The Personal History of Rachel DuPree_ A Novel - Ann Weisgarber [74]
I said, “Honey, time for bed.”
“I don’t want her to die.”
“We’ve done all we can. It’s bedtime.”
“I can’t leave her.”
Oh, Mary, I thought. You’re a good girl. You help with your sisters, and without being asked, you do whatever needs doing in the kitchen. You have a way with the cattle, and you sit well on a horse. When school’s in session, you do your lessons. I couldn’t ask for a better girl but I wish you weren’t so tenderhearted. Life is hard on such people.
In the shadows cast by the lantern light, Mary looked near grown, even with the two little-girl braids that came close to brushing her shoulders. She was dark, like me, and she had my dimple, but she didn’t look anything like me. She was more like Isaac, not that she looked all that much like him. It was how she carried herself with pride. And that made her beautiful, I realized all at once. And strong, even with a tender heart.
“All right,” I said. “You can stay. But just for a little bit. Understand?”
She nodded.
“Where’s your shawl? It’s cold in here.”
“I’m all right.”
“Here, use mine.” I draped it around her shoulders and let my hand stay on her back for a moment. I said, “You want some company?”
Mary gave me a surprised look.
“Go tell Daddy we’re sitting with Jerseybell for a while. Tell him I said not to wait up.”
Mary jumped to her feet and was out the barn, running like she was afraid I’d change my mind. But I wasn’t going to. I wanted to be with Mary, and as peculiar as it was, I wanted to be with Jerseybell. No creature should be alone when it died.
I lit three oily rags in smudge pots. I got a horse blanket and wrapped it around me like a shawl. With my foot I pushed the milking stool near a stall post so I’d have a place to rest my back. Wishing for my rocker, I sat down.
When Mary got back, she sat cross-legged beside Jerseybell. We didn’t say anything; we listened to the sounds of the barn as Mary rubbed the soft hair behind the cow’s ears. Flies hissed and buzzed, and now that it was a little past dusk, mosquitoes whined and stung, not the least bit bothered by the smudge pots that were supposed to keep them away. Bats from the loft dipped and darted, chasing mosquitoes, their wings making soft, feathery sounds.
But the loudest sound was the rusty rattle caught in Jerseybell’s throat. It was a sound that played hard on my nerves. It made me think of Johnny dying with no family to comfort him.
“Daddy wants to put Jerseybell down,” Mary said. “Daddy never gives up on anything, but he’s giving up on her.”
“She’s suffering.”
“Daddy said he’ll wait until morning.” Mary gave me a hopeful look. “She might be better by then. Don’t you think so too, Mama?”
“No. I don’t.”
I was sorry as soon as I said it. My mother never would have said such a thing to me. Next to Isaac, Mama was the most hopeful person I knew. At bedtime she believed in finding one good thing to say about that day. Each morning she always said to be on the lookout for a happy surprise. There was bound to be at least one in each day, maybe more.
Once, when I was a little girl still in braids, the preacher’s sermon hadn’t sat well with me. I couldn’t work out how Jesus fed the multitudes with a handful of bread and just a few little baskets of fish. I said so to Mama. “That’s too many people and not enough food.”
She gave me a stern look. “It was a miracle,” she said, “something you can’t explain, can’t even try. But all the same, Jesus worked a miracle, He surely did. There were witnesses. And you know what that means, don’t you?”
I didn’t.
“Means honest folks have to work hard and keep their eyes forward. When a miracle slips up on them, that way they’re ready to grab hold.” Mama lifted