed up against it.  The
house creaked and groaned, as if something was pushing it.  There was a
kind of bark, of one board slapping another.  And suddenly there come a
flash.  And I seen the one window in the bedroom lit up with blinding
chalk dust.  It was lightning again.  The brightness burned my eyes.

Thunder hit the air like a timber slammed down on the roof.  The house
shook and seemed to rock on its foundation.  Thunder followed thunder,
as though a pile of big rocks was falling on the roof.  Doors was
slamming all over the sky.  And as soon as it quieted down there was
another flash of blue.  And thunder followed like a train busting out
of a tunnel.  It sounded as if the sky was crumbling in big chunks and
crashing down the mountainside.  Thunder echoed off the ridges and
repeated itself and echoed again.

And just when it felt like I couldn't stand to hear another thunder, I
heard the wind.  Suddenly wind brushed the house like it had been
released by the thunder.  Wind appeared as if it had been turned out of
a cave and shoved up against the house.  The eaves whined and windows
shook.  And trees across the valley and on the ridges above roared.  I
could hear another roar too, of a waterfall further up the valley,
where floodwater was dropping hundreds of feet in the dark and breaking
trees and churning up roots and boulders.  "Sounds like the end of the
world " Hank said.

"Nothing is the end of the world " I said.  I said it off the top of my
head, but then I seen how true it was.  If everything in the world come
crashing down, the world would still go on.  It would start all over
again.  The creek would go back to its banks and broke things would rot
and turn into mulch and fertilizer.  The sun would dry out the mud and
silt, and weeds would start growing again.

Wind hit the side of the house again and flung drops pinged on the
window.  "Its Christmas " I said.

"Don't seem like Christmas " Hank said.  WHEN I WOKE UP, Hank was gone
from the bed.  The place beside me was cold and everything about the
bedroom seemed wrong.  I looked around and tried to see what it was
that was so bad about the room.  Everything looked ordinary, except for
our wet clothes on the floor.  And then I thought that it was light,
which meant it was much later than I was used to getting up.  I had
slept too long and was uneasy in my stomach.

Another thing that was odd was the wind had stopped.  The windowpanes
was quiet and there was no rain on the roof.  It had rained so long it
sounded eerie not to hear drops on the tin roof.  It was the quietness
that was so strange.  There was no dripping from the eaves.  I listened
to see if Hank was stirring around in the rooms below.  The house was
still.  WFSEN I GOI dressed my shoes was still wet, but I put on dry
stockings and climbed down the stairs.  Opening the door into the
living room I expected to see water standing on the floor, but there
was none.  Instead there was things laying on the floor, scattered here
and yon, like an animal had been loose in the room.  It was stuff that
had been floating and was left when the water went down: soaked
cardboard boxes, pieces of wood, bottles and jars, corncobs from the
kindling box, clothespins, a broom.  But the thing that struck me was
not the look of the living room: it was the smell.  There was the smell
of a place wet and already sour.  It was a stink of moldy rotting
things.  The water had only stood in the house a few hours, yet the
house smelled like it had been rotting for months.  It was a stink of
soot and charred wood in the fireplace, and bitter soaked ashes.  It
was a stink of wet cloth and filth and festering mud.  The floor was
slick with a film of mud, and silt stuck to the bottoms of the
curtains.  The Christmas tree had mud on its lower limbs.

"Hank " I called.  I looked in the kitchen and seen the floor was
littered the same way the living room was.  "Hank!"  I hollered.  But
there was nobody in the house.  The kitchen smelled worse than the
living room.  The wood was all soaked and sticks was beginning to mold
and sour.  The water had brought out all the stink of the charred wood
and soot inside the stove.  And there was the stench of rancid grease
and bits of rotted fat and crumbs from the table that had been found
and loosened by the water.  The floor was slick with red silt.

I put a hand over my nose and hurried to the back door.  I expected to
see water standing in the yard, but there was only a few puddles.  The
yard had been tore and scrubbed by the flash flood, and most of the
grass had been peeled away Wood had floated out of the woodshed and was
scattered over the yard and pasture.  A chicken coop had been carried
away and washed up against the pasture fence.  The outhouse had been
knocked over.  Otherwise the buildings was all in place, and sun
sparkled on the puddles.  But I didn't see but six or eight chickens
pecking in the mud.  "Hank," I called.

My voice echoed off the side of the barn.  The air was so warm it felt
like early fall, but the trees on the mountainside was bare.  The ice
was all gone and the trees flashed silver in the sun.  It had indeed
turned warm after the sleet.  I called for Hank again, and then I seen
him come out of the hallway of the barn.  He was leading the horse, and
he took the horse to the pasture and turned it loose.  After he put up
the bars of the milk gap he started back toward the house carrying the
milk bucket.  I could tell something was wrong by the sag of his
shoulders.

"The cow is dead " he said when he got closer.

"Drowneded?"  I said.

"Hung herself' Hank said.  "She climbed up to the top of her stall as
the water rose and caught her collar on a nail.  Then hung herself when
the water went down"

"I don't believe it " I said.

"I didn't believe it either," Hank said.  "But the cow is dead,
strangled by her own collar"

"We got a baby coming and there won't be no milk " I said.

"I never heard of a cow hanging herself before," Hank said.

"Can we eat the meat?"  I said.

"It has already started to rot in this warm weather," Hank said.  "And
beef won't keep the way pork does."

"You can't salt it down?"  I said.

"It has already started to rot " Hank said, "because the blood is still
in the carcass" I wondered if the meat could be boiled and canned, but
I didn't say nothing.  I didn't want to argue with Hank, now that he
was calm, after the way he had acted the night before.

When I went back into the kitchen I had to adjust my eyes to the dark.
But the stink hit my nose quick.  It was a sweet, sickening smell,
worse than mildew.  It was the smell of rotten things.  "First thing is
to mop the floor," I said.

Hank raked the wet ashes out of the stove an(l went to find some dry
kindling in the barn.  He didn't mention what he had done in the flood,
and I didn't either.  I got the bucket of fresh water from the back
porch.  It was clean and clear and had only been touched by rainwater I
tock a drink, for I was parched from the long nigtlt of worry.

"The spring will have to be cleaned out before we get any more fresh
water," Hank said when he come in.

"We'll have to keep fires going in the stove and in the fireplace to
dry the house out " I said.  I D(:)N'T THINK I'd ever faced such a job
as cleaning up Mr.  Pendergast's house after the flash flood.  Looking
at the red mud on the floor and on the chair legs and table legs, and
smelling the stench of wet wood and ashes, you just wanted to walk out
of the house into the morning air and never come back.  The smell
threatened to make me sick.  I felt like grabbing a coat and a head
scarf and staying outside.

The first thing that had to be cleaned was the floors, for we was
tracking red silt all over the place and it caked on the bottom of our
shoes.  It was like walking in red grease.  The mud smeared on
everything and was too deep to mop directly.  Hank got a fire started
in the stove, and then he went into the living room to start one in the
fireplace.

From the toolshed I got a hoe and an old bucket we had used in the hog
killing.  I lit a lamp in the kitchen so I could see better, and with
the fire roaring in the cook stove I begun to scrape the floor like I
was peeling soft paint, and put the scrapings in the bucket.  By the
time I got to the living room Hank had a fire roaring and prancing
there.  I moved the Christmas tree so I could scour under it.  With the
fire cracking and snapping, the house already smelled better, as if the
fire was eating up the smells.

When I toted the bucket of mud out to the backyard to dump it, I seen
Hank was digging a hole beside the barn.  It was a grave for the cow.
It would take him most of the day to shovel out a hole deep enough.  I
wished I could do that job.  It would be good to get out of the smelly
house.

After the floors was scraped clean as I could make them, I heated water
on the stove and shaved some soap into it.  With the mop I scoured the
kitchen and living room and front bedroom.  I lifted all the curtains
and bedclothes and hanging clothes in the closet away and tried to wash
in the corners and melt the mud in cracks.  Afterwards I washed my
shoes on the back porch and put on some water to boil for grits and
ground some beans for coffee.

Just about the time the coffee was ready and the grits was cooked,
there was a knock at the front door.  Who could be out visiting the
morning after a flood?  I was more startled and flustered than I had a
right to be.  I guess I was still shook up from the night before.  I
wished Hank was in the house and not way out behind the barn.  I hoped
it wasn'tTimmy Gosnell drunk on Christmas morning.  Drying my hands on
my apron, I walked slowly to the front door.

It was Preacher Gibbs and his wife from Gap Creek Church.  I hadn't
seen them since Mr.  Pendergast's funeral.  "Merry Christmas ' Mrs.
Gibbs said.

"Merry Christmas to you" I said and wiped the sweat off my forehead.
"Won't you come in."

"We come to see about you," the preacher said.  I led them into the
living room and Mrs.  Gibbs handed me a little poke with a ribbon on
it.  Peppermint candy canes stuck out the top.

"Thank you so much," I said.  "Won't you set down.  I don't think any
of the chair seats is wet."

"Did you get flooded too?"  Preacher Gibbs said.

"We got at least a foot of water in the house," I said.  "I've spent
all morning cleaning up the mud."

"The Goins house washed away," the preacher said.  "Two of their
younguns was drowned."

"And the mill got washed away," Mrs.  Gibbs said.  "One of the
Henderson boys was in the mill laying drunk on Christmas Eve and he got
drowned."

"Now, Mother, we don't know he was drunk," Preacher Gibbs said.

"Everybody knows he was drunk," Mrs.  Gibbs said.

"We shouldn't speak ill of the dead " Preacher Gibbs said.

"Can I take your coats?"  I said.

"We can't stay but just a minute " the preacher said.  "We wanted ,ee
if you and Hank was all right."

"We was lucky' I said.

"You have been blessed by the Lord:' Preacher Gibbs said.

"The cow got killed " I said.  "She got killed in the stall.  Hank is
digging a hole to bury her out by the barn."

"The Lord reminds us he's in charge from time to time:' Preacher Gibbs
said.

"It was a terrible flood " I said.

"We come to wish you all a Merry Christmas and invite you to church,"
Mrs.  Gibbs said.

"Could I offer you some coffee?"  I said.  "I just made a fresh pot"

"We can't stay' Preacher Gibbs said.  "But we do want to invite you and
Hank to service."

"We've been worried about what we was going to do' I said, "when Mr.
Pendergast's heirs show up"

"Nobody has heard from them " the preacher said.

"They never was friendly to Mr.  Pendergast' Mrs.  Gibbs said, "not
like real children would be."

"Young folks starting a family need a church connection," Mrs.  Gibbs
said.  She looked at my belly like she could tell I was expecting.  I
don't know how she could tell, but she seemed to know.

"We don't know where we'll be living " I said.

"You should buy this place," Preacher Gibbs said.

"I wish we could afford to," I said.

"When the heirs are found, maybe you can make a down payment," Mrs.
Gibbs said.

"We don't have much money," I said.  I didn't tell them about Caroline
Glascock and her husband.  I didn't think it would do any good to tell
them how we had been fooled.  And I didn't tell about the lawyer that
took the jar of money either.

"The Lord will protect his own," Preacher Gibbs said, "if you go to
church and trust him."

It was good to hear somebody who was so confident about how the world
worked.  And it was a pleasure to see somebody from the community after
the awful night of flood.

A voice hollered outside and I thought at first it was Hank, sounding
like he was hurt or in trouble.  "What was that?"  I said.

"Piieendergaass!"  the voice yelled.

"It's Timmy Gosnell," Mrs.  Gibbs said.  A shadow passed through my
chest.  There was something shameful about having a drunk man raving in
front of your house, especially on Christmas Day, when the preacher was
visiting.

"He always gets drunk on Christmas," Mrs.  Gibbs said.

"Piieendergass!"  the voice hollered.  His voice hurt like a saw raked
across my skin.

"Maybe he'll go away," I said.  A rock banged on the porch and rollei
against the door.

Poor Timmy Mrs.  Gibbs said.  "When he gets like this nobody can help
him."

"The Lord can help him," Preacher Gibbs said.  "But I doubt if anybody
else cam"

Something hit the porch again, and then I heard another voice.  It was
Hank, who must have heard Timmy hollering and come running from the
barn.  I opened the front door and stepped out on the porch.

Timmy Gosnell stood in the yard by the boxwood, but except for his
voice I would not have recognized him.  He looked like he had been made
out of mud, the way a snowman is made out of snow.  He looked like he
had been rolled in mud and soaked in mud.  Every inch of his clothes
was caked with clay and silt.  There was dirt and silt on his neck and
face.  And there was filth and river mud in his ears and pasted in his
hair.  His hands was crusted with mud, and his shoes was caked in
layers of sand and clay He looked like something that had been buried
for weeks and rose from the dead.  Only his eyes wasn't covered with
filth.

"What do you want?"  Hank said.  Hank was holding the shovel he had
used to dig the grave for the cow.

"You owe me monneeeeyyy' Timmy groaned.

"I don't owe you nothing," Hank said.  I seen how scared Hank was by
his voice.  Under the dirt Timmy could have been a rotten corpse rose
from the grave.

"It's Timmy Gosnell," I said.

"You get out of here," Hank said and raised the shovel.

"You ooooowe me " the drunk man moaned.

The preacher and Mrs.  Gibbs had come out on the porch, and the
preacher stepped down into the flood-scoured yard.  "What happened to
you, Timmy?"  the preacher said.

Timmy turned and studied the preacher like he wasn't sure he could see
him.  "Rained on me," he said.

"You need to go home and wash up and change your clothes," the preacher
said.  "It's Christmas"

Timmy pointed toward the house like he was having trouble saying what
he wanted to.  "Owe me money," he said.

"Julie and Hank don't owe you money:' the preacher said.  "And Vincent
Pendergast is dead."

"They tooook his money," Timmy hollered.

Hank stepped closer to the drunk man.  "We ain't took nothing " he
said.  I seen how scared and angry Hank was, and how embarrassed.  I
was so scared I couldn't hardly get my breath.

"Now you come with us:' Preacher Gibbs said to Timmy.  "We'll take you
home."

The drunk man swung at the preacher like he was trying to drive away a
yellowjacket.  "I done been saved' he said.  "Didn't do no good ."

"You need to get cleaned up' the preacher said.  "And have something
hot to eat.  It's Christmas"

"Won't hold water' Timmy growled at the preacher.  "Your preaching
won't."

"There's been a flood' the preacher said.  "Half the valley is washed
away.  Looks like you got caught in it."

"All whooores " Timmy said and pointed first at me and then at Mrs.
Gibbs.

"Now we don't need to talk that way' Preacher Gibbs said.  Hank raised
the shovel, but the preacher waved him back.

"Timmy, you just come along with us now," the preacher said.  He tried
to take Timmy by the elbow, but the drunk man flung his hand away

"Owe me monneeeyyy;' he groaned and turned away, staggering toward the
road.  His clothes was so heavy with mud they dragged to the ground.

"What a pitiful sight," Mrs.  Gibbs said.  "All we can do for Timmy is
pray' the preacher said.

"Somebody ought to teach him a lesson," Hank said.  He drove the shovel
into the mud of the yard.

"You can't teach a drunk man any lesson," Preacher Gibbs said.

When the preacher and Mrs.  Gibbs was gone I thought how quick the
world could be turned upside down.  Awful things and crazy things was
there waiting for a chance to happen.  I had to go into the house and
stand by the fire to warm myself and calm myself.  The Christmas flood
not only killed the cow and washed away the chicken coop, the water in
the cellar made the taters rot.  I saved some spuds and sweet taters
that hadn't got moldy by wiping them off and laying them in the sun on
the back porch.  But most of the taters got soft and turned to filth
that had to be shoveled into a bucket and carried to the gully.

After the flood a lot of things got carried to the gully below the
spring: rags I'd used to wipe off mud cloth that had soured and
mildewed, shoes that had got soaked and moldy After Christmas it seemed
half the things in the house had to be throwed away.  There was dried
apples and dried peppers that got wet and rotted in the kitchen.  And
where the flood rose to the lower shelves in the smokehouse some of the
pork middles got the salt soaked out of them and started to rot.

By the time I'd finished cleaning the house, I felt the floodwater had
been poison and killed almost everything it touched, except the tools.
The foundation of the house itself had been soaked and the mortar
crumbled off between rocks.  It looked like the floodwaters had acid in
them, and everything they touched was burned and eat away.  The yard
and road had been swept bare down to rock or hard red clay The road up
Gap ('reek had always been rough, with long stretches of mud in wet
weather and washboard ripples in dry weather.  But there was now places
washed out deep enough to bury a horse in.  A big rock had been exposed
in the roadbed high as a wagon axle.  The branch run through the road
in places and the creek cut across the routes and back above the Poole
place.  Some ruts was washed out so deep the dirt in the middle of the
road come up to a wagon tongue.

If we had been broke at C'hristmas, we was worse off by New Year.  All
the meal we had was ruined, along with the taters and some of the meat.
It was when Hank went out to the crib to shuck corn to take to mill
that he discovered a lot of the ears had been ruint too.  Mud and silt
was stuck like paint to the ears in the bottom of the crib, and some of
the kernels had begun to swell and sprout.  Others had got moldy, or
was just starting to rot.  It was a mess, and it was beginning to
smell.

"This is like the plagues of Egypt " Hank said when he showed me the
rotting corn.

"We'll have to dry it out," I said.

"How can you dry out a crib full of corn that's soaked and molding?"
Hank said, like he was accusing me of making light of our problems.

"We'll have to shuck it," I said, "and carry it into the house to dry
by the fire."

"There ain't room by the fire, and there ain't time," Hank said.  But I
figured he was arguing more with his self than with me.  Since the
night of the flood he hadn't said much.  I tried to forget him standing
on the ladder in the barn firing the shotgu

"We'll save what we can."  I said.

"That won't be enougEl to brag about;' Hank said.  I think he was mad
at his self for being mad, and for talking like Ma Richards.  He meant
to act different, but he couldn't help it.  I guess nobody changes
completely

It was the day before New Year when we lit in to shuck the wet corn. 
We piled the dry corn to the side and pulled out the mud stained wet
ears. The shucks was soggy and dripping muddy water as we stripped them
off. My hands got cold quick and I found some old gloves in the barn
and kept working with a shucking stick.  Some of the kernels had been
stained with mud, and they would have to be washed off after they dried
out.  We shucked several bushels of corn and toted them into the house
and spread them on quilts on the living room floor.  They nearly
covered the whole room.

Hank built a big fire in the fireplace and made it hot with hickory
wood.  Soon the whole house smelled like moldy corn, a sweet almost
fermenty kind of scent.  The heaped corn looked like some kind of
treasure in the firelight.  You could imagine the kernels was bits of
gold.  I warmed my hands and then went back and shucked some more.
AFTER we had got most of the wet corn shucked and piled by the
fireplace.  and I was ready to wash the mud stains off my hands for the
hundredth time that week, that somebody knocked on the door.  It was
Preacher and Mrs.  Gibbs again.

"Howdy," Hank said.  "I'd invite you all in but the living room is full
of com We're drying it out."

The preacher stepped inside and looked at the piles of wet, stained
corn "We was just stopping by to greet you," he said.

