her eyes away from the wasp onto Uncle Henry's bearded face, the stain of tobacco on his teeth, the breath of tobacco on his lips as he knelt beside her. "They're ready, child," he said.
Her mother took her arm.
She was led to the edge of the steps. Through her sandals she felt the uneven slats of wood sinking beneath her tiny weight, pushing her forward. She looked at the floor. There was an awful hush; even the mosquitoes seemed to quiet.
Her mother said into her ear, pulling aside the yellow bangs of her straight hair. "Now." She shut her eyes.
There was a body there. She did not look at or feel it, but her mind saw it. She saw broken light. She felt arms on her, clutching fingers, old skin like a turkey's throat, but her mind saw the shaping light, felt its contours, and suddenly she came to a place where the light was dim and weak, as if the brightness in the rest had been shielded or the source pulled away.
She brought her mind away, opening her eyes, forgetting what she would see. There was the face that went with the arms, the withered face, the hopeless eyes like claws, digging into her, pleading with her, "Please, please tell me how to be well."
Mary shut her eyes again, holding them closed as tight as she could. Tears wanted to come because she could not say that the woman's heart would get better, could not tell her that she would soon die, the light was so dim, that it had grown weaker even as Mary had looked at it.
She felt the woman's hand on her arm, gripping her, waiting for the answer, the sentence of death, and she only said, "Your heart," two soft words, and then the woman's hands were pried gently from her and she heard sobbing as the woman was led away. And then there was another presence before her, another light to hold in her mind, and her own heart shook not with joy but with despair because if she opened her eyes once more, she would see the same face, an endless line of the same face, out through the flaps of the tent and into the dark night, the procession of the dead and dying, the endless, endless line . . .
God, tell me what to do!
Remembering, with the hard bathroom door at her back, Mary bit her lip so hard that a rush of salty blood covered her tongue.
Plea—
Out in the hallway, she thought she heard a sound. Suddenly alert, she listened, but there was nothing, and she slumped back against the door.
Please, tell me!
She remembered the first night her mother brought her to read in the tent. There was thunder, and lightning so intense it had a sound of its own, a crack that fought with the loud thumping roars of thunderclaps and filled the July night with God's fury.
She hid under the bed with her teddy bear. Her blouse was soaked with sweat. She tried to clamp her eyes shut but the cracks of lightning made shadows even through her closed lids. The rumble of thunder shook the house, and hot wet rain beat against the side of her bedroom wall in whacking sheets, trying to break in at her. The rain fell so hard it drove through the closed shutters, pelting warm water on the floor, splashing out to hit her bare leg. She held her bear so tightly he threatened to burst.
"I won't go, Tam," she told the bear. As she said it she heard Uncle Henry hitching up the horses outside her window, shouting to the farm helper Reddy through the drenching storm. Tears ran down her face, only the salty taste making them different from the drops beating in through the window.
She opened her eyes and looked at the teddy bear, a crumpled thing that stared up at her half blindly, one button eye lost. A white flash of lightning made his face horrible.
Outside, Uncle Henry's shouts to Reddy stopped. The rain slackened. She knew Uncle Henry was in the house now. Soon her mother would come for her. As the hall clock struck the hour of seven, her mother's voice came: "Mary, it's time."
She pulled back farther under the bed, clutching the bear.
"Mary," her mother called.
The rain beat for a moment longer
Her mother took her arm.
She was led to the edge of the steps. Through her sandals she felt the uneven slats of wood sinking beneath her tiny weight, pushing her forward. She looked at the floor. There was an awful hush; even the mosquitoes seemed to quiet.
Her mother said into her ear, pulling aside the yellow bangs of her straight hair. "Now." She shut her eyes.
There was a body there. She did not look at or feel it, but her mind saw it. She saw broken light. She felt arms on her, clutching fingers, old skin like a turkey's throat, but her mind saw the shaping light, felt its contours, and suddenly she came to a place where the light was dim and weak, as if the brightness in the rest had been shielded or the source pulled away.
She brought her mind away, opening her eyes, forgetting what she would see. There was the face that went with the arms, the withered face, the hopeless eyes like claws, digging into her, pleading with her, "Please, please tell me how to be well."
Mary shut her eyes again, holding them closed as tight as she could. Tears wanted to come because she could not say that the woman's heart would get better, could not tell her that she would soon die, the light was so dim, that it had grown weaker even as Mary had looked at it.
She felt the woman's hand on her arm, gripping her, waiting for the answer, the sentence of death, and she only said, "Your heart," two soft words, and then the woman's hands were pried gently from her and she heard sobbing as the woman was led away. And then there was another presence before her, another light to hold in her mind, and her own heart shook not with joy but with despair because if she opened her eyes once more, she would see the same face, an endless line of the same face, out through the flaps of the tent and into the dark night, the procession of the dead and dying, the endless, endless line . . .
God, tell me what to do!
Remembering, with the hard bathroom door at her back, Mary bit her lip so hard that a rush of salty blood covered her tongue.
Plea—
Out in the hallway, she thought she heard a sound. Suddenly alert, she listened, but there was nothing, and she slumped back against the door.
Please, tell me!
She remembered the first night her mother brought her to read in the tent. There was thunder, and lightning so intense it had a sound of its own, a crack that fought with the loud thumping roars of thunderclaps and filled the July night with God's fury.
She hid under the bed with her teddy bear. Her blouse was soaked with sweat. She tried to clamp her eyes shut but the cracks of lightning made shadows even through her closed lids. The rumble of thunder shook the house, and hot wet rain beat against the side of her bedroom wall in whacking sheets, trying to break in at her. The rain fell so hard it drove through the closed shutters, pelting warm water on the floor, splashing out to hit her bare leg. She held her bear so tightly he threatened to burst.
"I won't go, Tam," she told the bear. As she said it she heard Uncle Henry hitching up the horses outside her window, shouting to the farm helper Reddy through the drenching storm. Tears ran down her face, only the salty taste making them different from the drops beating in through the window.
She opened her eyes and looked at the teddy bear, a crumpled thing that stared up at her half blindly, one button eye lost. A white flash of lightning made his face horrible.
Outside, Uncle Henry's shouts to Reddy stopped. The rain slackened. She knew Uncle Henry was in the house now. Soon her mother would come for her. As the hall clock struck the hour of seven, her mother's voice came: "Mary, it's time."
She pulled back farther under the bed, clutching the bear.
"Mary," her mother called.
The rain beat for a moment longer
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