Love is a Wounded Soldier (5 page)

“I’m afraid not, Robert,” he sighed, almost
contritely.

“Are you sure?” I begged. He just shook his
head. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

I wanted to run. Run into the hills for
miles and pound my fists on the ground and scream, “Why, why, why?” But I
didn’t. I just sat down on the edge of the bed and touched her; I touched the
lines on her face and ran my fingers over the calluses and wrinkles on her
hands. They were firm hands that had always been quick to chastise, to hold, to
love. Hands that had always been there to pick you up. Hands with strength and
dignity. And I grieved. I grieved for the loss of my life’s cornerstone,
grieved because I’d lost my one unswerving supporter, grieved because I was
alone. But mostly, I grieved because I never got to say good-bye.

There was no one but me to take care of
burying my ma. Moses was AWOL and undependable, so I knew I had some decisions
to make that night.

I went into the kitchen, started a fire in
the stove, and brewed a pot of coffee. Both men took off their coats and threw
them over the backs of their chairs as it began to warm up.

We sat around the table and cupped our
hands around mugs of coffee.

Dr. Sanderson cleared his throat. “Do you
know what happened, Robert? Were you around?” he finally ventured.

“No, sir,” I shook my head vigorously, “I
came back from hunting and she was lying in the barn, knocked out cold with
that big cut on her head, where I think she hit it on the trough or something.
I don’t know why she would have fallen like that.” I shook my head again, ran
my finger around the rim of my mug and tried not to cry.

“Well, chances are she may have had a
slight heart attack or stroke, and the combination of that and hitting her head
may just have been too much for her,” the doctor hypothesized. I nodded as he
continued speaking. “If it’s alright, I’ll take her into town tonight, and
we’ll get a cause of death tomorrow. Are you wanting Jacob Stokes to take care
of the body and funeral?”

I nodded slowly, staring down at a crack in
the table. “I reckon so,” I acceded softly. I sat, lost in thought.
How am I
going to plan a funeral, take care of all the arrangements, and pay for
everything? I’m 16 years old!

As if reading my thoughts, Preacher Moore
spoke up. “You know, Bobby, the church folk will give you a hand with whatever
you need. Brother Cavenaugh has got some nice pine lumber sitting around he’s
just never gotten around to using, and I’m sure it would make a fine coffin for
your ma. I’ll talk to him about that tomorrow, it that’s alright with you.”

“That’ll be fine, sir, thank you.” I
answered gratefully.

“Do you got any kinfolk ’round here that’ll
be wanting to come, or who could give you a hand?” he inquired.

“No, sir,” I shook my head. Ma had been an
only child like me, and her folks had passed away of smallpox when she was just
about my age. Moses had drifted up from Georgia, and I knew he had four or five
brothers and sisters, and his ma was still alive, but we hadn’t been in touch
with them ever, so far as I could tell, and even if we had been, it was
doubtful they’d want to show up to bury a relative they hardly knew.

“Do you know if she had any sort of will or
anything?” Dr. Sanderson queried.

“I’m—I don’t know. If she does it’ll be in
her mahogany box,” I answered. “Do you want me to get it?”

“Might not hurt to take a look,” he nodded.

Ma had always told me if something happened
to her, I should take the key and open that box.

I went back into her room, to her bureau,
and opened the bottom drawer, looking over toward her body uneasily. It was
eerie to see her, someone that had been full of life and mobility mere hours
before, lying stiffly on the bed.

I lifted the box out of the drawer, walked
over to the bed, and gently tugged on Ma’s necklace until the clasp was
visible. She always carried the key to her box around her neck, so I slipped
the key off and dropped the golden chain onto the bureau. I looked at her a
minute, hoping she would move, hoping Dr. Sanderson had made a premature
pronouncement of death. But she didn’t move. She just lay there, smelling like
the sweet fragrance of milk and faintly of hay and livestock.

I made my way back to the kitchen and sat
down. Taking the key, I fiddled it into the hole and jiggled it a little until
I felt the lock yield. I opened the box and looked inside. There was some
jewelry I’d never seen her wear, some old letters, and mostly just things of
sentimental value, a few old photographs and the like. There was also a stack
of cash, which I put to the side. I pulled out a piece of folded, yellowed
paper, and opened it up.

“The last will and testament of Eliza Anne
Mattox,” I read aloud. “I hereby leave all my personal possessions, including
the deed to my home and farm, and all the implements pertaining to it, to my
son, Robert Samuel Mattox, this day, August 17th, 1929. Signed, Eliza Anne
Mattox.” I stared at the paper, nonplussed. A simple, handwritten will,
bequeathing the entire property to me.

“But is it hers to give away?” I questioned
uncertainly, still not able to take my eyes off the paper in my hand. I looked
up at Dr. Sanderson, then Preacher Moore, then back. Dr. Sanderson spoke first.

“Well, son, this place was your grandpa
Browning’s. I suppose he may have passed it down to your ma, and she may have
thought it would be best, uh, most secure for you, if she alone held the
title.” I nodded understandingly. I had often been scared Moses would sell the
farm for his next drink, but now I realized he hadn’t been able to do it if
he’d wanted.