The preacher and his wife come and stood by the fire, and I didn't know
what to say My hands was dirty and cold and my dress covered with mud.
The preacher held out his hands to the fire.  "I've come by to wish you
all a happy New Year and to invite you again to church  he said. I HAD
ALWAYS thought of myself as a churchgoing person and not somebody to be
exhorted and converted.  And I knowed Hank thought of his self the same
way But in Gap Creek we was new to the community, and new to marriage
and to each other, and we had not gone to church.  It come to me that
we must look like godless people to Preacher Gibbs and the folks of Gap
Creek.  They didn't really know us at all.  "We don't know many people
on Gap Creek."  I said.

"Then come to church and get to know your neighbc)rs," the preacher
said.

"If God is everywhere, you can worship wherever you are," Hank said. "I
can pray in the corn crib same as in the church."

"But the church is where we strengthen each other and support each
other.  The church is the family of Christ," Preacher Gibbs said.

"I would be afraid to start the New Year without the Lord," Mrs.  Gibbs
said.

I was a little offended by the way they talked, but at the same time I
was flattered that they had come back up the valley on New Year's Eve
just to invite us again to church.  It irritated me that they looked
down on us as some kind of sinners.  Preachers always look down on
those they are trying to convert.  But I appreciated the special
attention they had showed us.  It had been awful lonely on Gap Creek
.

"We have been too busy to go anywhere," I said.

The preacher looked at the corn heaped on the floor "It won't help to
heap up your treasures in this world," he said.  It was a little bit
like he could read my thoughts.

"We're just trying to save a little corn to get us througtl the winter'
I said.

"After New Year it's only two and a half months till sprhlg," Mrs.
Gibbs said.

"It's the hardest two and a half months of the year;' Hank said.

"We've got to get us a new cow somewhere:' I said.  " The Lord will
provide what we need when we need it," Preacher Gibbs said.

"The Lord helps them that helps their selves Mrs.  Gibbs said.

"I reckon ('hristialls have to work as hard as anybody else."  Hank
said .

"They have to work as hard," the preacher said, "but it means more." It
struck me that he didn't say Christians enjoyed work more, or had it
any easier.  But saying that their work meant more sounded more than
just talk.  It sounded like the truth, or at least the truth as he seen
it.  I had never met a preacher like Preacher Gibbs.  He had walked all
the way up Gap Creek valley to visit us again and invite US to church
on New Year's Day.  And he appeared to really think about what he said.
He was a man with silver in his hair and red in his cheeks.  He was a
farmer like everybody else on Gap Creek, and he looked like he had
worked outside in a lot of wind and weather.

I felt what Preacher Gibbs had said went to the heart of things. 
"We'll try to come to chi]rch tonlorrowwM said.

"You will be welcome," Mrs.  Gibbs said.

"We'll try to come."  Hank said.  He give me a look like I had spoke
too soon.

"That's all I can ask" Preacher Gibbs said.

When they was gone Hank said, "You may have to go to church by
yourself."

"Don't you want to go?"  I said.

"I don't know nobody here," Hank said.  "And we may be leaving here
anyway"

"That's the way to get to know people," I said.  But it sounded strange
to hear myself tclk to Hank that way Because he had always heerl the
sociable one.  He was twice associable as me.  He loved to go to
ctalrctl, an(l he loved to sing in church.  It was the fact that he
tlad lost his job, and was worried about the baby coming and the loss
of his money, and embarrassed by the way he had acted in the flood,
that made him standoffish.  I had to tlelp tlim out.  The night of the
flood had took away his confidence.

"We can go one time," I said.  "And if people ain't friendly we don't
have to go back."  THE NEXT DAY was cold and clear.  The ground was
spewed up in places with ice and crumbs of dirt stood on hairs of ice
on the banks of the road.  There is a feeling about the morning of New
Year's Day It appears like the slate has been scrubbed clean.  In
cities they celebrate New Year at twelve o'clock at night.  But New
Year's always seemed to me to start at sunrise, in the new light of
morning.  The early light on New Year Day looks different and the air
feels different.  I always imagine I can smell fresh lumber and fresh
pine needles.  I fixed hot coffee and grits and eggs to go with the
molasses.  I knowed I had to go to church.  It was the first day of the
new week, and the first day of the new century.

"We'll take the buggy," Hank said.  I'd been afraid I might have to
walk by myself down the valley, but he must have been studying
overnight about going and changed his mind.  I heated some bricks in
the fireplace to put on the floor of the buggy to keep our feet warm.
And I wrapped myself in my overcoat and put a scarf around my head.  It
felt like a ceremony we was taking part in, getting ready to go to
church, driving down the rough road to the forks where the church was.
Hank had to drive real slow because of all the ruts and washouts.  Our
breaths smoked in the biting air.

I hadn't been to the little church-house on Gap Creek since Mr.
Pendergast's funeral.  It was really no bigger than a chapel, made of
clapboards that had been whitewashed.  There was big old boys standing
outside smoking their pipes, like there always is before church
service.  Everybody nodded or tipped their hat as we went in.

It felt like everybody in the church turned to look at us as we stepped
through the door I knowed Hank wouldn't want to set in the choir on the
left with most of the older women.  And I didn't figure we would set up
front on the right in the Amen Corner.  We walked up the aisle between
the benches, and Hank stopped halfway up toward the pulpit and we set
down on the right side.  I don't guess there was more than twelve
benches on either side anyway

It had been so long since we had gone to a service I felt tense, like I
didn't know what to expect.  I thought, How silly to be worried, for it
was just a worship service on New Year's Day But it felt like something
important was about to happen.  I touched my stomach and hoped I didn't
get sick.

A man with curly gray hair and red garters on his sleeves stood up.  He
held a song book and he turned to the woman that set at the organ.
"Number two hundred and forty-three, "Let the Lower Lights Be Burning "
he called out.  I opened the hymnal that laid on the bench and the
organist begun to play.  I was pretty sure her name was Linda Jarvis. I
hadn't heard any music for months, except what I tried to sing with
Hank on Christmas Eve.  The organ notes filled the little church like
they was coming from deep in the ground.  The deep notes was like air
blowing out of caves, and the higher notes was like birds singing in
the sky.

What a wonderful thing music is, I thought.  I had forgot how good
music is in a public place.  It was just a little organ, but it
gathered and pushed the air in the sweetest breath.  There was such
color in the notes.  I seen purples and blues and greens in the air.
The organ music was living breath.

And when the song leader started to sing and we joined in, I seen I had
forgot how voices joined together.  One voice may be beautiful, and
some voices not so beautiful by their selves  But when they all joined
in the church it was something different.  All the voices blended and
helped each other make a fuller kind of harmony.  All together the
voices seemed to raise the air.  They made the church-house feel like
it was lifting off the ground.

I seen how I had missed singing.  I had missed singing with other
people and I had missed the praise of singing.  Hank sung beside me.

When the song was over the preacher prayed.  "Lord, make US thankful
for the privilege of being alive to see this new day and new year and
this new century' he said.  "Make us grateful for the honor of being
alive, for the honor of your presence and blessing.  Make us thankful
for your love, which is showered without condition on our unworthiness.
Help us to grow in wisdom in this new year and new hundred years. Help
us to see your face and your love in the faces around us, and wherever
we look in the world.  For there is no place where your love has not
already gone before us."

It was the best prayer I'd ever heard.  It was the kind of prayer would
have liked to make myself, if I was able to.  It was a prayer meant
especially for me.  If Preacher Gibbs had been able to read my mind and
look into my heart he could not have spoke to me any better.

"We will sing another hymn " Preacher Gibbs said, and the song leader
stood up again.  ""We Are Going Down the Valley."  he announced .  We
are going down the valley one by one,

With our faces toward the setting ol the sun.  Down the valley where
the mournful cypress grows,

Where the stream of death in silence onward flows.  We are going down
the valley, going down the valley,

Going toward the setting of the sun.  We are going down the valley,
going down the valley,

Going down the valley one by one.

When the song was over Preacher Gibbs stood up behind the pulpit.  It
was made of ordinary planks with old varnish, small enough for him to
lean over "I will read two short texts today' he said.  "One is from
Matthew and one is from Revelation.  "Go therefore, and teach all
nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and
of the Holy Ghost.  Teaching them to observe all things whatsoever I
have commanded you and, lo, I am with you al way even to the end of the
world."

The preacher turned his Bible to the very last pages.

And the Spirit and the bride say, Come.  And let him that heareth say,
Come.  And let him that is athirst come.  And whosoever will, let him
take the water of life freely."

The preacher read in a slow, deliberate voice.  As he read he made
every word sparkle, like it was a living thing he held up to the light.
I had heard those words before, but I'd never heard such force in
them.

"These are the words I want you to think about this New Year's Day'
Preacher Gibbs said.  "These are the words of the great promise of
Immanuel, and the Great Commission.  "For, lo, I am with you al way
even to the end of the world.  "And that is what I want to say to you
today, that he is with us.  He is with us right here on Gap Creek in
the state of South Carolina.  He is with us in the air of this church,
and he is with us in the sunlight of New Year's Day.

"The Lord is with us as we go about our work.  He is with us when we
milk the cow or chop wood.  He is with us while we sleep, and when we
are sick.  He is with us in the still small hours, and he is with us at
the hour of our death.  He will hold our hand in our moment of grief,
and he is present in our greatest joy.  He is with the mother who
nurses her child, and he is with the mother who loses her child.

"The Lord is in eternity, but he is with us in time also.  His is presl
" ent in each hour and each minute and second.  The blessing of his
presence is in each moment and the thought of each moment.  The Lord is
in the fullness of memory, and the fullness of hope for the future. The
Lord is in the promise of tomorrow.  And in the last words of
Revelation, in the last words of the Bible, in the last words the
Savior spoke before the Second Coming, he tells us that salvation is
for whoever will accept it.  Salvation is not just for the chosen
people, or the best people, or good people.  Salvation is for the
sinners, and for those afraid and those persecuted.  Salvation is for
those afflicted and those crippled and those troubled in their minds.
Salvation is for the liar and the adulterer, for the blasphemer.
Salvation is for whoever is athirst and will take the water of life
freely"

What Preacher Gibbs said explained something I had always wondered
about.  Why would the Lord exclude so many people from heaven if he
loved everybody, the way most preachers said.  If only good people
could get to heaven then there wouldn't hardly be anybody there.

"Salvation is not something you have to search mightily for."  Preacher
Gibbs said.  "Salvation is here now for anybody who will accept it.
Salvation is free as the air and the sunlight and the water in the
spring.  Salvation is close as the dust under our feet and fertile as a
new ground in April.  Salvation is here, now.  It is not in some vague
future.  All you have to do is accept it."

Preacher Gibbs was the best preacher I'd ever heard.  He spoke calm
like he was thinking about everything he said.  He spoke almost quiet.
There was no shouting and pounding the pulpit, no ranting about
hellfire like a lot of preachers did.  He spoke like he was talking to
you from the heart, and like he respected you He talked like he was
talking to equals, and he talked like he was speaking directly to you.
He spoke like he already understood your worries.  And he talked like
he believed in you, and wanted to cheer you up, not make you more
afraid.  The way he talked you could feel his respect for other people.
He was trying his best to tell the truth and make people feel at home
with their selves

"Now if anybody here would like to come forward and dedicate their life
to Jesus on this New Year's Day, I will pray with them, and I will
rejoice with them;' Preacher Gibbs said.  "The only thing we have to be
ashamed of is not accepting his love.  We are here in the fellowship of
the Spirit, and in the spirit of welcome."

The song leader stood up and the organist started playing "Just As I
Am."  There was a hush in the church.  The air was charged so tight it
wanted to bust into flame.  I seen it was time I rededicated myself. It
was time I made a new profession of faith.  Even though had been
baptized and was a member of the church on the mountain, I seen it was
time I humbled myself like a little child and confessed my need for a
new covenant with the Spirit.

"If the Spirit moves you, come forward' the preacher said.  "Begin a
new life with the New Year  We are entering a century of the telephone,
of steam and speed.  Are you ready to face it?"  I stepped out toward
the aisle.  I felt like I was gliding and couldn't hardly feel my feet
moving.  I think Hank reached out to hold me back, but then let his
hand slide off my elbow.  As I stepped forward I could feel all eyes
pressing on me.  I was pushed by their attention.  It had been long
time since I had been looked at by so many people.  But I was doing
what I had to do.  I walked slow to the front of the church and knelt
down at the altar in front of the pulpit.

"We will pray with this our sister," Preacher Gibbs said.  I put my
hands on the varnished wood of the altar, like I was holding on to
railing.  The air was warmed by the woodstove on the left, in front of
the choir.  The air was warm and smelled of burning oak.

I have always wondered what people mean when they say they are
converted or sanctified.  The Pentecostals talk about the baptism of
fire.  Some people, like Paul in the Bible, talk of seeing a blinding
light, and preachers talk about being washed in the blood.  I have
heard of women that fainted, and I've heard of women that danced and
shouted and spoke in tongues like Ginny Powell on Green Kiver.  But I
didn't know what to expect.  Something was moving me, but I could do
whatever I wanted to.  I was free to do what I chose, and what I wanted
was to rededicate my life.

"Lord, we are here to pledge our lives to you," Preacher Gibbs said.
"We are imperfect and sometimes confused.  But we know there is no
safety and no comfort except in your will and in your love.  Give us
peace and give us the patience to know peace and to accept your
love."

As the preacher spoke I seen how it was such a little thing to be
humble and to accept the gift of life, to face the future, to look at
the future calmly It was different from speaking in tongues, and it was
different from the kind of frenzy and rapture you hear about.  It was
the still, small voice I wanted to hear.  I didn't want to be wrenched
apart by feeling.  I wanted to be calm and open and wise as the light
on New Year morning.

While they sung another verse of the hymn in quieter voices behind me,
I prayed myself.  Lord, I said, make me worthy to have a baby and raise
it.  Life with Hank is going to be hard, as everybody's life is hard.
Give me the strength to face the pain, and to eat the pain like bread.
And give me the sense to know joy and to accept joy.  For I know I'm
weak and can't sustain myself alone.  Teach me to accept what is give
to me.

When the singing stopped Preacher Gibbs reached down and took me by the
hand and helped me stand.  "Sister Julie " he said, "do you accept
Jesus as your personal savior?"

"I do," I said.  It sounded like a marriage ceremony.

"Do you dedicate your life to his will and glory and his work?"  the
preacher said.

"I do" "Do you wish to join the fellowship of this congregation?"

"I do," I said.  I hadn't thought about joining the church.  I had only
thought about rededicating my life to the Lord.  But I seen it was the
thing to do.  Since I was living on Gap Creek I should belong to the
Gap Creek church.  Our fellowship could only be with those around us.

What I felt as I looked out into the faces of the congregation was not
any sweeping whirlwind or flash of light.  The joy I felt was steady as
music you hear behind you, sustaining and clear.  The faces looking at
me was not of saints, but ordinary people.  And that was the
congregation I wanted to be a part of, just ordinary people like
myself.  I didn't need to be part of any special group.  I was just a
sinner that had accepted grace, and I needed the fellowship of other
sinners.

"Shall we open the doors of the church?"  the preacher called out.
There was nods and several of the deacons said yes.  "All opposed?" the
preacher shouted.  Nobody spoke up.

"Do you come to us on profession of faith?"  Preacher Gibbs said.

"I do' I said.

"Let's all come forward and give Sister Julie the right hand of
fellowship " Preacher Gibbs said.

I stood there beside the preacher while the organist played "By
Jordan's Stormy Banks."  And one by one the people in the room come
forward.  The women in the choir come first, and some shook hands with
both hands and looked me in the eye.  And some only shook with one hand
and didn't look me in the eye.  Some of the older women hugged me, and
some of the younger women had tears in their eyes.  I looked into their
faces as each one come up.  didn't usually look people I didn't know
right in the face.  But I wanted to stand closer to them and be close
to them.  I wanted to be near people.  There was young boys that come
up, so young you wouldn't hardly think they was members of the church,
and they wouldn't look at me.  They shook hands with faces turned aside
and hurried on.  And some big old boys that had outgrowed their clothes
so the pants come up to their ankles grinned and looked like they would
like to kiss me if they dared.  And older men wearing overalls and
flannel shirts, and blushing because they was not used to shaking hands
with a young woman, come forward and took my hand for a second.  The
only grown person left standing in the church that didn't come forward
was Hank.  He stood by his self and looked down at the bench in front
of him.

The last people to come forward was the elders, the deacons on the
right side of the church.  Some of them was very old, and stumbled up
to the front of the church with their canes.  Some had long white
beards stained around the mouth with tobacco juice, and some had not
shaved in a week and looked grizzled.  Some was clean shaved and their
faces was weathered like shoe leather.  Some of the old men's eyes
sparkled, like they was young boys looking out of their wrinkles at a
pretty girl.  And some had cloudy eyes, like they didn't see too well
and wasn't even trying to see.

As I shook all the hands I had a sweet, calm feeling.  In front of
everybody, I didn't feel exposed.  I felt the warmth of their attention
and acceptance of me.  The church was a warm and welcoming place.  In
the cold January day the warmest place was in the fellowship of the
congregation.  It was the place of music, the music of fellowship and
communion.

After I went back to my place beside Hank, he didn't look at me.  He
looked straight ahead like he didn't even know I was there.  But I
wasn't sure why.  After all, he was a member of the church at Painter
Mountain, and he had been baptized and he liked to sing hymns and lead
in prayer.  He looked off into the dark corner of the church like he
didn't hardly care, or was still thinking of the night of the flood.
AFTER I JOINED the church I felt better about living on Gap Creek.  We
didn't have no money, and we didn't have a cow, and Hank didn't have a
job.  But there was a fellowship at Preacher Gibbs's church that made
you feel connected.  In the worst times there is, you can get through
with the support of other people.  In fact, you can only get through
with the help of other people.  When I lived at home I had always been
helped out by Mama and my sisters.  I had never really been left to the
mercy of myself before.

Every time I went to church after New Year's, to a prayer meeting or a
preaching service, to a singing, I felt better.  And when one of the
women from the church, Mrs.  Gibbs or Elizabeth Rankin or Joanne
Johnson, come to visit and set with me in the kitchen or by the
fireplace talking, I felt like a human being again.  A woman has to
have a woman friend to talk to.

"I didn't think you wanted to join the church down here," Hank said.
"Does that mean you think we're going to stay here?"

"They are mighty friendly people here," I said.

"If they are so friendly why ain't they helped us find Mr. Pendergast's
heirs?"  he said.

Sometimes Hank acted like he didn't care what happened, but his worry
always circled back to the house and finding out who owned it.  We
couldn't afford to move nowhere, unless he got a new job, and we could
only stay in the house until the real owners showed up.  The
uncertainty of it wore Hank down, that and the worry about the baby
coming.  It was like a man to show his worry but never talk much about
what was making him angry BUT FOUR WEEKS after I did, Hank joined the
Gap Creek Baptist Church too.  I knowed he would change his mind,
because he loved going to church and singing just as much as I did. And
I knowed he would change his mind without telling me, that he would not
admit that he was wrong but would go ahead and join.  I had learned
Hank's ways and I thought that was what he was going to do, and it
was.

