her chin. “How?”
I could hear Hattie murmuring a song in the front room: My handsome winsome Johnny . “He would not have to know,” I offered. “You could meet him on the sly.”
But Martha just cried harder and reached over and gripped my hand. “I cannot!” she said. Then she fell to sobbing again.
Hattie came down the hall. Her braces made the squeaky sound they made when they had gotten wet and were beginning to dry. She looked at Martha and then she looked at me. “Why is Martha crying?” she said. But of course there was no explaining it. Martha and I might talk about our father, but we never talked about him with Hattie. I suppose we wanted to protect her. Now I think she knew as much as we did all along. She lived in his house after all.
“Shush,” I said. “Bring the cards.”
When Hattie came back with the deck, Martha sat up and blew her nose on one of my mother’s handkerchiefs, which she took from her pocket. Her eyes were liquid and her cheeks were red but she told Hattie to deal her in.
Our Christmas supper dishes went unfinished. Darkness came up around the house and the kitchen window went black. We played Old Maid, passing the single queen among us like a ghost, until it was well past Hattie’s bedtime. Outside, the wind moved through the evergreens, their dark boughs rustling and rustling like the waves of some shoreline long forgotten. The pale stars surrounded and surrounding them, the stars.
The next day I left the laundry at lunchtime and walked into the center of town, where the new courthouse stood in an open square. Its huge tower resembled a spire rising into the blue Wisconsin sky, as if justice was a kind of heavenly supplication to the things we all thought we believed in and could count on. This is an American concept. We pray for justice above all else, even if we do not love the law and do not love our lawyers or our litigation. We like to think that everything we do is based in fairness. This is our most dearly held illusion.
On the day we buried my mother, the grave diggers set up an awning over the open pit and we waited in the shade. My father stood with his back to us. Martha stood silently behind him. Hattie wept and touched her braces through her clothes. Down below the bluffs, the river burned silver in the sun and cut between the dark trees of the woods and then disappeared under the limestone cliffs that ran to the east of town.
The preacher read from a book he took from his pocket. Halfway through, he stopped and took his coat off and laid the coat on the ground at his feet. My mother told us that one day God would call us back to Him and we would live as angels amidst the finery of the sky. But there was nothing uplifting or beautiful about the open pit in the sun-parched ground, the dry grass unbending to the shovel’s touch. You might imagine that I felt this way because I had grown skeptical of reverence, but I think anyone standing on that hot piece of ground on that blistering day would have felt the same. I do not think my lack of faith is all that unique. We all have our reasons.
Toward the end, towering thunderheads began to build on the western horizon. A wind came up and lifted our clothes, and the canvas awning flapped and rippled. My sisters held their dresses down with their hands, and my uncle Carl held the brim of his hat.
My father leaned over and took a rusty spade from one of the grave diggers. He lifted the spade and moved the first clods of dirt into the darkness. When he handed the spade to Martha, tiny shards of red paint from the spade’s peeling handle stuck to his hands.
Around us, a rolling field of basalt angels and blocks of granite and stone. Carl stood the spade in the earth and the grave diggers came up behind him with their shovels. My father put his arm around Hattie. He put his arm around Martha. They leaned into him and he dropped his chin into Martha’s hair. Then he stepped back and walked down the hill. The
I could hear Hattie murmuring a song in the front room: My handsome winsome Johnny . “He would not have to know,” I offered. “You could meet him on the sly.”
But Martha just cried harder and reached over and gripped my hand. “I cannot!” she said. Then she fell to sobbing again.
Hattie came down the hall. Her braces made the squeaky sound they made when they had gotten wet and were beginning to dry. She looked at Martha and then she looked at me. “Why is Martha crying?” she said. But of course there was no explaining it. Martha and I might talk about our father, but we never talked about him with Hattie. I suppose we wanted to protect her. Now I think she knew as much as we did all along. She lived in his house after all.
“Shush,” I said. “Bring the cards.”
When Hattie came back with the deck, Martha sat up and blew her nose on one of my mother’s handkerchiefs, which she took from her pocket. Her eyes were liquid and her cheeks were red but she told Hattie to deal her in.
Our Christmas supper dishes went unfinished. Darkness came up around the house and the kitchen window went black. We played Old Maid, passing the single queen among us like a ghost, until it was well past Hattie’s bedtime. Outside, the wind moved through the evergreens, their dark boughs rustling and rustling like the waves of some shoreline long forgotten. The pale stars surrounded and surrounding them, the stars.
The next day I left the laundry at lunchtime and walked into the center of town, where the new courthouse stood in an open square. Its huge tower resembled a spire rising into the blue Wisconsin sky, as if justice was a kind of heavenly supplication to the things we all thought we believed in and could count on. This is an American concept. We pray for justice above all else, even if we do not love the law and do not love our lawyers or our litigation. We like to think that everything we do is based in fairness. This is our most dearly held illusion.
On the day we buried my mother, the grave diggers set up an awning over the open pit and we waited in the shade. My father stood with his back to us. Martha stood silently behind him. Hattie wept and touched her braces through her clothes. Down below the bluffs, the river burned silver in the sun and cut between the dark trees of the woods and then disappeared under the limestone cliffs that ran to the east of town.
The preacher read from a book he took from his pocket. Halfway through, he stopped and took his coat off and laid the coat on the ground at his feet. My mother told us that one day God would call us back to Him and we would live as angels amidst the finery of the sky. But there was nothing uplifting or beautiful about the open pit in the sun-parched ground, the dry grass unbending to the shovel’s touch. You might imagine that I felt this way because I had grown skeptical of reverence, but I think anyone standing on that hot piece of ground on that blistering day would have felt the same. I do not think my lack of faith is all that unique. We all have our reasons.
Toward the end, towering thunderheads began to build on the western horizon. A wind came up and lifted our clothes, and the canvas awning flapped and rippled. My sisters held their dresses down with their hands, and my uncle Carl held the brim of his hat.
My father leaned over and took a rusty spade from one of the grave diggers. He lifted the spade and moved the first clods of dirt into the darkness. When he handed the spade to Martha, tiny shards of red paint from the spade’s peeling handle stuck to his hands.
Around us, a rolling field of basalt angels and blocks of granite and stone. Carl stood the spade in the earth and the grave diggers came up behind him with their shovels. My father put his arm around Hattie. He put his arm around Martha. They leaned into him and he dropped his chin into Martha’s hair. Then he stepped back and walked down the hill. The
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