It was late January and we was attending Sunday service though the road
was froze and there was ice in puddles and along the edges of the
creek.  The air in the church was toasted by the little stove in front
of the choir, and the church was filled with the smell of hot metal and
burning oak and the lift of the preacher's voice.  When Preacher Gibbs
called out the invitational hymn and give the altar call, Hank stepped
out in the aisle and went to the front of the church.  He done it like
he had planned for days to do it.  He had made up his mind without
telling me.  That was his way.

Hank didn't kneel down at the altar like he was praying.  He stopped in
front of the preacher and said something to him.  And I seen him reach
out his hand like he was going to shake hands, like he had said he
wanted to join the church by profession of faith.  And then I seen him
fall forward like he was going to lean on the preacher's shoulder, but
he sunk out of sight.

I must have hollered, for I heard somebody cry out as I run down the
aisle to see where Hank had fell to the floor.  I'd heard knock like a
rock hitting a block of wood, which must have been Hank's head hitting
the floor.  He sprawled in front of the altar just like he had fainted.
I bent over him and the preacher rolled him over.  "Hank," the preacher
said.

Hank's face was white as a pocket handkerchief, and his eyes was rolled
back.  I wondered if he had died or had some kind of fit.  "You folks
stand back," the preacher said.  The singing had stopped and people was
gathering around to look at Hank.

"Bring him some water," Preacher Gibbs said.  Somebody brought a dipper
of water from the bucket at the back of the church.  The preacher
lifted up Hank's head and I held the dipper to his lips.

"Wake up, Hank " I said.  I tipped the dipper against his lips and
water spilled down on his chin.  Hank opened his eyes and some color
come back into his cheeks.  There was a startle in his eyes when he
seen all the people gathered round and looking down at him.  "Stand
back," the preacher said and waved his left arm.  "What .. . :' Hank
said.  "You must have fainted," I said.  "Have a drink of water"

"Don't want a drink " Hank said.  He put his hands back against the
floor to push his self up.  The preacher and me helped him to his feet.
There was a red mark on his forehead that was beginning to swell to a
pump knot  Hank took a deep breath like he was trying to catch his wind
after a struggle.  He grinned and looked embarrassed.  Everybody was
gathered round and there was no way he could escape their attention.

"Brother Hank has asked to join our church by profession of faith "
Preacher Gibbs called out.  "How do you vote on his membership?"

"Yea!"  several voices called.

"All opposed?"  the preacher said.

Nobody said nay and the preacher declared the yeas carried the motion.
"Let's all come up and give Brother Hank the right hand of fellowship "
he said.  He motioned to Linda Jarvis at the organ and she begun
playing "Bringing in the Sheaves"

People formed their selves into a line and come forward to shake hands
with Hank.  He grinned cause he didn't know what else to do, after
fainting in front of the whole church.  But I think he was relieved
too.  For he wanted to sing with the congregation and pray with the
congregation as much as I did.  For Hank liked to lead in prayer, and
he knowed as well as I did it was better to sing with others than to
stand off silent by yourself.  It was a good thing Hank and me joined
the church and had the support of the church, for things got harder
that winter.  Along in early February it come the hardest freeze I had
ever seen or heard of.  It reminded me of Cold Friday.

The sun come out on Gap Creek but it didn't do much good.  The sun was
little and cold in the sky as the tip of an icicle.  The ground was set
like steel.  It got so cold frost started growing like white ferns and
fancy lace on the windowpanes, and fire in the fireplace couldn't heat
the house enough to make it melt.  It got so cold the mud puddles and
low spots in the road set hard.

"Can't stay this cold for long " Hank said when he come in with his
face and hands red.

"What if it snows?"  I said.

"Too cold to snow' Hank said.

"How can it get too cold to snow?"  I said.

"It can't snow when it gets near zero:' Hank said.

Almost all our taters had been ruint, and some of the canned stuff. The
flood had rotted all the meat on the lower shelves of the smokehouse,
and we had eat up most of the rest of the meat by the beginning of
February The cow was gone and there was no milk or butter. It was too
cold for Hank to want to climb up on the ridge looking for turkeys. 
"Everything is hiding away in thickets," Hank said.

We had some cornmeal and grits and a little bit of shoulder meat left.
But we was fast running out of coffee and sugar and things that had to
be bought.  We didn't have but a few cents of money.  By early February
my belly was beginning to show.  Everybody could see I was expecting.

"You should eat more than you do," Hank said.

"I eat plenty," I said.

"You ought to eat more to grow a strong baby' Hank said.

The thing I begun to crave in the cold weather was jelly, hot biscuits
and cold jelly.  I had eat all the jelly Mama had sent with Lou and
Garland.  There was still a few jars of blackberry jelly and grape
jelly and apple jelly in the hasement, but only a few.  I brought them
up one at a time and wiped off the dust and eat jelly three times day.
I had to stop myself from eating jelly between meals.  I put jelly on
cornbread, and I put it on oatmeal.  I wanted jelly so bad I could have
eat it with a spoon.  I thought constantly about the cool quivering
softness of jelly melting on my tongue.  There is something about the
firmness of jelly that makes it taste better Jelly has body and has to
be cut; it won't pour like honey or molasses.  Jelly is soft rubies or
amber Jelly is almost alive.  I craved jelly so bad I put it on grits
and mush when I run out of biscuit flour.  I wanted jelly so much I
smeared it on whatever else I was eating.

I dreamed about jelly and imagined I was eating it with butter and
toast, long after we didn't have any butter.  I dreamed I was eating
jelly and drinking milk, and that was the perfect thing for the baby I
dreamed about jelly and feared we would run out of jelly before the
baby was born.  I counted the jars; there was only four left.  ON THE
FOURTH day of the cold spell, when the sky was ct ear as a big bubble
the sun played its light on, there was a knock at the door.  I wondered
who could be out in such withering cold.  I prayed it wasn't Timmy
Gosnell.  It was Elizabeth Rankin and Joanne Johnson.  They had scarves
wrapped around their heads and around their faces.  Their noses was red
as coals.

"Come on in before you freeze," I said.  Even after I closed the door I
could feel the cold air falling off their coats.  I led them to the
fireplace.

"We wanted to see how you was doing," Elizabeth said and looked at my
belly.

"Takes all my strength just to stay warm," I said.

They unbuttoned their coats but didn't take them off.  I asked them to
please set dowm

"We can't stay but a minute," Joanne said.

"I'm mighty glad you come."  I said.

Elizabeth opened her coat and took out a bag she had been carrying
beneath it.  "Here is a few things I thou gElt you could use for the
baby," she said.  She opened the bag and took out a little flannel
jacket that looked small enough for a doll.

"Most of these is for a bigger baby," Elizabeth said.  "But you'll need
a few things for when it is first born"

"And because it's yellow you can use it for either a boy or a girl '
Joanne said.  I took the little jacket and it looked no bigger than
glove.  The flannel was soft as velvet.

Elizabeth reached into the poke and pulled out a little gown and
another jacket.  She took out a coat and cap.  "My Jessie wore these a
few years ago, but they're practically new," she said.

"I certainly do thank you," I said.  I felt my eyes get moist.  I'd
never had many women friends and I was touched that they had walked in
the cold to give me the baby clothes.  They made the cold February
sweeter, and the heat from the fire sweeter.

Joanne reached into the pocket of her coat and pulled out something
wrapped in tissue paper "I have brung you this:' she said.  It was a
pair of knitted booties and a cap to match.  They was made of lavender
and blue yarn, in a pattern that reminded me of a picture I'd seen of
stained glass windows.  The yarn was so bright it seemed to glow

"I figure these colors will suit either a boy or a girl " Joanne said.
Her fingers looked too rough and swelled at the joints to do any
knitting.  I leaned down and hugged her I was so touched.

"You have both saved me a lot of work " I said.

"When a baby comes, a woman don't have time to make clothes " Elizabeth
said.

I set down and held the baby clothes on my lap and just looked at them,
stroking the soft flannel and the warm knitted yarn of the cap and
booties.

"Do you crave sour things or sweet things?"  Joanne said.

I hesitated to say I craved either one, because it sounded so

"Sometimes a woman craves salty things " Elizabeth said.

"I never heard of that " Joanne said.

"I guess I always had a sweet tooth," I said, and giggled.

"Well, I brung you this' Elizabeth said.  She reached into her coat
pocket and pulled out something dark.  It was a jelly jar.  "This is
cherry preserves " she said.

"How did you know what I craved?"  I exclaimed.

"I was just guessing:' Elizabeth said.  "I remember how I craved jams
and preserves."  Her face was wrinkled and she had a few gray hairs,
but she looked utterly happy, happy the way people are when they give
to somebody or please somebody.

Cherry preserves was one thing I hadn't had in years.  It was something
different from blackberry and grape and apple jelly I felt like
gobbling it up right there.  There was nothing Elizabeth could have
brought that would have been more welcome.  "How can I thank you?"  I
said.

"And I brung you some of this " Joanne said.  She reached into her
other coat pocket and brought out a jar.  The jar looked almost black,
but when I held it up to the firelight I seen the contents was deep
red.

"It's raspberry," Joanne said.

I put the two jars on the mantel and felt tears in my eyes when I
turned back to Joanne and Elizabeth.  "I don't know how to thank you,"
I said.

"Nothing but a little jelly and some castoff clothes," Elizabeth
said.

Best way to thSnk l ; tn have.o a hPalthv hahv Joanne said.  all ri u:
u liavc a llcciltily wy, ow>.... "The world wouldn't have lasted this
long if women didn't help each other' Elizabeth said.

"The world would be a better place if people helped each other more:'
Joanne said.

I held up the baby things with their fine stitches and knitting done
for little arms and legs and heads one by one.  "You all are mighty
good to me," I said.

"It's the least we can do," Elizabeth said.  THAT NIGHT AS I laid in
bed, I kept thinking about how kind Joanne and Elizabeth had been to
me.  It made me feel growed up and kind myself to be treated that way.
It made me feel like I was a bigger person.  They made me want to be
better.

There was a crack, like a shotgun blast, not too far from the house.
Hank jumped up in bed like he hadn't been sleeping sound either.

"What was that?"  I said.

"I heard it in my sleep," he said.  "You must not have been asleep," I
said.

We listened in the cold dark.  It was the coldest night I could
remember.  The air in the bedroom felt prickly and needled with cold.
The house creaked in the roof, as a house will when the temperature
drops to zero.

"I know what it was " Hank said.

"What was it?"  I said.

"That was a tree exploding," Hank said.

"How can a tree explode?"  I said.

"When it gets real cold and the sap freezes in a maple or poplar, some
tree where the sap is starting to rise.  And when the sap freezes it
will bust a tree wide open."

I laid in the dark thinking of a big poplar that had busted to
splinters.  I had heard of such a thing a long time ago but had forgot
about it.  The tip of my nose was cold and firm.

"I guess a person would ex plodS if they froze," I said.  I thought of
some poor soul like Timmy Gosnell that might have lost their way in the
dark and fell in a sinkhole.

"People has too much salt in them to freeze " Hank said.

"People freeze to death," I said.  "Drunks freeze to death"

"But they don't freeze solid and explode," Hank said.

There was another blast come out of the dark.  It sounded like a hammer
fell out of the sky onto a big rock.  It sounded so loud it hurt the
air.  The sound echoed off the sides of the valley two or three times,
off the cliff I called Old Fussy Face.

"Sounds like there's a war going on " Hank said.

"I'm glad I'm inside," I said.

"And I'm glad the baby is warm inside you " Hank said.  We laid in the
dark talking like that.  I could remember hearing Mama and Papa talking
in the dark when I was a little girl.  It felt good to talk when you
couldn't see anything.  Under the warm quilts we laid like we was in a
nest or a tent, or maybe a cave.  "What are we going to name the baby?"
 I said.

"If he's a boy we'll name him Lafayette after my daddy' Hank said.
"That's a long name for a young un  I said.  "People will call tlim
Fate," Hank said.  "We could name him after Papa " I said.  "But he
will be a Richards," Hank said.  "What if the baby is a girl?"  I said.
"Then we'll name her after your mama " Hank said.

I was glad he had said that, for I sure would hate to name my daughter
after Ma Richards.  "Delia is a beautiful name " I said.

There was another pop, but it was in the house, and it was not as loud
as the others.  We laid still and listened to the creaks and groans in
the house.  And then there was a crash in the attic, like ham of meat
had fell.

"This house is going to fall apart " Hank said.

"Its bark is worse than its bite' I said.  We both giggled.  And then
there was another explosion out in the woods across the creek where a
hemlock or poplar, or maybe a cucumber tree, had busted wide open in
the cold.  I'D HEARD "THE rumor that Timmy Gosnell had been arrested in
Greenville for public drunkenness and was being held in the county
jail.  And it must have been true, for I hadn't seen him on the road in
weeks, though sometimes his name come up when I was talking to
Elizabeth or Joanne, or the preacher's wife.  "Poor Timmy," they would
say.  "Ain't he the saddest case " "He never was no count," one would
say "I reckon his daddy was worser than him."

Elizabeth asked me if it was true I had run Timmy out of the yard with
Mr.  Pendergast's walking stick.

"I was so mad I didn't hardly know what I was doing " I said.  I was
ashamed to think of that day

"He scares me," Joanne said, "the way he stares at you sideways, and
the way his voice rips out in such an ugly way."

"He could mark a pregnant woman's baby," Elizabeth said.

"How come?"  I said.

"He's got a demon in him that makes him drink," Elizabeth said.  "He's
possessed by a devil that will mark a baby."

"Mark it how?"  I said.

"Mark it so it'll stagger and roll its eyes and won't have good sense,
just like him."  HANK AND ME was eating dinner on Saturday when we
heard somebody holler from the road.  All we had was cornbread and
green beans, but they tasted mighty good.  There come this holler from
out front, and it sent a shiver through me, for I knowed on the spot
who it was.  "Piieendergaasss!"  the voice yelled.  "Is that Timmy
Gosnell?" Hank said.  "I think it is," I said.  "That drunk."  Hank
said.  "I thought he was in jail."  "I thought so too"
"Piieendergaasss!"  the voice hollered, "come outch hhhrrrrr."

"He can't come here and bother us this way," Hank said.  I seen Hank
was scared, because this was something he wasn't used to facing.  And
because he was afraid I was afraid.  But I wasn't as much afraid of
Timmy Gosnell as of what Hank might do that he'd be sorry for later.
When Hank was scared was when he lost his temper.  And Preacher Gibbs
wasn't here to help out this time.

Hank pushed back his chair and hurried to the front door, and I run
after him.  When he flung open the front door I seen Timmy Gosnell
standing halfway between the road and the steps.  He had on his long
black coat, but he had lost his hat and his head was mostly bald. There
was a scab on top of his head like he hal been hit or cut there.

"Where's Piendergaasss?"  he said, and gulped, when he seen Hank and me
on the porch.

"Mr.  Pendergast is dead " Hank said.

Timmy Gosnell stood in the sun like he was trying to take in what Hank
had said.  He bowed his head and looked at us through his eyebrows.
"Piendergaasss is hiding " he said, "cause he ooowes me money."

"We don't owe you money' Hank said again, and moved toward the steps.

"You're by G-g-god lying " Timmy Gosnell said.

"Don't call me a liar' Hank said, and his voice rose with the strain of
anger.

Timmy Gosnell looked sideways and squinted in the sunlight.
"Piendergaass is hiding " he said.

"Get out of the yard " Hank said.  "You go on home."

"Ain't your house," Timmy said.

"Get away from here " Hank said.

"The hell you .. . :' the drunk man said and waved his arm at Hank.

Hank looked around and seen a rocking chair on the porch.  It was a
chair I sometimes set in on warm days to mend socks.  Hank grabbed the
rocker and held it in front of him as he descended the steps.  "You get
on away from here," he said.

"Don't do nothing," I said to Hank.  I could tell how scared Hank was.
I was afraid he would lose control of his self like the night of the
flood.

"You stay out of this " Hank said to me.

Timmy Gosnell shaded his eyes and looked at me like he hadn't noticed
me before.  "That woman has got Piendergaass's money," he said.

"You stlut your mouth!"  Hank said.  He shoved the chair into the drunk
man's chest and he fell backwards.

"You can't cover up " Timmy said.  "Piendergaass knows what the
done."

"Don't hurt him."  I said.  "He's just a drunk man" I was afraid that
if Hank hurt Timmy Gosnell, the sheriff would come and arrest Hank.
After all, we was the newcomers on Gap Creek.  I remembered what
Elizabeth had said about Timmy being demon possessed and apt to mark
the baby of any woman that looked into his red eyes.  tried not to look
at him directly.

"Get on away from here " Hank said, and pushed the drunk man down on
the ground again.

"You don't hold water," Timmy said, as his voice rose to a scream,
"going to church and stealing Piendergaass's money."

"I ain't took nobody's money:' Hank said.

"Let him go' I said.  I reached out to take Hank's elbow but he jerked
away And then it was like everything happened at once.  I seen Timmy
Gosnell pull the knife out of his coat pocket.  It was not a
pocketknife and not a butcher knife, but maybe an old hunting knife.
And at the same instant I felt Hank lose control of his self It was
what I had been afraid of.  He drove the chair into Timmy's chest and
face, hitting him in the mouth with a rocker

"Go on ahead, kill me " the drunk man laughed, "'stead of paying me."
He wiped blood from his mouth with the back of his hand and laughed
again like he didn't feel no pain.

"Get on away from here," Hank said.  He swung the chair and hit Timmy
upside of his head.  I seen blood on the bald heal where the scab had
been knocked loose.  Timmy laughed again and held his ear

"Hank!"  I yelled, but Hank wasn't listening to me.  He tossed the
chair aside and grabbed Timmy by the collar of his coat.  He drug him
backwards across the yard to the road.  There was blood on the drunk
man's chin and on his forehead.  He squealed like a hurt pig.  Hank
drug him across the road and pushed him over the bank into the creek.

"He'll drown' I hollered, and run to the creek bank.  Timmy Gosnell was
laying in the water like he was too weak to get up.  He thrashed around
and raised his head out of the water.  In the black coat he looked like
an animal that had crawled out of the mud.

"He'll freeze to death " I said.

"Let him freeze' Hank said, out of breath, and rubbed his hands on his
pants like he was trying to get rid of filth.

"And you'll be arrested for murder' I said.  "And then where will we
be?"  I worked my way down to the creek and tried to take hold of Timmy
under his arm.  He was heavy as a sack of rocks.

"Drown me, all I care," Timmy said and spit through the blood in his
mouth.

I stepped into the water to get a hold on him and still couldn't move
him.  I pulled him a little way toward the bank before Hank come down
and helped me.  It took both of us to haul the drunk man out of the
water and drag him through the weeds back up to the road.

We got Timmy on his feet and the water appeared to have sobered him a
little.  He was bleeding from his nose as well as from his mouth.  "I'm
gone tell Mama and Daddy what you done," he said.  He started walking,
taking short steps.  His coat was wet and covered with mud and pieces
of straw.

"You're so crazy you think your mama and daddy is still alive " Hank
hollered after him.

"Gone tell them," Timmy cried and kept going.

"He's an idiot " Hank said.

"That was awful," I said.  "He don't know what he's doing"

"Maybe that will teach him a lesson " Hank said.  But I could tell Hank
was beginning to be embarrassed, the way anybody is after they lose
their temper.  I had a bad feeling as I watched Timmy Gosnell shuffle
on down the road.  "Would you just let him insult you?"  Hank said.
"He's a drunk man," I said.  It'S SHAMEFUl.  I'll admit that you have
been hungry, that you have been hungry as a grown woman, as a married
woman. It's even more embarrassing to admit you've been hungry while
carrying a baby We made do with what we had on the place and what
church members give us.  But there was a time in the late winter when
things got lean and hard, and we just had to outlast them.

By the end of March all our meat was gone, down to a little fatback.
The smokehouse smelled bare and stale.  The taters was gone, and the
canned stuff that had survived the flood was all eat up.  There was
nothing left in the house but a little cornmeal and grits from the corn
we had saved from the flood.

Hank took Mr.  Pendergast's shotgun and went into the mountains every
day, but the turkeys had all been killed by the hard winter, or shot by
other hunters.  They had disappeared from the holler where they had
been so plentifuJ.  It was the wrong season for shooting squirrels and
rabbits, but sometimes he killed a squirrel and would make it into a
stew.  And then he run out of shotgun shells.

"A shell costs so much it's not worth wasting on a squirrel " Hank
said.

"Couldn't you borrow more shells?"  I said.

"I'd be ashamed to ask to borrow shotgun shells' Hank said, "unless
ttlere was something bigger to kill than squirrels."

"It'll be spring soon," I said.

"Not soon enough," Hank said.

I knowed that if I asked Elizabeth or Joanne or Preacher Gibbs or tlalf
a lo zen other people they would help us out.  But they had already
helped us out, and besides, everybody had had a hard time that winter.
It was up to us to look after ourselves.  If we was going to be grown
up married folks who was about to raise a family, we would have to
learn to take care of ourselves.  It would be a disgrace to depend on
other people to bring us things to eat.

When all the dried beans and dried apples was gone, we had nothing but
cornmeal and the eggs the chickens laid.  There was half a dozen hens
left after the flood, and they almost quit laying in late winter.  But
I was still getting ten eggs a week, and you can live a long time on
grits and eggs if you have to.  But there wasn't enough eggs for both
Hank and me to have one every day.  When there was only one egg I would
scramble it and give Hank half.

"No, you have the egg " Hank would say.

"I don't want the whole egg:' I'd say.

"You're eating for the baby' Hank would say.

"The baby don't want the egg," I said.

"It would turn my stomach to eat that egg," Hank would say.  "It would
taste like sand."

I discovered hunger don't make you resentful.  Hunger makes you slow
and brooding, like you are just waiting and waiting.  You don't feel
like going anywhere or doing anytthing.  Hunger makes you set around,
makes you want to go to bed early and sleep late.  You don't want to
think about nothing, for if you think you will think about good things
to eat.  When you're hungry you don't want to think at all.  You want
time to pass.  You are waiting for something to happen.  You don't want
to waste effort.  You are saving the fat on your bones and the strength
in your blood.  You are saving your breath.  When you're hungry you
don't even daydream a lot.  You just drift through the hours and the
first thing you know another day is over, another night has gone by.
Mostly you want to forget.  ONE NIGHT I was waked up by wind st
livering the bedroom window.  Hank was waked up too.  We laid there in
the dark several minutes.  I kept thinking about what we was going to
do. "Couldn't you find work as a carpenter, now that its spring?"  I
"I've tried," he said.  "And ain't you worked as a mason too?"  I said.
 "As a mason's helper," Hank said.

We just laid ttlere in the dark.  I reckon you don't go back to sleep
so fast when you're still a little hungry

"Why don't you go over to where they're building the store in
Tigerville and get a job?"  I said.

"Too long a walk," Hank said.

"No further than Lyman was " I said.  But quick, I was sorry I'd said
it.  It was the wrong thing to say.

"That's my business " Hank said.

"I know it is," I said.

"Don't tell me where to look for a job," Hank said.

"I wasn't telling you " I said.  We laid in the dark and listened to
the wind roar on the ridge like a hundred freight trains.  A gust hit
the house again and made it shudder.  It's hard to lay close to
somebody in the dark when they're mad.  I knowed it was better not to
say nothing else.  There was things about Hank I didn't understand, and
it didn't do no good to try to make him talk.

I didn't know whether to put my hand on his chest and slide closer to
show how much I loved him, or roll away and let him get over his anger
on his own.  I didn',t feel like going back to sleep.  The wind had
woke me up, and Hank's resentment had took away all my sleepiness.

"I know you'll find another job."  I said, and pushed up close so my
cheek was on his shoulder.  I tried to say it so it sounded like was
not just trying to cheer him up.  I waited to see how his mood was
going to go.  "I won't get another job," Hank said.  "Of course you
will " I said.  "Word has got out " he said.

"Word of what?"  A cold silver wire went down the middle of my back.

"Word that nobody wants to hire me " he said with a sigh.

"That don't make sense " I said.  "You are such a good worker."

"They didn't fire me at Lyman just because all the bricks was made "
Hank said.

I didn't say nothing.  I had to wait for him to go on.  It was better
for me not to say a thing.

"I got in a fight is why' Hank said.

"With who?"  I said.

"I hit the foreman upside of the head " Hank said.

The wind sounded like an ocean of doom coming down the valley.  "He
cussed me and I hit him upside of the head " Hank said.  "He must have
needed it " I said.

"He was a raw hider Hank said.  "I knowed if he kept mouthing off I was
going to hit him.  That's why nobody's going to hire me."

"Not everybody will blame you:' I said.

"Word has got round " Hank said.  I pushed up closer to him.

"I hit him before I even thought " Hank said.  "He just kept cussing at
me, and I knocked him on the head.  It was not the Christian thing to
do."

"You will find another job " I said.

"Nobody will ever hire me again " Hank said.  SINCE THERE WAS nO COW to
milk, Hank went out every morning to feed the horse and chickens and
gather what eggs had been laid in the nests in the hent louse  Some
mornings he would come back to the house with no eggs.  Sometimes he
would come back with an egg in each hand like he was a magician and had
plucked them from the air.  One morning while I was boiling water for
grits he come back hltO the house but he didn't have any eggs.  He
looked like the had seen the devil his self "You won't believe this "
Hank said.  "Believe what?"  I said.  "Come out and look at it " he
said.

I left the pot boiling on the stove and followed him out the back door.
He marched across the yard and I followed, wondering if the horse had
died or he'd caught a thief in the feed room or seen a spook in the
barn loft.  But he strode right to the chicken house and flung the door
open on its leather hinges.  "Look at that," he said and stood aside so
I could see into the henhouse.

At first I didn't see a thing in the dark except the roost poles and
the boxes naiJed to the walls with pine needles in them for nests.  The
chicken house smelled sweet and bitter as it always did.  But I could
smell blood too.  And the place was quiet.  There was not a cackle and
there wasn't a cluck, as you would expect in the early morning.  The
chicken house was still as the smokehouse.  "What is it?"  I said.

"Look," Hank said.

And then I seen a hen laying on the ground in front of me.  It was
laying flat with its neck stretched out and there was a little blood on
the neck.  And then I seen another hen laying in the dust beyond that
one.  I strained my eyes in the stladows and seen all six hens laying
on the ground.  "What done it?"  I said, and felt my face go pale.  "

"I'd say a mink " Hank said.  "Only a mink'd kill them all for a sip of
blood from each neck just for the fun of it."  I thought of the mink
I'd seen in the springhouse in the fall.

"Bad luck goes in a streak " I said.  As I looked at the dead hens I
thought that if we had plenty to eat and Hank had a job, and there
wasn't a baby coming, that mink wouldn't have slipped into the henhouse
to kill the chickens.  It would have slipped into somebody else's
henhouse.  It would have found somebody else down on their luck and out
of money to rob.

"The Lord take th away' Hank said.

"And lately he ain't giveth too much' I said.  But quick I was sorry
I'd said it.  WHAT WE DID that morning was boil water in the wash pot
and scald all the dead hens.  We plucked them and dressed them.  There
wasn't any way to keep them, so l fried two of them.  And then I boiled
the other four and made stew and chicken soup, which I put in jars. 
One of the fried chickens I had Hank carry down the road to Preacher
and Mrs.  Gibbs.  We hadn't give anything to the preacher, and we
didn't have no money to tithe into the church.  And there was no way we
could eat both chickens at once.  The stew would keep a week maybe, and
the soup even longer.  But the fried chicken had to be eat in a day or
two.

Just when we needed the eggs most, and just when there was grass for
the hens to eat, as well as bugs and beetles, the fowl had been took.
It was the kind of thing that made you just want to set down and cry.
It made me want to give up.

We had fried chicken for dinner, and I made some cornbread and grits to
go with the chicken, and I still had just a little bit of molasses to
go with the cornbread.

Hank and me set down at the table with that hot chicken and cornbread
and steaming grits, and Hank said the blessing.  He returned thanks for
the chicken we had to eat.  We set at the table and eat real slow.  We
didn't have any butter for the cornbread and grits.

"This chicken's mighty good," I said.

"It is," Hank said.  I knowed he was feeling low, and I didn't want
hilll to get in one of his moods.  His jaw was set in a hard line.

"Maybe the Lord seen fit to give us some meat when we need it most," I
said.

"Maybe the Lord wants to feed us now so he can starve us later' Hank
said.

"It's near about spring," I said.

"It better be," Hank said.  As SOON AS he finished eating Hank pushed
back his chair.  "I'm going out," he said, wiping his chim "Where you
going?"  I said.

"I've got to get out of this house " he said.  And before I could say
anything else he was gone.  By living on stew and cornbread and then
the chicken soup and cornbread, we got pretty far into spring without
starving.  I still craved jam, but after I eat what Elizabeth and
Joanne had brought I didn't have no more.  I craved something fresh,
something green, too, but it was a late spring.  Sarvis was blooming
and buds on the maples was getting red as little match heads.  "Do you
think the creesie greens is out?"  I said to Hank.

"They're up, but too little to pick," he said.  "It'd be easier to pick
a mess of four-leaf clover"

But I thought there must be sheltered places along the creek or one of
the branches running into the creek where the creesies was big enough
to gather One evening I took a bucket and walked down the valley to
where the little branch called Briar Fork come into the creek.  There
was green grass along the creek bank, but the fields that had been
plowed in the fall was still muddy.  I walked along the edge of the
plowed ground looking for new shoots and sprouts.

Briar Fork led back into a narrow cove.  It was almost a toy valley,
with corn patches along the branch no wider than a front yard.  There
was just enough room between the mountains on one side and the
mountains on the other for the stream to cut through with a little bit
of cleared ground on the sides.  They was the kind of patches you could
make with a hoe.  A crow called somewhere on the ridge, and I could
hear a waterfall further up the holler.  Pines stood out black on the
ridge almost straight above me, against a blue sky with a few white
clouds.  I was hid from the world, deep in the cove.

As I was looking up at the rim of the mountains my feet touched
something soft.  It was lush weeds at the edge of the plowed ground.  I
looked down and seen I had been stepping on creesie greens, growed up
several inches, big enough to gather.  I knelt down and took a handful
of the leaves.  They was so tender and soft some of the leaves crushed
between my fingers, leaving a green stain.  I picked them more gently.
The leaves was so fresh they almost melted if you pressed them.  Rain
had splashed grit on some of the leaves and I tried to gather the
cleanest ones.

As I squatted on the ground I seen the mud had caked on my shoes.  It
was like extra soles had thickened there.  Layers of different colors
of mud had btuilt up.  It was hard to stoop over with my feet raised so
high on the.  mud  There was a pain in my belly from bending over.  I
stood up and stepped over to the grass to kick the mud off my shoes,
swinging my feet hard across the grass to wipe off the thick layers,
driving one foot and then another into the grass, knocking off tongues
and wedges of mud.  I kicked harder, trying to clean the soles.  A pain
shot through me from deep in my belly It was like I had colic, a bad
gas pain.  I stood still to let my insides settle.

The roar of the waterfall upstream sounded closer, like the air had got
damp and was passing the sound on.  A crow called from almost straight
above me.  As I stood still, the hurt went away, but there was a
hotness in my belly, like something had been stretched or strained.  It
was probably nothing.  It was some kind of cramp from bending over.  I
wanted to pluck more creesie greens for a good mess.  Because they boil
down to almost nothing, you have to gather a lot just to cook up a good
bowl.  Nothing goes better with hot cornbread in the spring than
creesie greens.  I needed the bucket full just to have a decent meal. I
wouldn't have any boiled eggs to put on them, but I still  had some
vinegar to tame the wild, bitter taste and make it perfect.

I stooped over slow and started picking more greens.  They are really
just wild mustard, somebody said.  But we always called them creesie
greens.  A pain stung throug}l me like you had plucked a tight wire.
This time the pain went right down into my groin.  I stood up, and the
hurt went away a little.  I stood and waited, looking at the clouds
easing over the rim of the mountains.  What was I to do?  I wanted to
get a bucket of creesies after coming all that way and finding the
patch.  Hank and me needed them for a spring tonic.  We needed
something to thin our blood and get us ready for hot weather.  And I
needed the minerals in the greens for the baby, to help it grow strong
bones and strong nerves.  I hadn't had any milk since New Year's.  I
had to get a good mess of greens to go with our cornbread .

But the pain in my belly didn't go away.  The throb worked its way
around to my side.  It was not so much a tearing pain as a hot burning
inside me.  I tried to recall anything I had eat that would give me
such a pain.  Would bending over tear something loose inside me?  I
patted my belly with green-stained hands and waited for the pain to dim
again.  Surely my insides would cool off if I stood still long enough.
I needed to out wait the pain and get my creesie greens.

But the throb didn't fade.  I stood with my weight on one leg, and then
I stood with my weight on the other I listened to the creek and the
waterfall above.  The pain was not sharp enough to be birth pains.  And
it wasn't time for the baby to be born anyway.  If the baby was born
nine months from the time we got married, it would be early summer If
the baby went to full term it would be hot weather before it saw the
light of day.  That would be another six weeks, before the baby was
due.

I leaned forward and my belly felt a little better.  But I couldn't
stoop over and pick any more greens.  There was no way I could squat
down and gather more.  I had got all the sallet I was going to that
day.

Takhlg short steps and not bouncing any and not twisting any, I carried
the bucket back down the branch, walking stiff as a kid does that has a
load in his pants.  Taking care not to jolt myself, I climbed over
fences and through fences.  When I made it to the road along the creek,
I walked careful as an old woman with arthritis all the way back to the
house.

Once inside, all I felt like doing was laying down on the couch.  I
pulled off my muddy shoes and just flopped there.  I could feel my face
had went pale.

"You look poorly' Hank said when he seen me.

"It's nothing " I said.  "I have just got a pain in my belly."

"Is it your time?"  Hank said.

"Just a gas pain " I said.  I leaned back on the sofa and held my belly
like I could soothe it with my hands.  AFTER I LAID still for a while
the pain seemed to go away a little.  thought I could wait it out.  I
stayed on the couch till suppertime, and then got up and fixed us a
little pone of bread to go with the creesie greens.  It wasn't the
supper I'd planned, but it was enough.  I didn't really feel like
eating anyway My belly was too uneasy.

"Are you sick at your stomach?"  Hank said when he seen how I picked at
my greens and cornbread.

"Just a little gas," I said.  "It's close to your time " Hank said. 
"I'd say I had at least another month," I said.

"I'm going after Ma," Hank said.  "I told Ma she could come down and
help when it was your time."

"It'll be another six weeks," I said.  I didn't want to say I'd rather
do without any help than have Ma Richards there.  I guess Hank was
scared, and he didn't want to be alone with me when the baby come.
That's why he had thought of going for Ma Richards.  Ma could tell him
what to do when it come time to go after a midwife.

"I'll be fine tomorrow," I said.  I wished I hadn't bent over picking
the creesie greens.  BECAUSE OF THE pain burning low in my belly, I
didn t sleep too sound that night.  I kept thinking about what was
going to happen, and about Hank going after Ma Richards.  All night I
laid there thinking of nothing but bad things.  It wore me out, trying
to get to sleep.  When Hank asked me in the morning how I felt, I said
better, for I didn't want him to think no more about going after Ma
Richards. "Now that you're feeling better it's time to go," Hank said. 
"What do you mean?"  I said.

"I don't want to wait until the labor starts," he said.  "Then it'll be
too late."

"You could go get Mama " I said.

"Your mama's too busy," Hank said.  "And it would hurt Ma's feelings if
you had the baby and she wasn't here."

I felt too weak to quarrel about it.  Even having Ma Richards to visit
didn't seem as bad as quarreling with Hank again before the baby was
borned.

Hank left that morning after breakfast.  He marched out and hitched up
the horse to the buggy without saying another word.  When he was scared
he tended not to talk, for if he talked he might talk out his anger He
didn't want to lose the strength and firmness of his anger and be
weakened by what scared him.  I understood how he felt, but if I told
him it would just make him madder.  I watched him out the kitchen
window as he put the collar on the horse and then the hames, then
backed the horse between the shafts of the buggy Hank could hitch up a
horse faster than anybody I ever seen.  He made harnessing a horse look
easy as tying your shoes.

I watched him swing up into the buggy and flick the reins.  And then I
hurried to the living room to watch him drive up the road till he was
out of sight at the bend where the road begins to climb.  The pain in
my belly got sharp and sideways, and I felt a little sick at my
stomach.  I put a hand on my throat and set still for a long time,
until the feeling went away.  Then I washed the breakfast dishes and
tossed out the dishwater into the yard.  And I got the broom and swept
in the living room and kitchen.  I thought the best way to cheer myself
up was to keep working.

Along at midmorning there was a knock at the door.  When I opened it I
seen a slim man with silver hair and a fine gray suit.  He looked like
he might be a preacher or a lawyer.  "How do " I said, not opening the
door all the way

"Ma'am, I'm Wilson Caldwell " he said and tipped his hat.

"Pleased to meet you " I said.  I expected him to say something about
representing the heirs of Mr.  Pendergast's estate.  "My husband's not
here," I said.

"It's the lady of the house I came to see:' he said.

I invited him into the living room and asked him to set down.  Then I
noticed the case he was carrying.  It was like a lawyer's case, but
thicker.

"I represent the Palmetto Apothecary Company," he said.  He opened the
case on the couch, and you never seen such an assortment of little
bottles and jars and pillboxes.  "Since you are a ways from any
drugstore, I bring the pharmacy to you," he said.  "We ain't got any
money," I said.  A pain kicked through my belly.

"Our prices are the most reasonable in the state," Mr.  Caldwell said
.

"I'm sure they are:' I said.  "But we're flat broke."  I pressed a hand
against the stab in my stomach.  That seemed to help.

"Nothing is so precious as your health " the peddler said.  It was
clear he didn't believe me when I told him we didn't have no money.
Maybe because I was living in a hig old house he assumed I could not be
broke.

"I can supply you with any ointment or salve, tonic or painkiller.  I
have bismuth of violet and magnesia, camphor and oil of cloves."

Because of the pain in my belly, I didn't feel like arguing with him. I
set down on a chair and let him show me laxatives and worm medicines,
Epsom salts and smelling salts, paregoric and soothing syrups, boneset
tea and poppy seed teas, blood thinners and blood thickeners, peroxide
and alcohol.  "Now this is our most special product:' he said and held
up an amber bottle with a purple label.

"What is it?"  I said.

"It's our Mineral Spring Tonic," he said.  "It makes the old feel
young, and the young feel stronger."  He winked.

"I just need something for a bellyache," I said.

"This is the perfect medicine," he said.  "Would you care for a
sample?"

"I ain't got no money' I said.

"This is a free sample," he said.  He took a spoon from his case and
poured it full of the tonic.  The stuff looked like molasses except it
fizzed a little.  When I took the tonic in my mouth and swallowed, it
burned like corn liquor.  I felt it sink all the way to my stomach.

"This tonic was invented by my papa," Mr.  Caldwell said.  "He spent
his life studying herbs and remedies learned from the Cherokee Indians.
He walked all over the mountains gathering herbs and roots."

"These mountains?"  I said.

"All the mountains of South Carolina," Mr.  Caldwell said.  "He knew
the foothills and the mountains of this state."

The tonic give me a warm feeling, but it didn't make the pain go away

"The most remarkable thing was my papa was completely blind " Mr.
Caldwell said.  "Yet he drove his buggy over South Carolina and stopped
at all the houses."

"That is amazing " I said.  The pain in my belly throbbed harder.

"Not as amazing as the fact that he could find herbs in the woods," Mr.
Caldwell said.  "After all, he had the horse to guide him on the roads.
But in the woods he had only a cane to find his way on trails. He dug
ginseng and yellow root and foxglove and konkajohn with nobody to help
him.  And he never fell off a cliff, though he climbed all over the
ledges"

"How did he do it?"  I said.  The pain was so harsh it was making me
sick.

"Nobody knows " Mr.  Caldwell said.  "It was a gift.  He never got
snake bit, though he killed a rattler one time.  How would a blind man
kill a rattlesnake?"

"And he was completely blind?"  I said.

"He was born blind," Mr.  Caldwell said.  "He could just feel where
trees and rocks and medicinal plants was.  He was blessed and gifted
that way He could play the accordion too, and the guitar, and he could
remember everything he ever heard.  He could remember how many steps it
was to somewhere.  And he could tell by the sounds on the streets where
he was in a city"

"He must have been a special person," I said.  I wished the peddler
would leave so I could go lay down.

"He invented this tonic,7' Mr.  Caldwell said.  "It was the work of his
lifetime."

"Oh!"  I said as the pain jolted through my belly.  I couldn't help
myself.

"Are you .. . ill?"  Mr.  Caldwell said.

"I feel a little sick " I said and put my hands on my belly

"It must be close to your time " Mr.  Caldwell said.

"I'm afraid it is," I said.

"I'll come through again " he said.  "Perhaps you will need something
for the baby in the future."

"Might be," I said.

Mr.  Caldwell starting packing all the medicines back in his case.  He
handed me a little bottle of the tonic.  "You keep this " he said.

"Thank you," I said, and pressed both hands to my stomach.

"I wish you luck with the baby," Mr.  Caldwell said.  He acted in a
hurry.

"Thank you," I said, but another pain swelled through me and I turned
my face away.  MY TROUBLES WASN'T over after the peddler finally left.
Instead of getting better, the pain in my belly got worse.  It was
getting up toward dinnertime, but I didn't feel like fixing anything to
eat, and I didn't feel like eating either.  My belly was uneasy as
quicksand.  What if this is the baby coming?  I thought.  What if this
is birth pains?  But the baby couldn't be due for more than a month
according to my figures.  What I had must be appendicitis or locked
bowels, or some kind of tumor inside me.

I looked up the road, but there was no sign of Hank or the buggy The
closest neighbor was George and Hester Poole a mile and a half down the
road.  Even if I got out on the porch and screamed nobody would hear. I
was alone in the house, and I was alone in the deep valley.

The best way to fight pain is to ignore it.  I would make some hot
cornbread, to have for supper, and if I felt like eating a bite for
dinner I could.  But soon as I walked into the kitchen and bent over
the meal bin, a new pain hit me, sharp as a piece of steel rammed
through my bowels.  It was a different kind of pain.  It was bigger
than any pain I had ever felt.  The thought crossed my mind that it was
the pain of a giant that had struck me by mistake.

The force of the pain was so hard I couldn't stand up straight until it
passed.  And when it weakened a little I stumbled to the table and
braced myself by holding on to the back of a chair.  I felt weak and
trembly as a cobweb.  What is this?  I said to myself.  I knowed this
was a different kind of pain.  It roared through my bones.  But as the
pain lessened I gathered my strengttl and limped back slow to the
living room.  Did I have a busted appendix?  Should I get out on the
road and try to walk for help?  There wasn't a doctor on Gap Creek, so
even if I walked to Elizabeth's or Joanne's or the preacher's house,
there wasn't much they could do.  Was there something in Mr.
Pendergast's house for the pain?  The laudanum had been used up when
Mr.  Pendergast died.  All I had was Mr.  Caldwell's little bottle of
tonic.  And then I remembered there had been a little corn liquor on
the shelf where Mr.  Pendergast kept his medicines.  Maybe a drink of
liquor would soothe whatever was wrong inside me.

I went back to the kitchen and was about to reach up on the shelf for
the whiskey when the pain hit me again.  The pain come from the side
like a train slammed into me.  The l)ain was so ba(l lost my breath and
gasped like somebody hit on the back.  "Eiiiie!"  screamed without
meaning to.  It felt like this pain was worser than the last.  I held
to the edge of the shelf, like my legs c out(lrl t hear my weight.  "Oh
God," I said without thinking about it.

The pain drove down into my belly like a steel spike hammered into my
groin, a long steel spike drove on and on.  I thought I was going to
fall, but gripped the shelf board and rode the pain.  I rode the pain
like it was a bucking horse and I was about to be throwed over the wall
of a gully.  The pain blowed up inside me and rose and rose and I
couldn't escape it, for the pain was right in the center of me.

As the pain begun to fade I thought my legs was going to crumble.  I
held on to the shelf and felt the sweat all over me.  The pain was
burning hot and sweat dampened my forehead and temples.  Pain is like a
terrible heat.  I felt like somebody that had been scorched in a
furnace.  But as my strength returned I reached for the pint jar of
liquor.  It was about half full.  I took the jar to the table and
unscrewed the lid.  The fumes flared up around my face.  I took a quick
drink, so it would go down without me tasting it.  The whiskey burned
my throat but felt calm and settling in my belly.  I screwed the lid
back on the jar.

As I walked back to the living room it was clear I was having birth
pains.  It was the easing away and the spell between the pains that
showed me.  How long had it been between seizures?  I tried to recall
what I had heard about labor pains.  If you knowed the time between
them you could figure when the baby was coming.  I tried to think what
else I remembered about delivering babies.  For I was on my own, and
there was no way I could stop the baby from coming.  It might be dark
before Hank and Ma Richards arrived, and that was hours away.  I tried
to think what I would need to do.  I tried to think what things I would
have to have.  We had to boil water when Mama give birth to my younger
sister and Masenier.  And we used a lot of clean washcloths and
towels.

They say Indian women used to go out in the woods and have a baby on
their own.  They would walk up and down a riverbank until the baby was
ready to come.  And then they would pull it out of their selves and
chew the birth cord in two.  I didn't see how they had the strength
with all the pain.  I limped to the closet and got a bunch of clean
towels and wastlcloths.  And I put wood in the cook stove to build the
fire up.  I was about to take the towels to the bedroom but wondered if
that was the best place to go.  Would it be better to have the baby in
the bedroom, or close to the fireplace in the living room?  Or would
the kitchen floor be the best place?  I could put a blanket on the
kitchen floor and then clean it all up later.  The hot water would be
close by in the kitchen.  That seemed like the best plan .

Quick, before the next pain come, I put water on the stove to boil. And
I swept the kitchen floor clean as I could.  There was still red silt
from the flood in the cracks of the boards, but I cleaned it all I
could and spread a blanket and quilt on the floor in front of the stove
and laid the towels and washcloths beside it.  I even got a pillow from
the bedroom and put it on the quilt.

Even though I knowed it was coming, I was not prepared for the force of
the next pain.  It come from behind, like a saw ripping through my
backbone and innards.  The teeth of the saw felt an inch long and so
dull they tore flesh in gobs and strings.  What am I going to do?  I
thought.  I can't stand this much suffering.  I can't do this all by
myself.  The pain was so hard my legs folded under me and I sunk down
on the quilt.  I laid down on my side trying to ease the hurt.  curled
up trying to make it hurt less.  Nothing helped.  I pushed the palm of
my hand against my back and that helped a little.  The pain was a wall
slamming into me.  I seen the pain was going to get worse, not better.
The pain was going to be worser than anything I had ever imagined.

I was so weak I couldn't do a thing but lay there.  The ceiling of the
kitchen wobbled and stretched and spun around above me.  I held on to a
table leg to make things get still.  What hope is there?  I thought.
What hope is there for the baby?  And I seen how I had to do everything
for the baby.  It didn't matter about me.  If I was finished I was
finished.  But the baby had to be saved.  The baby },ad to be
protected.  But I was near helpless on my own.

The only sweetness in the world I could think of was that Jesus might
be looking down on me with love and concern.  There was nobody else to
see me in my misery.  There was nobody else to help me through.
"Please, Jesus," I said, "show me some mercy Not for my sake, but for
the little baby"

I was sick and weak and scared, and I was flat on my back.  The pain
between my legs come worser than before.  But it felt like somebody
took my hand.  It felt like there was a firmness in the air around me.
I clinched my fists and gritted my teeth as the pain got bigger.  There
was a scream in the house and I wondered who was hollering.  And then I
seen it had to be me that screamed.  The water was boiling on the stove
and light through the window showed it was getting on into the
afternoon.  I had lost track of how long it might be between the pains.
It seemed I was in pain almost all the time.  I thought of the passage
in the Bible where it says, "I will multiply thy sorrow and thy
conception; in sorrow thou shalt bring forth children" The word
"sorrow" sounded more dignified than "pain" or "hurt."  Sorrow was
about understanding, about a long time passing.

The hurt was so bad I twisted on the floor and hit the quilt with my
elbows.  "Lord, help me through this sorrow," I said.  My face was so
wet the sweat was getting into my hair and making it all tangled.  My
back was so sweaty it stuck to the quilt.  I would be wore out and
ready for rest if it wasn't for the pain.  Even though I didn't know
how much further, it was certain I had a long way to go before I was
done. It was a full day's work.  And I remembered that's what they
called giving birth: labor.  I was in the lahor of giving birth.  It
was hard labor I would try to think of it as work and not as pain.  I
had a mountain of work ahead of me.  I might as well pitch in.  There
was no way I could get out of it.  There was no way I wanted to get out
of it.

This is my work, I tllought.  This is the work only I can do.  This is
work meant for me from the beginning of time.  And this is work leading
through me in an endless chain of people all the way to the end of
time.  Other women have done their work down the course of the years,
and now it's my turn.  There's nothing to do but take hold of the pain
and wrestle with it.  It was not a choice to give in.

But as the stab of pain got bigger and wider in my belly, a raging red
flood of pain pouring through me and out of me, I seen I had to grip on
to something.  I couldn't just lay with my back on the quilt and push
hard as I needed to.  I had to push against the pain.  I turned around
on the quilt so I could hold to the table legs.  That give me something
to brace against, and I needed to brace myself to push .

The work was to push the baby out from inside.  It was hard as pushing
the whole world a few inches.  Pushing the baby out was hard as
shifting the earth and the heavens.  I gripped the cold legs of the
table like I was going to heave the table at the ceiling.  There was
still a little dried silt on the legs from the flood.  The silt
crumbled in my grip like talcum, melting in sweat.  We are just earth,
I said.  But what a miracle of earth flesh is, earth shaped and changed
so it takes on feeling and can breathe and think and remember.

The pain that hit me then felt like it was crushing my bones.  It was
pain so hard my breathing froze.  Tears squirted from my eyes and mixed
with the sweat on my cheeks and temples.  I flung my head from one side
to the other, slapping my cheeks on the quilt.  The quilt was soaked
with sweat.  This is what it means to be a hllmarl being, to labor and
to hurt, I thought.

When the pain was at its most terrible, I felt myself opening up.  I
set up on the quilt, the pain was so awful.  I opened my legs wide as I
could.  I opened myself wider than I ever dreamed I could.  Inside the
pain was the pleasure of stretching.  It was pleasure so intense
couldn't name it.  It was pleasure so hard I felt blood tearing out of
my veins and through my skin.  The pleasure stabbed through me like it
was going to bust my heart wide open.  The light from the evening sun
was coming through the kitchen window on my face, near blinding me. The
window was so bright it seemed to shine all on its own.  The window
throwed light on me like it was watching over me, like it was picking
me out with the shaft of white light.

I leaned forward far as I could and put my hands between my legs. Sweat
and hair got in my eyes, and I couldn't brush them away.  What I felt
coming through me was bigger than an onion, a hairy onion, or apple.  I
pushed with all the strength in the last inch of my body and the little
head come out more.  "Please, Jesus," I screamed.  I took hold of the
little head which was all slick and hot and wet, like it had butter on
it, butter and blood.  I cradled the head as tender as I could and
pulled.

The light from the window shot right at the place my hands took hold on
the little ears and I thought of seed and word, and the way preachers
talk about the word in the womb.  "Please, Jesus " I said again, and
took hold of the head like it was the most precious fruit.  I can't
describe how good it felt to pull so hard.  My eyes stung and bulged I
was straining so.  I pulled on the head, and then I felt the shoulders.
It was a precious little body, just a handful, all bloody and sticky I
lifted it on out as easy as slipping a bean from its pod.  I was so
weak and wore out I was shaking.  This is what leads to everything
else, I thought.

I held the baby up into the gold light from the window and its eyes was
closed and its face and body was slick with blood and a kind of gray
butter that stuck to it all over.  The blue, bloody rope that twisted
from its belly back inside me had to be cut.  But I didn't have any
knife or scissors handy.  And I couldn't put the baby down to go fetch
them.  There was nothing to do but pull the baby close to my face and
bite the twisty cord.  It tasted of the salt in the blood and slick
stuff.  Everything was salty and rich.  I could eat the cord if I had
to.

And I seen it was a little girl.  I had been guessing it would be boy
without knowing it.  And now it was a little girl I was holding.  I
cupped my left hand around the baby's belly to hold her and slapped the
little bottom with my right hand.  There wasn't any response.  Could
the baby be dead?  I looked at the face.  The little eyes was still
closed.  I slapped the butt again, and there was a low tearing sound,
more like a lamb or goat than anything human.  But it become a cry.  It
was the cry of a baby.  The baby was breathing.

Her skin looked gray under the juice and blood.  But where I rubbed it
clean, the skin was pink.  She was almost too little to hold.  I held
her in both hands and looked at the closed eyes and the wrinkle in the
nose.  I held her up in the light from the window.  I was so tired I
couldn't hardly set up, yet I felt stronger than I ever had before.

THERE S SOMETHING WRONG with that baby, Hank said.  It was the first
thing I heard when I woke up from the ocean of sleep.  I had sunk into
sleep after the pains of the afterbirth.  I had cleaned myself up as
best I could, then wrapped the baby in a blanket and put it beside me
on the pallet.  I had gone to sleep without knowing it, dreaming of the
baby being born and turning into a flower.  But it was a flower that
had to be fed milk.

"That baby is gray as pipe clay," Hank was saying.  But he wasn't
talking in my dream.  I was waking up.

"It's a skinny baby."  I said.  Hank was bending down to look at the
bundle in the cradle of my arm.

"It's an early baby," he said.  "I don't think the Lord was ready for
it"

"I delivered her' I said.  I had slept so deep I was calm.  I wasn't
going to let anything rile me.  I had done all the work myself and
wasn't afraid anymore.  I was sore inside and outside and my legs was
stiff.  But I was happy to remember what all I had done.

"That baby needs a wash," Hank said.

"Washing is not as important as feeding," I said.

"This baby looks too weak to nurse " Hank said.  He bent down like he
was going to pick up the baby, and without thinking I tightened my arm
around the bundle.  It was my baby, and I could nurse it.

"The kitchen floor's no place for a baby," Hank said.

"Where is Ma Richards?"  I said.

"I didn't bring her' he said.  "I got halfway up the mountain and
turned back, cause I thought something might have gone wrong"

"Bless you:' I said.

"Now we could use her help " Hank said.

"Too late now' I said.

"Let me get you to the bedroom," Hank said.

"I can walk myself " I said.  I couldn't just keep laying on the pallet
on the kitchen floor in front of the stove.  Hank picked up the baby
and I started to raise myself, but pain shot through my belly and I was
too weak to move my legs.  I was so weak I fell back on the quilts,
helpless to set myself up.

"Be all right in a minute," I said.

"You just lay there " Hank said.  He carried the baby into the living
room and then come back and picked me up.  I was so sore it hurt
wherever he touched me.

"Be careful with the baby," I said as he carried me into the bedroom. I
was too weak to do anything but collapse into his arms.

After Hank put me down he leaned close and kissed me.  As his lips
brushed mine our foreheads touched.  He smelled like tobacco juice and
he felt cool.

"You're burning up," Hank said.  "I'm just tired," I said.

"You've got a fever," Hank said.  He lit a lamp and brought it to the
stand beside the bed.

"I ain't got childbed fever," I said.  I knowed that women who took a
fever after childbirth got infected inside them, and most of them
died.

"You're hot as a coal," Hank said, and his voice seemed to stretch out
a little in the air.  I could remember having a fever when I was a girl
and people's words sounded stretched and broke apart.

"I just need a drink of cold water," I said.  I knowed it would make
Hank mad again to think I was sick.  I wanted him to see I was just
tired.

Hank brought me a dipper of water and I sipped it.  The cold water made
me shiver, and the shudder made me feel the ache in my bones.  Besides
the soreness in my middle and groin, there was an ache in my joints and
in my legs.  I shivered again.  I could remember feeling the ache in my
bones from a fever I felt like I had been bruised in every joint.

"I just need to rest," I said.  But my arm shook as I handed the dipper
back to Hank.

"I'll go after the doctor tomorrow," Hank said.

It was long after dark by then, and Hank left the lamp turned down low.
I laid in the bed shivering and I could hear everything Hank said from
out in the kitchen.  His voice wobbled in curves.  IT SOlJNDF.D l.lKF.
I was in the room with Hank.  And then it was like he was far away and
I was listening through a tunnel or pipe under the house.  I could hear
Hank humming to the baby He had got a jar of milk from somewhere, maybe
from the Pooles, and he was dropping it in the baby's mouth with an
eyedropper.  It was late at night, but it wasn't the night after the
baby was born.  It was two nights later, maybe.  I wasn't sure.  It was
later than I had thought, and I had been sick a long time.  Hank was
trying to feed the baby from a bottle in which he had put sugar water
or something like barley water, but it didn't work.  The baby was too
weak to drink more than a few drops at a time.

And I knowed where the baby slept.  It didn't sleep beside me in the
crook of my arm in the bedroom.  It slept in a shoebox in a chair by
the fireplace.  I had heard Hank describe the place he was fixing for
the baby.  She was too little for a cradle, even though Hank had made a
cradle out of poplar wood the week before.  The baby was too delicate
to move.  The diapers had to be laid under it and over it.  "I HAVE GOT
the baby clean," Hank called.  I knowed he was worried.  He wasn't used
to handling no baby.  "I'm going to make it a sugar tit "It needs milk
too " I said.  "I don't think you can nurse it," Hank said.  "I can
nurse it," I said.  "You're too weak to set up " Hank said.  "And
you've got a fever."  "Bring the baby here " I said.  "The baby is too
weak to move," Hank said.

"It's my baby' I said, "and I have got a right to nurse her' It sounded
like I was talking somewhere faraway It sounded like I was in another
room.

"You're too sick to know what you're saying," Hank said.

"Bring me the baby' I said.

"I've heard fever ruins a woman's milk," Hank said.

"All a baby needs is its mother's milk," I said.

Hank went out to the living room and come back carrying the baby in two
hands like she was a coal of fire he didn't want nothing to touch.  She
was wrapped in a diaper that swallowed her up.  I took the baby in my
hands and wrists and held her to my chin.  Her little bottom in my palm
was small as a hen egg.

"This girl needs a drink of milk," I said and pushed my gown aside.
Soon as I brought the tiny lips to the nipple they started in to suck.
"We know what a baby needs," I said.

The little lips kept working and working and then turned loose, and the
baby let out a sad little cry.  "What's wrong?"  I said.

"You don't have milk," Hank said.

"What do you mean?"  I said.  I pulled the gown open on the other side
and the baby took that nipple.  I held her there as she sucked and
hoped everything was going to be all right.  But I knowed something was
wrong.  The breast should feel different somehow.  The baby sucked and
sucked and then broke loose and cried again.

"The milk will come " I said.

"Sometimes women don't have any milk," Hank said.

"I never heard of such a thing," I said.

The baby kept crying, and I tried again with both breasts, but it
didn't do no good.

"What's wrong?"  I said.

"You ain't got no milk," Hank said.  He took the crying baby out of my
arms and carried her, holding her in both hands like she was liable to
fall apart, back to the fireplace in the living room.  It was awful to
hear her cry out there by the fire.  She was my baby and she was
hungry, and there wasn't nothing I could do about it.  I was the one
that was supposed to feed her, and there wasn't nobody else to do it. I
hated myself for not having milk.  I wonder now how much time passed. I
know Hank brought in a doctor once and the doctor looked at me and
said, "In a case of fever, the best thing you can do is keep her
warm."

"But she's too hot already," Hank said.e "

"Your best hope is that she will start to sweat and the fever break,"
the doctor said.  He was wearing a high collar and a dark red tie.  I
don't know where Hank had found him.

"Please look at the baby," I said.

"Don't you worry about the baby," the doctor said.

"She's a little out of her head " Hank said.

"I'm in my head " I said.  "I can't go outside of my head."  I kept
thinking I was so hot I must be ripening like an apple or tomato
wrapped in foil.  I was getting hot and mellow.  And I would have milk
later.  And I heard music.  It was the tinkle of strings.  It was music
somewhere in the air.  It was harp music in golden light from the
lamp.

"It must be King David playing his harp " I said.

"You're dreaming " Hank said.

"Ask him to play again," I said.  For the harp notes stung the air and
sweetened the air at the same time.  The notes carved the air in shapes
of blue and purple and red, like pulsing stained glass windows all
around me.  The notes carved time and colorful shapes too.  I thought
of the coat of many colors and the seconds of many colors.  Minutes was
made of shining pieces that formed pictures.  I seen a picture of Moses
from the Bible made of glowing seconds of many-colored glass.  And I
seen a picture of a dove which meant love and sounded almost the same
as the moan of love.

The colorful pieces of time stretched bigger and longer, and they begun
to move like big dust in the air.  The colors danced in shaft of light
in the late afternoon.  Motes juggled each other, and thought the motes
was notes.  All the colors was sounds spinning.  The colorful notes
juggled in the air.

"Tell David to keep playing his harp," I said.

"You're not at yourself."  Hank said beside the door.

"I'm inside myself," I said.  My bones ached, but the ache was sweet
too.  It was a deep brown sweetness like heat from a hot bath.  It was
a sweetness that itched and made me shudder, like stretching when
you're stiff.  It was the sweetness of an itch just before you scratch
it.

That's when I seen the doorway on the other side of the room.  It was
not a big doorway, but it was open.  There was light behind it, but the
light wasn't blinding.  It was the light of a spring evening.  It was a
door that appeared to open on to a grassy knoll with a trail over it.
The door was open and waiting.  All I had to do was rouse myself to get
up and walk through.  And on the other side would be the wonderful
world I had always dreamed about.  The mowed grass and the grassy trail
led to the pine woods and to an opening in the pine woods like a room
or an alcove, a little cove.  It was the kind of place young people
might dance on a spring afternoon, surrounded by pine trees and with
white clouds overhead.

I looked through the doorway and seen that the sky was clear except for
the white clouds.  And there was another trail beyond the grassy
alcove, a trail that led off into the pine trees and up hill.  It was a
path inviting me to follow it.  It was a path that was alive, a path I
could feel along with my feet even if my eyes was closed.  It was a
path that led right up toward the lip of the hill to the edge of the
sky.  It was the trail into heaven.  One step at a time I could walk
there, through the doorway into the evening light, on the cool grass.
WLIEN I WOKE UP Hank was bending over me with a cup of warm tea.  The
steam off the cup made my cheeks sweat.  "Have a taste of this ' he
said.

"Am I better?"  I said.  I remembered the shining doorway I'd seen the
nigllt before.

"Your fever has gone down," Hank said.

"Then I'm better," I said.

"Fevers always go down in the morning," Hank said.  "And then they go
up again in the evening"

"How is the baby?"  I said.

"The baby is so weak I can't feed it nothing but a sugar tit and milk
in an eyedropper," Hank said.

"Then I ought to nurse it," I said.

"You can't " Hank said.  I felt the emptiness in my breasts.

"I want to see the baby," I said.

"The baby is too delicate to move," Hank said.  "I'm keeping her in a
shoebox by the fire."

"I want to see her," I said.

"You just need to rest " Hank said.

When Hank was gone I looked for the lighted doorway in the bedroom
wall, but seen only the wall where coats and overalls hung on pegs. Yet
when I closed my eyes and looked through the squint of eyelashes I seen
the bright threshold.  It was there all the time if you just looked at
it right, like stars in the sky at noon if you can see them.

I closed my eyes and listened to the things outside the house.  There
was a dove calling somewhere in the woods across the creek.  It was
like the note when you blow across the mouth of a bottle.  It was like
a note coming out of a cave in the mountain.

Hank was getting clothes together in the kitchen to take out to the
wash pot  He had made a fire under the wash pot and carried water from
the spring to fill the cauldron and the tubs.  As far as knowed Hank
had never washed clothes before.  "The water is coming to a boil " Hank
called.  "I hate to leave that baby for a minute."

"You can't take the baby outside," I said.

"I'm afraid if I turn my back it'll quit breathing," Hank said.

"It's in the hands of the Lord," I said.  But I didn't know if I was
talking in my head or really talking to Hank.  I couldn't tell the
difference no more.

I could hear him talking like I was in the room with him.  I heard Hank
carry the clothes out to the wash pot and I heard him singing to his
self as he stirred the clothes in the boiling water with the troubling
stick.  Hank had never washed clothes before, but now he had no
ctloice.  He was singing "By Jordan's Stormy Banks."  He sung several
verses and choruses while he troubled the hot water and then lifted the
clothes out with the stick, streaming and steaming, and slopped them
down on the washboard.

Hank left the baby in the shoebox on the chair by the fireplace while
he done the washing and split more wood at the woodpile.  I heard the
chop of the axe and then the hack of the echo coming back from the
ridge across the creek.  Chop-hack it went.  Chop-hack, chop-hack.  His
axe was making music and the dove was making music.  Everything was
making its own music.  The dust in the air was music and the clouds in
the sky was music.  And the baby's little cry was music that hurt. 
WHEN NEXT I woke up I was shivering.  It was cold like ice water was
pouring through the hollows of my bones and there was ice in the
sockets of my joints.  My teeth chattered and my elbows jerked.  Hank
bent over me and said, "You've got the chills" He wrapped the quilts
tighter around me.  But the quilts felt thin as muslin that let a cold
wind through. There was nothing between me and the ice at the Norttl
Pole.

"Drink this," Hank said.  He held a cup of hot tea to my lips.  There
was fumes coming from the tea.  It was part whiskey.  My jaws shook so
I couldn't hardly put my lips to the glass.  I swallowed a trickle of
tea and it went down my throat like a lizard of fire.  It crawled in my
belly and curled up in a nest of glowing coals.  I took another sip and
the nest of coals got bigger.

"Drink all of it."  Hank said.  I took another sip and swallowed.  The
hot herb tea made me shiver even worser.  Shivering shows you're still
alive, somebody had said.  I shuddered and jerked from one end of the
bed to the other.  My breasts was empty, but I wanted to hold the baby
But I couldn't even keep my arms still.  I tried to lay still and my
back jerked and rippled.  My bones felt like they was rattling against
each other.

As the warm juice in my belly started spreading, carrying its lights
through veins and bones to my toes and fingertips, I stopped jerking a
little.  I laid back on the pillows and seen the door in the wall of
the bedroom.  It was warm evening light coming through the door, on the
grass and among the pine trees.  Somebody was calling to me on the
path, just beyond where I could see.

Now I could think two things at the same time.  I could hear Hank in
the living room talking as he awkwardly lifted the diaper and gown from
the baby and sponged the little body off with a piece of flannel cloth.
The baby was so little a regular diaper almost covered it up.  The skin
was too delicate to rub.  Hank just touched it with the wet flannel the
way he might wash a sore place or a wound.  He touched the baby like he
was almost afraid to touch her.

"Be a miracle if this baby lives " Hank said.

"It's a miracle any baby lives " I said.  But I didn't know if I was
just talking in my head.  I couldn't nurse the baby.  I had failed
her.

It was night outside the window where Hank was.  Night pressed against
the house and made it feel little.

But through the door in the wall of the bedroom come the light of a
summer evening.  Birds was singing in the golden trees and the grass
was warm from the sun.  You could tell where the path in the grass was
because it was sunk a little.  The trail wound off into the pines and
up the hill.  "Julie," somebody called among the trees, beyond where I
could see.

Who could be calling me out into the late evening sun, into the woods
where the sun didn't reach?  I wondered if I should get out of bed.  I
had laid still so long I was weak and my legs felt like they was froze.
If I had such a fever as Hank had said, should I get out from under the
covers and walk outside?

"Are you coming, Julie?"  the voice called.  And at the same time I
heard Hank talking from the living room.  "I've heard of giving a baby
ginseng tea to stimulate its heart " he said.

"Ginseng tea is too strong for a baby," I called.  "I wouldn't give it
nothing stronger than pennyroyal tea."

"You could give it a smaller dose, or a weaker dose," Hank said.  He
sprinkled talcum on the little girl and slid a diaper under her.  Hank
worked careful, barely touching the delicate skin.  The baby was so
soft a touch could bruise it.  The skin was softer than a rose petal
and would break just as easy.

After he got the diaper under the baby Hank laid the ends across the
belly and pinned them.  He held one diaper pin in his mouth while he
snapped the other into place.  Hank's hands was too big for that kind
of work, but he was doing his best.  I seen there was things about Hank
I couldn't have guessed.  He was talking to the baby.  "She's a pretty
girl, now ain't she a pretty girl?"  Hank was saying.  "Prettiest girl
in the world.  Ain't got a name, pretty little thing."

But while I heard Hank talking, almost singing to the baby, I could
hear the voice calling from the pine trees also.  "Julie," it said, "I
want to show you something."

Whose voice was it?  It sounded so familiar.  "Julie " it called, "I
want you to come out where I can see you."

Suddenly I knowed it was Papa's voice.  I hadn't noticed that before,
for it wasn't Papa's voice when he was old, but when he was young.  It
was his voice as a young man, when he first met Mama.  He was calling
to me in the voice of his youth.  He was calling to me across the
summer grass from the pine woods.

"I'm not supposed to walk," I called back.

"You can walk," Papa said, almost like a kid calling me out to play.  I
lifted the covers aside and got out of bed.  My legs was stronger than
I had thought they was.  I had to walk slow, but I was steady.  I took
short steps to the door and walked out into the grass.

It was a world for a picnic out there.  I had never seen a place so
perfect.  The grass was warm and trimmed smooth.  The world was a park,
a garden.  It was like the world must have been in the beginning. There
was bushes that smelled like perfume and flame azaleas in bloom. There
was little bluets along the edges of the grass.  It was grass you
wanted to set down on.  It was grass you wanted to lay back on and
watch the clouds pass over.

Papa called to me again, but he was further out in the woods than I had
thought.  "Are you coming, Julie?"  he said.  It was like he had gone
for a walk on the path up the mountainside and was waiting for me.  We
was going for a stroll on the trail that wound off through the pine
trees to the edge of the sky

But in the living room Hank was still talking to the baby He laid a
white flannel blanket over her up to her chin.  "This little girl will
live till the end of the century' Hank said.  "She will live to see the
end of time.  For preachers say the world will come to an end at the
end of the millennium.  This little girl will start out in a shoebox by
the fireplace and live to see Jesus bust out of the eastern sky in all
his glory."

"How can time come to an end?"  I said in my head.

"It will come to an end when the Word is fulfilled " Hank said.

"Time can't end, for what would follow would be time too " I said.

"Don't you believe the Bible?"  Hank said.  "Don't you know it says
plain in Revelation that time will stop?"

"But what comes after that will be more time," I said.

The baby cried a little cry It was a cry small as a bird might make. It
was small as the memory of a cry.  She was crying and I couldn't feed
her.  "YOU ARE WALKING on sacred ground " the voice in the pines called
to me.  "I'm walking barefoot," I said.

"Only a few more steps," the voice called.  But it was now further up
the trail.  The voice was in the shadows under the pine trees.  The
pines had purple and green shadows.  The grassy path wound deeper into
the trees.

Now it was like there was music coming out of everything I looked at.
The glowing grass under my feet had its own music, and the shadows
blowed out deep organ music.  I knowed the music was in my head, but it
was seeing the wonderful world of grass and pine grove that made me
think the music.  There was music coming from under the ground so deep
it hurt my bones and stirred through my guts.  Everything had a
different voice, but the voices all harmonized like a congregation at
church.

"Julie:' the voice called as I stepped into the alcove among the pine
trees.  It was a little dancing yard, a little cove.  I looked for
Papa's figure, but there was nobody there.  The woods was lit with the
evening sun, but I didn't see nobody.  It was the kind of place where
you expected to see a burning bush.  I walked over the soft grass as
easy as gliding.

"Papa " I called to the path going up the hill.  There was nobody in
sight among the pines, and nobody answered.  But I thought I heard
somebody speak, or maybe it was a dove calling.  I stepped up the path
knowing there was somebody waiting, for I had heard the voice call my
name.  The music was in my head, but the voice come from the pine
trees.  "Papa," I called again.  But when I come around a turn in the
path there was nobody there.  "Please, Jesus" I whispered, "let me talk
to Papa."

"Julie " the voice said again, and it sounded close by but above me.  I
hurried up the grassy trail and seen the top of the hill was bare.  It
was covered with grass and a bright, white c loud hung so close it
appeared to lean against the top of the hill.  It looked like I could
step from the path right onto the shining cloud.

"Papa," I called.  But I didn't see anybody on top of the hill.  There
was just me and the sky and the white cloud.

"Julie," the voice said behind me.  I turned, and where there hadn't
been anybody before stood a young man that looked a little bit like
Papa.  He had a reddish blond beard and hair.  He was wearing a white
shirt and he had slender shoulders and the whitest skin you ever
seen.

"Don't you know me?"  he said.

"I think I know you," I said.

I was standing on the top of the world and there was nobody there but
him and me and the shining cloud almost at my elbow.

"I have come to show you my love " he said.

"Why have you come to me?"  I said.  I felt how shameful I was.  I
hadn't even been able to nurse my baby

"Because you have shown the truest love " Papa said.

"How?"  I said.  My knees was shaking.

"Because you have loved others more than yourself," he said.

"I done what I had to:' I said.

"You are one of the blessed " he said.

"What kind of dream am I dreaming?"  I said.

But Papa didn't answer.  He turned and walked further up the grassy
hill.  I was afraid he might just melt away into the light.  He looked
so slim and starved.  I was afraid he would vanish before I could find
out why he had come to me.

There was things I wanted to ask Papa, things I would never get a
chance to ask again.  "Will I live?"  I said.

"I have come to tell you, you will live," Papa said.  "You will live
and you will continue to work and to love."

"That sounds simple," I said.  "Simple and hard:' They was two words
that fit my life, the life I had lived.  Ever since I could remember
the work had been hard, work I often hated.  I looked for Papa, but he
wasn't on top of the hill.  I looked behind me, but there was nothing
but pine trees and grass there.  The cloud had floated away and hung
far out over the valley.

"I wanted to ask if the baby will live,7' I called.  But there was only
the whisper of air around me.

I stood on the hill until the light begun to fade.  Far to the edge of
the world I thought I seen a star come out like a crystal.  It was time
for me to start back down the hill.  I HEARD THE baby crying in the
living room.  "I'll put some extra wood on the fire " Hank said.  "It's
near bedtime " I said.

"Never mind what time it is' Hank said.  "I'm going to make some more
tea for the baby."

"What kind of tea?"  I said.

"I'm going to put a little camomile in it " Hank said, "to help the
baby sleep.  To hush it up from crying."

I felt how warm and damp the sheet was around me.  The quilt pressed
down its warmth close to my sweaty skin.  I reached a hand from under
the covers and touched my forehead.  My skin was wet with sweat, and
cool.  But I could smell the sickness on my hand, the smell of old
flesh that has been cooked by fever and needs scrubbing.  I was
dripping with sweat.  Hank did go after Ma Richards after my fever went
down and Ma Richards helped me take care of the baby while I was
getting my strength back.

Ma Richards complained, but she helped me with little Delia like she
was her own baby I'll have to give Ma that.  But it didn't do no good.
The child had been born too early.  She was too little to be able to
live on cow's milk and sugar water and the gruel Ma Richards made.  It
broke my heart to see how tiny Delia was and how she wouldn't gain any
weight.  Her fingers and toes was tinier than match heads.  Her little
arms was the size of my fingers.  Taking care of Delia wasn't like
taking care of another sick baby, where you hold it and rock it, and
give it tonic and warm milk.  Delia was so tiny you didn't dare hold
her upright.  She was so weak you didn't want to move her no more than
you had to.  And she was so delicate you was afraid you'd break her
skin or arm just by taking her up.

"The Lord will let this baby live " I said, "if it's his will"

"The Lord has his own plans for people:' Ma Richards said, in her way
that always irritated me.

"But we can still ask for what we want," I said.

"We can ask," Ma said.  "But that don't mean the Lord has to answer"

I had been feeling better about Ma Richards as I got stronger.  But
maybe because I had decided to like Ma more, my guard was down. Before,
I had been extra careful whenever she was around and held myself back
because I disliked her so much.  Now anger rose right out of my guts
and filled my mouth.

"I guess you know all the Lord's secrets," I said.  I sounded like Mama
when she was mad.  It just come out and I didn't try to stop it.

Ma Richards was folding diapers on the kitchen table.  She stopped and
looked at me.  She wasn't used to people talking back to her.  She
certainly wasn't used to me talking back to her.

"I try to tell the truth," Ma said.

"Why should the Lord show you the truth more than anybody else?"  I
said.  I could feel a shadow in the air around me, like the daylight
was haunted.  I had never gone so far quarreling with anybody, except
maybe Lou.  But I didn't want to stop myself until I'd gone farther
still.  It felt good to talk angry

"I've learned a few things in my years," Ma said.  "And one of the
things I've learned is how foolish the young can be when they won't
take advice."

"The only advice you want to give is to run things," I said.  I had
gone that far; I might as well go on farther.

Ma Richards went back to folding diapers.  She finished one and started
folding another.  There was a grin on her face, like she had been
waiting a long time for a fuss and nobody had obliged her.  "Throwing
off on me won't make the baby no better," Ma said.

"You don't care what happens, as long as you can be the queen bee," I
said.  My voice was shriller than I wanted it to be.

"I care enough to come down here and work day and night to take care of
you " Ma said.

I wanted to drive her out of the kitchen.  I wanted to fold the diapers
myself.  I grabbed a diaper off the pile and started to fold it.  Hank
was out at the barn and I didn't want him to hear me quarreling with Ma
Richards.

"You don't think nobody knows how to do anything but you," I said.  Now
that my tongue was loose it just seemed to go of its own accord .

"What is wrong with you, Julie?"  Ma said.  "You must be out of your
head."

"I believe in respecting old people," I said.  "But I never run into
anybody like you before."

"Hank don't seem to mind the kind of person I am."  Ma Richards said.

"You've been bossing him around all his life," I said.  "He's a good
man or he wouldn't have put up with it."  I figured I might as well
tell the truth while I was at it.  "You are the cause of most of his
troubles "

"What troubles?"  Ma said.

"The way he gets discouraged, and can't find a job," I said.

"Now you want to blame me for the way the world is?"  Ma said.

"I blame you for the way Hank's world is," I said.

"You have got on a high horse all of a sudden," Ma said.

She reached for another diaper to fold, but I picked it up before she
could touch it.  "You're not used to people telling you the truth," I
said.

"I ain't done nothing to be ashamed of," Ma said, "at least nothing to
you."

"I don't care what you do to me " I said.  "it's the way you run over
Hank that riles me."

"Hank has told you that?"  Ma said.

"He didn't need to," I said.  "I've got eyes in my head."

"Some women get afraid they can't hold a man, and that makes them
mean," Ma said.  "I reckon you're one of them"

Tears come to my eyes.  I couldn't help it.  Suddenly everything in the
room blurred and melted.  It seemed Ma was smirking at me.  "I just
wish you would mind your own devilment," I said.  "it's a common
weakness to blame other people for our own shortcomings," Ma said and
laughed a dry laugh.

"You're mighty used to having the last word " I said, my voice rising
toward a scream.

"Maybe that bothers you because you're afraid of everything " Ma
said.

"It's my house!"  I screamed.  But even as I screamed I wished I hadn't
done it.  I had gone too far.  I felt like Ma had tricked me into
getting mad and screaming at her.  Even though she had helped with the
baby while I was recovering, she had tricked me into losing my temper.
i:

"Julie, I don't know what's got into you " Ma said.  But she said it
like it was for somebody else's benefit.  I guessed that Hank must have
come into the kitchen while I was screaming.  I turned around and there
he stood in the door with a look of surprise.  Even with my tears
stretching and swelling everything, I could see the fear on his face.

"What's wrong?"  Hank said, like he was short of breath.

"Julie is upset " Ma said.

"I have a right to be upset:' I said.  But I wished I hadn't.  For it
wouldn't do no good to try to set Hank against Ma.  He would never turn
against her, and she would make it look like the quarrel was all my
fault.

"Has the baby got worse?"  Hank said.

"I've done everything I could to help " Ma Richards said.

I seen what a mistake it had been to let myself go.  But there was one
last breath of rage left in me.  "You've done everything you could to
make me look bad," I said to Ma.

"I've done everything I could to help you " Ma said.  She has beat me
by sounding meek, I thought.

Hank looked at Ma and he looked at me.  He stepped forward and put a
hand on my shoulder, and he put his other hand on Ma's shoulder. "Let's
get right down on our knees and pray about this," he said. "We're a
family and we've got to live like a family."

The fizz and bite of rage was going out of me.  The boldness that had
took over my tongue melted away I sunk down on my knees to the kitchen
floor, and Hank put his arm around me and his other arm around Ma
Richards.

"Lord, help us to love each other' Hank said.  "Teach us to put aside
our spites and grudges, our slights and hurt feelings.  Teach us to put
away our vanity and our pride.  Help us to be the decent people we are
deep inside."  He pulled me closer on the left side and Ma closer on
the right.  I couldn't look Ma in the face, and I don't reckon she
could bear to look me in the face either.  I stared down at the
floor.

"I want you all to kiss each other' Hank said.

I didn't make a move and I didn't say nothing.  I reckon my lip was
trembling.

"We're going to have to get beyond this," Hank said.  "There's no hope
for a family that quarrels all the time."  I had never heard Hank talk
so dignified and wise.  It was usually him losing his temper and me
holding mine.  But here he was sounding like a deacon that led in
prayer and was the head of the family.  His calm moved me more than
anything else had.  I felt proud that he was a man I could rely on and
trust.  He was not only the father of my baby, who had took care of the
baby, but he could show me what to do when I got all worked up and
beside myself with disappointment and resentment.  It was like Hank had
got a lot older.

I reached over and put my arms around Ma Richards's bony shoulders and
kissed her on the cheek.  Another sob rose and broke in my throat. "I'm
sorry," I said.

"I love you, Julie " she said, and I seen the tears streaming down Ma's
wrinkled face.  I felt she meant it, that she was telling the truth.
There was no sass and no edge in her voice.

I sobbed again and snuffed up my nose and wiped my eyes.  My cheeks was
wet like I had been out in the rain.  I felt wrung out inside, but
scrubbed and sweetened too.  The world was firm again.  That's when I
heard little Delia crying the faintest cry.

"I'll go see about her," Ma Richards said.

"I'll go too " I said.  THE BABY WAS getting weaker instead of growing.
It appeared she was losing weight.  Her skin was so white it looked
clear.  Blue veins showed through like ink marks under her skin. 
"She's awful weak " I said.  "Bless her little heart " Ma said.  "Ain't
there no medicine for an early baby?"  I said.

"The doctor just said to give her milk and sugar and a little barley
water' Hank said.

"Her belly's too young to take anything " Ma said.

"They give babies paregoric for colic," Hank said.

"I'd hate to give one so little paregoric:' I said.  Delia wasn't
squealing like a baby usually does with colic.  She just laid there
fretting and whimpering, and she didn't have a temperature either.
There was no sign of a fever.  There's nothing that makes you feel as
helpless as a baby that's sick.  It's your job to do something about
it, but you don't know what.  I was just getting back on my feet and I
couldn't think clear.

"Maybe a little liquor will stimulate her heart," Hank said.  It still
surprised me that he had learned to take care of the little baby.  Most
men are scared of new babies and don't want to hold them the way they
do bigger children But Hank had had to take care of little Delia when I
was sick.  And he was as worried as I was.  He kept the fire going in
the fireplace all day and all night, even though it was late spring.
Since Delia couldn't eat much, it was like she was living on the warmth
from the fire.  "I'd be afraid to give a baby that little any liquor' I
said.

"I've heard of giving babies mint tea with a drop of brandy in it,"
Hank said.

"We don't have no brandy," I said.

"A drop of liquor will serve just as good " Hank said.

There was some peppermint out beyond the wash pot on the way to the
spring.  I sent Hank out to pick a pan full and I put the green leaves
in the oven to dry.  The leaves filled the house with the smell of mint
as they cured.  It was a kind of medicine smell.  I took them out
before they could burn or bake.  As soon as I boiled the tea I asked Ma
Richards how much liquor I should mix in.

"Just a few drops," Ma said, "in a tablespoon of tea."

I fixed up the tea and put it in the eyedropper Ma had used to feed
Delia milk.  I held the tip of the eyedropper to the baby's lips and
squeezed out a drop in her mouth, then another.  She twitched a little
but didn't open her eyes.  Her lips was pursed for nursing.  It made me
ache that I couldn't nurse her.

"The mint will soothe her stomach " Ma Richards said.

I dripped several more drops into Delia's mouth, and a little color
appeared in her tiny cheeks.  Maybe the tea was working to make her
stronger.  WHen I gOT Up in the middle of the night to look at the
baby, I didn't think anything was wrong at first.  The baby was usually
quiet and still.  I had thought of warming up more of the tea.  I
thought of mixing a little liquor with sugar water to give her.  I
brought the lamp to the mantel of the fireplace and set it down.  The
baby was quiet in the shoebox.  I looked closer and seen her eyes was
closed and there was no color in her cheeks.  She needs some more tea,
I thought.  I put my hand on her forehead and it was cold.  I need to
build up the fire, I thought.

And then it come to me that Delia's little forehead was really cold.l
pulled back the blanket and took her little hand, and it was cold as an
icicle.  And I knowed she was dead.

This is the worst thing that has ever happened to you, I said to
myself.  If you live to be ninety this is the saddest moment you will
ever know.  It was so sad I couldn't really feel it.  I would feel it
later, maybe.  Now it was happening to somebody else.  It was sadder
than when Masenier died, and when Papa died, but I couldn't feel a
thing.

I set down by the fire and looked at my baby.  In a few seconds I would
have to go tell Hank, and he would go tell Ma Richards.  But I wanted
to wait a moment.  If i didn't tell nobody, it might not be true. Maybe
Delia would start to breathe again.  Maybe my life wouldn't come to a
stop the way it seemed to have.

Jesus, don't let this be true, I prayed.  I thought how helpless and
innocent Delia was.  I thought how cruel it was to bring a little
person like her into the world to suffer and then die, never knowing
anything else.  What kind of world would let such a thing happen?  But
I put it out of my mind because I had to go tell Hank.  I couldn't bear
such grief on my own.  There was a numbness in my belly that reached
out toward my toes and to the tips of my fingers.  AFTER PREACHER GIBBS
come to the house and preached a little funeral in the living room for
Delia, and after we buried her in a corner of the orchard in a little
oak box Hank had fixed from planks he found in the barn, I felt
different from what I expected.  I felt like nothing was real, and I
was so light I couldn't hardly touch the ground.  I scrubbed the floor
of the house to make things seem real, and I carried water from the
spring and washed all the bedclothes.  I hoed out the tater patch,
making myself sweat.  The harder I worked the lighter I felt.  When I
talked it didn't sound like my voice talking.  And when I thought, it
seemed like somebody else thinking.  Finally I just set down on the
porch in a rocking chair and waited for my weight to return to myself.
"Do you want me to start supper?"  Ma Richards said.  "You can if you
want to," I said.  "What would you like me to fix?"  Ma said. 
"Whatever there is to fix," I said.  THE NEXT DAY Hank drove Ma
Richards back up the mountain.  I hugged her before she climbed in the
buggy, and I told her I loved her.  There wasn't nothing else to say,
after the way she had helped out with little Delia, and after the way
she had acted after our fuss.  What she had done had showed her love
for Hank, and me.  But even so, it relieved me that she was going.  I
felt better because she was leaving and I would have the house to
myself.

Soon as the buggy drove out of the yard I got a bucket of warm water
and a rag and washed the steps.  I scrubbed the front steps and the
back steps until they sparkled.  And I scrubbed the front porch and the
back porch until the planks was raw.  Then I swept the yard so clean
the dirt glittered like sandpaper.  I took a bucket to the creek and
got some fresh white sand and sprinkled it over the front yard and the
backyard.  The ground looked frosted with sugar.  I tightened the
clothesline and washed the outhouse.  Then I washed the outside walls
of the house high up as I could reach.

That evening I started cleaning up the house inside.  I washed the
floors and the walls and the windows.  I polished the windows so clean
they looked like they wasn't there.  It seemed I didn't have control
over nothing in the world except the work I done.  I couldn't make
nothing right, but I could make the floor and the dishes shine.  I
washed off the cook stove when it cooled and polished it.  I want to
make one little place in the world as bright and tight as a crystal, I
thought.  I want to make one tiny place as fit as it can be.  After I
polished the stove I shined the silver.  And then I polished Hank's
Sunday shoes and my own with saddle soap.

By the time Hank come back that night I was wore out, but the house
sparkled.  I had even washed the ceilings and the backs of the doors.
LATER TFIAT MONN H, after I had recovered my strength a little, I
planted every seed I could find on the place.  And in the South
Carolina heat, and in the moist soil along the creek, they sprouted and
growed fast.  I planted bunch beans and half-runners, greasy backs and
Kentucky Wonders.  I planted peas and lettuce and okra, bell pepper and
red pepper.  I planted squash and eggplant and turnips.  The summer
squash growed like little yellow geese and the winter squash swelled
like pincushions.  I planted watermelons and mush melons in the soft
loam along the creek.

The more I worked the more I had to work.  I would give the preacher
potatoes and carrots instead of any tithe.  And I would help anybody
else I could.  I would give people that passed on the road new taters
and squash.

Every time I thought about Delia I worked that much harder.  I mowed
the grass on the bank by the road with the sling blade, and I trimmed
back the briars and brush and big weeds.  We didn't have enough money
for shoelaces, but everything I done was free.  The sweat was free as
water from the spring, as air and sunlight.  But the greatest free gift
was time that kept coming day after day It seemed that time couldn't go
on after the death of little Delia.  But it did.  Every day led to
another night, and night to another day.  Time kept spilling down on
me, and the only way I could take hold of the minutes and make sense of
them was to work.

"You'll kill your fool self," Hank said.  But he didn't say it ugly. 
He hadn't been able to find a job.  He had asked in Tigerville and he
had asked in Pumpkintown.  I guess word had got out that he hit the
boss at the cotton mill in Lyman, as he had feared, because nobody
would hire him.  Hank worked on the place as hard as I did.  He put in
a big field of corn and a field of sweet taters.  He set out a row of
tobacco he got from George Poole on credit, and he plowed around the
trees in the orchard and did some pruning.  The watermelons we growed
by the creek was better than any watermelons I had ever seen on the
mountain.  He carried rocks on the sled and lined the branch in the
pasture so the banks wouldn't wash away He patched up the fence with
pliers and pieces of wire found in the barn.  He cleared out the
hayloft and the corncrib.  The fact that he didn't have money to buy
nails and paint made him work even harder.

In late summer I helped Hank cut tops in the August heat.  We stacked
the corn tops in shocks in the field to cure, and in the September heat
we pulled the fodder and carried it in bundles to the barn.  The fodder
made the barn smell sweet as green tea.  We gathered apples and made
cider in an old mill found in the toolshed.  I cut up apples and dried
the slices on sheets in the sun, to make pies in the winter.

While we worked that summer we attended every prayer meeting and church
service, every singing and dinner on the grounds.  I carried taters and
cider and canned preserves to shut ins and old folks.  I made jelly and
canned beans and peaches and tomato juice.  I canned blackberry juice
and grape juice.  The days was thick and cluttered with grief, and I
fought my way through every minute with work.  I wrestled with every
job like it was a demon, or an angel, and I picked my way like climbing
from rock to rock on a tricky path.  It was my sweat and my effort that
made time possible.  When I seen another woman with a baby, I turned my
face away, and then I took hold of myself and tried to be glad for her.
I WAS DOWN on my knees weeding the okra when I heard somebody holler
from the road.  It was a voice I recognized quick.  My knees hurt from
the sharp clods, but the pain the voice drove through my chest was
worse.  "Piieendergaass!"  the voice called.

I hoped Hank didn't hear him.  Timmy Gosnell had left us alone since
Hank throwed him in the creek.  Timmy was only trouble when he got bad
drunk.  I had seen him walk by on the road from time to time, and I
doubt he was ever cold sober But he only got to thinking about Mr.
Pendergast and the ginseng money when he was terrible drunk.  I kept
working, bent over where I was hid by the sweet corn and tomato plants.
Maybe Timmy would go on down the road if nobody paid him any mind.

"Piieendergaass!"  he hollered again, and I heard a rock bang the side
of the house.  I prayed he didn't break a window, because we didn't
have money to buy a new one.  Another rock rung on the porch, making me
wince.

"You owe me moneeeeyyyy!"  Timmy yelled.

I feared what might happen if Hank got riled again.  Since the baby
died Hank had been in a quiet mood.  But I didn't know what he would do
if Timmy made him mad.  I knowed I had to get Timmy to leave before
Hank heard him.  Hank was down in the patch by the branctl hoeing
sorghum cane.

I stood up and seen Timmy Gosnell standing at the corner of the house.
He leaned over with his hands on his knees to steady his self And then
he reached down for another rock.  I was dizzy from being bent over so
long and I took a deep breath.  "You owe me moneeyyy!"  Timmy called
out to the house.  "You know Mr.  Pendergast is dead " I said as calm
as I could.

Timmy whirled around and almost fell over.  His shirt was unbuttoned
and he looked sunburned, as if he had been laying asleep in the hot Gap
Creek sun.  He shaded his eyes to look at me.  "Piieendergaass owes me
money' he said.

"Can't you understand, Mr.  Pendergast died last fall " I said, trying
to sound quiet and reasonable.

"Then you all' he said and pointed at me, "you all owe me money."

"If I had any money I'd give it to you:' I said.

"You have to " Timmy said and took a step toward me.  I backed away.  I
didn't like his smell, and there was sores around his eyes.  He looked
both confused and angry

I held out my hands covered with dirt and weed stains.  "See ain't got
any money," I said.

"You will pay meeeee' he said and stomped his foot on the baked
ground.

"You go on home " I said.  I knowed he lived in an old house by his
self way back in the holler of Hominy Branch.  It seemed strange that
all he thought about when he got drunk was that Mr.  Pendergast owed
him a dollar or two.

"Ain't treated me squarrre " Timmy said and shook his finger at me.  He
blinked like he was having trouble seeing in the bright sun, and when
he lurched forward I took another step back.  "Ain't treated me
squarrrreee!"  he hollered and shook his head.

Just then I seen Hank coming up the trail from the spring with the hoe
on his shoulder.  "You better go," I said to Timmy.  "Hank will be
mad".  "Ain't afeared of him m m," the drunk man said.

Hank walked right up to Timmy and stopped, resting the hoe like a staff
on the ground.  He was so sweaty from work his shirt stuck to his
shoulders.  "I told you not to come back here when you was drunk;' he
said.

"You owe me money, Rinchards," Timmy said.

"How you figure I owe you money?"  Hank said.  "Mr.  Pendergast is
dead."

"Cause you got all Piieendergaasss money' the drunk man said.

"I ain't got a cent " Hank said.  He didn't seem scared like he had
before when Timmy come.  He wiped the sweat out of his eyes.  "You go
on home," Hank said.

"Ain't afeared of you," Timmy snarled and leaned toward Hank, squinting
with one eye.  His face was peeling from sunburn

"Don't want you to be afraid of me " Hank said.

Timmy stepped back as if trying to understand what Hank had said.  He
was used to people hollering at him.  He studied the ground for a few
seconds, and then looked around.  "You're a goddamned liiiiar," he
said.

"We don't want to talk that way," Hank said.  He lifted the hoe, but
let the end drop to the ground again.

Timmy swung around and pointed at me.  "Her too," he said, "you're both
.. . liars

I seen how much the drunk man wanted a fight.  He wanted to be beat and
bloodied and throwed in the creek.  It was what he had come for.  He
wanted to be hurt and humbled.  Hank must have seen it too.

"We want to do the Christian thing," Hank said.

"Don't talk to me no Chriiiiistian," Timmy said, and swung his arm as
though swatting a fly "I ain't got no confidence."

"We could give you some coffee and cornbread' Hank said.  "And if you
stay awhile Julie can fix you a bean and a tater" "You ain't no
preacher' Timmy said and swung his hand again.  "You'd feel better if
you eat something " Hank said.  "You're a thief " Timmy said.  "Don't
talk to me no Chriiiistian" "Nobody took anything from you:' Hank
said.

"All my life people has took from me " Timmy said.  "Why, I ain't got
nothing"

"We could give you some new taters and a mess of beans," Hank said.

Timmy looked at the house, and he looked at the sky, like he was trying
to think what he wanted to say next.  Things had not gone as he had
expected.  Nobody had knocked him down or threatened him.  "I know what
you all are' he said, "coming here and taking Piendergaass's money.
Everybody knows what you all arrrre."

"We ain't stole from nobody' Hank said, and looked Timmy hard in the
face.

I was sweating so hard the drops run into my eyes, but my hands was too
dirty to wipe my brow.  I used the back of my wrist, but it had dirt on
it too.  I felt I was melting like a tallow candle.

"You all are going to hell " Timmy said, "you and your whore both."

"It sure feels like hell out here in the sun," Hank said.

But Timmy Gosnell would not be humored.  He looked at the ground, and
he looked at Hank.  He swung his fist and Hank stepped back, catching
Timmy's arm.  Dropping the hoe Hank took the drunk man by the shoulders
and turned him toward the road.  "Time for you to go home " Hank
said.

"Won't go " Timmy said and braced his self with his feet.

"You go on home and we'll pray for you:' Hank said.

"Don't pray for meee," Timmy hollered.  He wrenched his self away and
turned toward Hank.  "I won't let you pray for meee " he said.

"We'll pray for you to feel better' Hank said.

"Like goddamn to hell you will " Timmy said.

And then I seen Hank get an idea.  I seen when it come to him.  All at
once he knowed what to do to make Timmy leave.  Instead of beating
Timmy until he was bloody, which is what the drunk man had expected,
Hank said, "I'm going to pray for you right now" He dropped to his
knees on the hard ground in front of Timmy

"Don't you pray for meee," Timmy hollered.

"Lord, we ask your guidance " Hank said, shading his eyes from the
bright sun.  "Brother Gosnell is in pain and confused.  Would you
soothe his heart and strengthen his will, and show him the way."

Timmy stood froze, listening to Hank pray for him.  He started to say
something and stopped.  He swung his arm as if brushing away a gnat.

"Show Brother Gosnell the way to truth.  Heal his pain and confusion,"
Hank prayed, sounding like Preacher Gibbs.  "For he is a sinner, as
we're all sinners."

Timmy took a step back like he was afraid, and then he took another. He
looked at me, and then at Hank praying on the baked ground.  "Ahhh!" he
said and swung his arm again.  Then he turned toward the road and
started walking.  I watched him lurch toward the bend.

When Timmy was gone a ways Hank opened his eyes and stood up.  "If you
come back we'll pray for you again:' he hollered.  But Timmy didn't
look back.  He kept stumbling down the creek road until he went around
the bend.  Hank looked at me and grinned.  He had changed since last
winter He had knowed what to do to get rid of Timmy without hurting
him.  I hugged him with my elbows and wrists, since my hands was so
dirty they would smear on his wet shirt.  It WAS ALONG in late fall
after the corn was gathered and put in the crib, after the taters was
dug and the apples was picked, after the beets was canned and the fox
grape jelly made, the winter squash put in the hay, and the cabbage
buried in a hill behind the barn, that Hank took up hunting again.  In
the summer he had caught trout out of the creek, and we fried them for
Sunday dinner.  But we hadn't had any red meat since the winter before.
After the first frost Hank killed some squirrels and I made a stew. And
then he killed a wild turkey.  In November he shot a deer and we had
more venison than I knowed what to do with.  He salted down some of the
deer meat and put it in the smokehouse.

We didn't have any money, and our clothes was wearing thin, and I kept
patching Hank's overalls and mending his socks.  His shirts was wore
out at the elbows.  But you can come to take pride in clean, patched
clothes.  You take pride in how you can keep things together with no
money and just hard work.  I was beginning to think about Christmas
again, and about going up to the mountains to see Mama and my sisters.
THERE WAS A knock at the door one morning.  It was a frost-tight
morning with mush ice in the water bucket on the back porch.  I dried
my hands on my apron and opened the door.  It was Preacher Gibbs and
another man dressed up in a high collar and a black overcoat .  "You
all come on in," I said.  The cold air swept in with them.  "Julie,
this is Mr.  Raeford from Greenville," the preacher said.  "Pleased to
meet you, sir' I said.  "Please take a seat."

"I represent the heirs of Mr.  Pendergast's estate' Mr.  Raeford
said.

"I see," I said.

"Since his heirs did not know about his death for over a year, they are
only now claiming their property," Mr.  Raeford said.

"I have explained to Mr.  Raeford that you and Hank have done a fine
job of taking care of the place."  Preacher Gibbs said.  "I can see
that," the lawyer said.

"Won't you all set down," I said.  I figured this lawyer really did
represent the heirs since he was with Preacher Gibbs.  The two men set
down and held their hats on their knees.  The lawyer opened a leather
case and took out some papers.  It was the kind of papers that give you
a feeling of dread.  It was the kind of papers hard for ordinary people
to read.

"The teirs have authorized me to sell the house for them," Mr.  Raeford
said.

"I see," I said.  I hated to tell him we didn't have a cent and was
living on the game that Hank shot in the woods and the canned stuff I
had put up in the summer.

"And they have asked me to collect rent for the months since Mr.
Pendergast died " the lawyer said.

"Rent?"  I said.  The word stuck in my throat.

"You have had the use of the house and land, as well as the horse and
other livestock," Mr.  Raeford said.

"Mr.  Pendergast didn't charge us no rent," I said.  The lawyer had a
little powder on his face, and he smelled of some kind of toilet
water.

"You kept house for Mr.  Pendergast, the Reverend Gibbs tells me."  the
lawyer said.  "Since his death the heirs have been owners of this
house."

"Surely you are grateful that Hank and Julie have took care of the
place, and the things on the place," Preacher Gibbs said.

"I'm only an attorney representing the interests of my clients," Mr.
Raeford said.  "They have asked me to collect back rent and to arrange
for the sale of the property"

"That does not seem very neighborly' Preacher Gibbs said.  "This young
couple has put a lot of work into the place."

"I'm only an attorney."  Mr.  Raeford said again.  "My clients are
willing to be reasonable.  They will settle for a hundred dollars in
back rent."

"We don't have any money," I said.  "And we don't have no way of
getting any."

"Then I must ask you to vacate the premises," the lawyer said.  "And I
will ask the sheriff to seize any goods you have in lieu of payment."
He put the papers back in his case and stood up.

"I'm astoDished " the preacher said to the lawyer.  "I would be ashamed
to treat these people this way after all they have done here.  They
didn't know how to get in touch with the heirs.  Nobody on Gap Creek
did."

"I'm only an attorney' Mr.  Raeford said again.

The lawyer handed me a paper.  It was a paper that said Hank and me was
being sued for back rent, and under South Carolina law we was liable to
lose all we owned unless we paid the rent.

"We don't have no money' I said.  I felt short of breath.

"Let's pray about this " Preacher Gibbs said.  We stood up in the
living room and Preacher Gibbs turned his face toward the ceiling as he
prayed.  "Lord, show us what is right," he said.  "Help us to do your
will in this world, so that we may earn a place in the next.  For we
know you are watching our every deed.  And every single one of us must
face your judgment" AFTER THE PREACHER and the lawyer had gone I stood
by the fire and looked at the paper like I couldn't understand it,
though I understood what it said all too well.  I stood there watching
the words swell and swim in front of my eyes until Hank come back from
hunting with a rabbit in the pocket of his mackinaw coat.

Hank looked at the page and swung it down like it was on fire and he
wanted to put out the flames.  He shook the paper till it fluttered
like a paper bird.  I had not seen such a look on his face for long
time.  "Does it mean we will be arrested?"  I said.  "We might " he
said. "What can we do?"  I said.  "We'll have to leave " Hank said,
"early in the morning."  "Will we take the horse?"  I said.

"We'll take only what we can carry on our backs " Hank said.  "We'll
take only what we brought here when we come."

"And leave all the canned stuff?"  I said.

"We'll leave here the way we come into South Carolina " Hank said. 
THAX EVENING I cooked a big supper of rabbit and taters and beans and
cornbread.  I even made a sauce out of dried apples.  Since we couldn't
take anything with us we eat everything we could hold.  And then we
went to bed early, since we would have to get up and leave so early. 
Once we was in bed it was like a great weight had fell away We had been
worried so long about the heirs showing up, and about where we was
going to live.  And now we didn't have to worry no more.  We would be
leaving.  We would be shedding all the worries of Gap Creek and
starting out again back up on the mountain.  When Hank touched me on
the breast I trembled.  I was so freed up and charged by knowing that
we was leaving that I didn't feel like myself.  And Hank was trembling
too.  It's a man's desire that stirs woman's desire most.

Hank touched me on the breast, and he touched me on the belly.  He
touched me between my legs.  I seen it was better we was leaving.  We
would start all over again.  We had everything we needed to start
again.  When Hank climbed on top of me I cried out.  It was like we was
going for a long walk over the hills and under the pine trees.  I
rolled and said something, and he turned and said something.  We said
things we had never said before.  And we walked further and rushed up
on cliffs we had never seen before.  When he cried out I was thinking
of little Delia, and I had never felt such love before.

We had never had such love as we did that night.  I felt I had been
stretched and growed more than I ever had.  I felt time was slowed down
and richer.  I felt myself soar out over a sparkling river, and I felt
myself settle finally down into the warm nest of the bed and Hank's
arms.  T;IAT MORNING WHEN we left was the coldest of the year.  It must
have been about ten above zero, maybe colder.  It was dark when I got
up and lit a fire in the cook stove  Water on the back porch was froze,
and I had to crack the cap of ice in the bucket.  We was out of coffee,
but I heated up some cider to warm our bellies, along with grits and
cornbread and jelly.

It was sad knowing I would have to leave most of the jelly and jam I
had made, the stuff in the basement, the taters and cider and molasses
and corn in the crib.  All our work would go to the heirs, except what
we could carry in our pockets and on our backs.  I made up my mind I
would take three or four jars of jelly.

Since we couldn't carry much it didn't take long to pack.  About all we
could take was our clothes, which was mostly wore out anyway.  Back on
the mountain we would start over again with even less than we had to
start out on Gap Creek.  With a lamp I looked over the house for the
things I had to take.  In the bedroom I got my comb and brush set, the
one Rosie had give me when I was married.  And I folded up the quilt
Mama had give us.  On the mantel I got the little flower vase that Lou
had give me.  In the kitchen there was one frying pan we had brought
from Mount Oliver.

I tried to recall if I had brought any spice or seasonings when we
moved to Gap Creek.  I climbed up on a chair and looked on the shelf in
the kitchen.  It was the shelf where Mr.  Pendergast had kept bottles
of cinnamon and sage and pepper, and also his liquor and camphor and
other medicines.  There was the box of Epsom salts and the bottle of
oil of cloves.  I had picked over the bottles and jars and boxes many
times before.  There was a little tin that I had never opened because
it looked rusty and was covered with dust.  It was the kind of tin that
might have held tea or snuff at one time.

I decided to open the can since I never had before.  It was hard to
twist the lid because of the rust.  I had to set the lamp down and use
both hands to wring the cap off.  There wasn't nothing inside but some
crackly wax paper, the kind tea is wrapped in.  I opened the paper and
seen something shiny.  I held the box under the lamp and seen a gold
coin.  I fumbled in the paper and found a twenty-dollar gold piece.  It
was Mr.  Pendergast's secret bank.  The money had been there all the
time while we was broke and near starving.

"Look at this " I called to Hank.

"Where did you get that?"  he said.  He had gathered his tools up in a
sack, along with his extra underwear and overalls.

"Mr.  Pendergast must have forgot this " I said.

"The Lord has blessed us:' Hank said.

"What do you mean?"  I said.

"I mean the Lord has give this to us, for all the work we have done
here " Hank said.

"You're not going to give it to the heirs?"  I said.

"And them willing to put the law on us?"  Hank said.

I seen Hank was right.  The Lord had kept the twenty dollars for us
till the last minute, when we needed it most.  It was a sign.  We was
free and we had something to start over with.

"It's a little pay for all the work on this place," I said.  I wrapped
the coin in the wax paper and put it in my pocket.  The little packet
felt sweet as if it was sugar, and it felt warm in the cold morning
air.  I put all my clothes and the clean frying pan and three jars of
jelly in a pillowcase.  I placed the flower vase in my other coat
pocket.  There wasn't room for anything else, and there wasn't nothing
else we had to take.  I didn't have but one pair of shoes, and they was
near wore out.  I tied a scarf around my head.

Hank fed the horse some corn and fodder and turned it out into the
pasture.  It was about five o'clock in the morning and completely dark.
The stars was out so bright they seemed just over the treetops.  It was
so cold my teeth chattered and wouldn't stop.  A shooting star spit
across the sky throwing off sparks.  In the starlight the creek
glittered and I could see skirts of ice around the rocks in the stream.
There wasn't a light in all the valley, and the mountains loomed like
shadowy animals on both sides of the road.

"You'll warm up when we start climbing " Hank said.  He had not brought
a lantern, so we had to find our way along the road in the starlight.
The ruts of the road was froze like wood, and puddles had set under
panes of ice.  When I stepped on a puddle it crackled like brittle
candy.

I knowed I could warm up if I breathed deep and kept breathing deep.
The cold bit my nose and stung my face.  My breath smoked in the air.
Grass and brush along the road was covered with hoar frost  After about
a mile we started climbing.  The road wound along the creek bank and
then turned and started up the mountain.  I slung the pillowcase over
my shoulder and leaned into the climb.  When you have to climb there's
nothing to do but pitch into it.  The only way to climb is slow and
steady, to not wear yourself out at the beginning.

We had to step over a branch that run across the road and we stumbled
on rocks that stuck up in the ruts.  It was still dark, but you could
see a little where starlight come through the trees.  Something
squalled on the mountainside.  "What was that?"  I said.  "Just a
wildcat," Hank said.  "Or maybe a painter?"  I said.  "Just a little
pussycat," Hank said.  "You want me to call it up?"

"Don't you dare," I said and shivered.  I remembered hearing the
wildcat on the night Masenier died.  The climb was warming me up a
little, but I didn't feel right.  Maybe I had eat my grits and biscuits
too fast.  Or maybe we had been walking too fast.  I slowed down a
little.

"Are you tired already?"  Hank said.

"I just need to catch my breath " I said.

"We have a long way to go:' Hank said.

As the road zigzagged up the mountain, we worked our way from one
switchback to another.  Every step was lifting us out of the valley.
Every step was taking me away from the cove of Gap Creek where little
Delia was buried.  Every step I took in the dark was raising me back
toward the mountain and the rest of my life.  The road ahead appeared
to go up and up forever into the sky.

"How much further is it?"  I said.

"We're only getting started " Hank said.

There was a pain in my belly, like the pain I used to feel in my side
when I walked to the store as a girl with Mama.  It was an uneasy place
that got shook as we walked on the rough road.  I slowed down more to
keep from jarring my belly.  I switched the pillowcase from my right
shoulder to my left shoulder.  My face was stiff with cold and my hands
was stiff with cold.  My left hand was just about numb from gripping
the pillowcase.

"Do you need to rest?"  Hank said.

"I'm all right," I said.  I felt for the coin in my pocket.  Its weight
give me more strength and more hope.  But the pain in my belly got
worse.  I swallowed hard and walked on.  I imagined I was drawing
energy from the tips of my fingers to walk on the ruts, and that I was
drawing strength from my ears and from my knees.  I was going to burn
up every ounce of fat in my body to climb the mountain.  I still had
strength I'd never used, and I was going to use it.  I was going to
leave Gap Creek without looking back.

It was still dark as I followed Hank past a waterfall"  and past a
place the branch gurgled along the road.  Further on the woods was open
and you could see down the valley where we had come from.  There was a
light in a house miles below.  My belly felt like it was twisting
sideways.  But I swallowed deep and kept going.

We must have walked for another hour in the dark.  I was getting warmer
and the pain in my belly was hot.  Suddenly sour water belched up into
my throat and the back of my mouth.  I turned my head and the sour
taste flooded over my tongue.  I didn't want to be sick when we had so
far to go in the cold.  I stood still and swallowed hard.  It was what
I had learned to do to keep from being sick.  If stood still enough my
stomach would settle.  I had to slow time down by slowing myself.

"Are you going to throw up?"  Hank said.

"I don't think so " I said.  "It'll pass" As I waited in the road and
got hold of myself the sourness in my throat went away.

When the pain was gone and my belly was calm again I took a step and
Hank was beside me.  It was getting to be first light so I could see
him.  "You hadn't told me," he said.

"I meant to, I said.  I was going to tell Hank the day before, when the
preacher and the lawyer had suddenly come to the house.  But in the
excitement of having to leave I had forgot.

"You'll have to have a cold drink when we come to a spring," Hank
said.

I stood very still as another cramp hit me in the belly But this time
it passed quicker.  Hank took my hand.  He was strong and steady as we
started walking again.

"We'll take our time," Hank said.  "It's mostly down from here."

I looked around and seen the sun was just coming up over the mountains.
We had reached the gap at the state line and was already in North
Carolina.  The valley was dark below us, but the sky was lit up and the
east looked like it was on fire.

"Can you walk?"  Hank said.

"Of course I can walk," I said.  I felt as weak as a newborn colt but
my strength was coming back as my stomach settled.  I steadied myself
for a moment before picking up the pillowcase.  The red sun slipping
over the ridge made me squint a little.  My belly felt firm and calm
.

We started walking again.  the end.