“Let’s see if the deed is in there, just to
be sure,” Preacher Moore suggested.

I rifled through the remaining contents and
found an official-looking piece of paper, which I pulled out and flattened on
the table. It was the deed. And it was in Ma’s name only. I couldn’t help
wondering what Moses would think. He’d be fit to be tied. I started to get
scared, but at that moment, I decided not to care what he thought. No more
being fearful now. I was a man, more of a man than he, and I was taking care of
grown man business.

 “Well, son, you best be seeing the lawyer
tomorrow to get things set straight,” Preacher Moore advised. “He’ll be able to
tell you what you need to do.”

Nodding in assent, I reached for the stack
of bills and began counting them. They were all small, so Ma must have just put
a few aside here and there as she could, either for the lean times, or maybe for
such a time as this.

“Two hundred and thirteen dollars,” I
announced as I finished counting the last of it. That was a lot of money in
those days. I still don’t know how she collected, or was able to hang on to,
all that money during the Depression.

“Well, that should cover most everything
you’ll be needing, lawyer’s fees and such,” Preacher Moore commented. “I can
pick you up tomorrow around nine o’clock or so if you want to go into town and
take care of that and whatever else needs doing.”

“Thank you sir, but I think I should manage
just fine,” I answered, trying not to sound rude.

He looked at me quizzically for a moment,
but then nodded as if he understood that I didn’t want to be unnecessarily
relying on others.

“Say Doc, how much do I owe you?” I asked,
holding the stack of bills in my hands.

“Oh, uh, well, I haven’t really performed
much of a service here, son,” he said, a little awkwardly.

“Well, I do appreciate it,” I said
sincerely. He nodded.

“Maybe I’ll grab a few eggs on the way
out,” he replied, as though compromising.

We all resumed staring into our cups of
coffee.

“I’d best be getting along,” Dr. Sanderson
said, after a pregnant pause.

“Mind if I pray with you?” Preacher Moore
asked as he stood, wanting to make sure his duty as shepherd was fulfilled.

“No, sir, I’d appreciate it,” I said. I
needed whatever strength I could get.

He rested his hand on my shoulder and
prayed, “Dear Lord, the death of your saints is precious in your sight. Thank
you for this sister and her legacy of devotion and love for you. Now dear
Jesus, be with Robert, and strengthen him for the path ahead. Undergird and
uphold him, and surround him with your love, and your peace, I pray. Amen.”

“Amen,” I echoed, my voice husky. The men
moved off into the bedroom and I followed.

“Can we take the blanket with?” Dr.
Sanderson looked to me for approval. I nodded, and they rolled Ma carefully up
in the quilt she was lying in. They gingerly picked her up. Her body was
already stiffening, but the doctor still had to support her head. They
navigated their way through the kitchen, and I got the doors for them. Her body
brushed me as I flattened against the wall in the entrance to let them by. It
sent a chill through me. I followed them outside and opened the door to Dr.
Sanderson’s car, and they laid her in the back seat.

“Good night,” Dr. Sanderson said, and he
settled into his car and slowly drove off. The preacher lingered a little.

“Don’t hesitate to call on me if you need
anything,” he said. I couldn’t see his face in the darkness, but he spoke
tenderly, and his voice had sorrowful undertones.

“I will, sir,” I lied. He turned and put
his hand on the door handle of his car.

“Sir?” I said.

“Yes?”

“Thanks.” He cleared his throat, but he
couldn’t trust his voice. I faintly saw the round top of his hat nod against
the moonlight.

My eyes followed the little procession down
the lane and I watched until the taillights disappeared into blackness. I stood
there, purposeless, not quite sure which way to walk.

The light in the barn caught my eye, and I
drifted that way to retrieve the lantern. I swung the door open and walked over
to Ethel’s stall. She looked over at me, as if demanding an apology for my
outburst at her earlier, and I stroked her side and said some kind words to
her. I was standing on the spot where Ma had been lying, and as I looked
around, the scene played and replayed in my mind.

“Oh, Ma,” I said quietly, as I reached over
to pick up the upended milk pail. “What am I going to do without you?” I walked
toward the door and set down the lantern to retrieve a few eggs from the hens’
nests and placed them in the pail. Then it came to me that the doctor hadn’t
taken any eggs like he said he would.

“Sly fox,” I said to myself, thankful for
the benevolence of small-town folks. I secured the barn door and went back to
the house and sat in Ma’s rocking chair by the stove, where I sat and thought
for hours and hours, trying to get my mind caught up to my reality. I fingered
the holes in the crocheted chair cover, trying in vain to rock the lump in my
throat free. Finally, I fell asleep.

~~~

The goose bumps woke me the next morning.
The stove was cold, and the sun had already risen. I got up, put my coat on,
and went outside to milk and do chores.

After the chores were done and I’d
separated the cream, I was pretty much famished, and made a little breakfast of
salt pork and grits. It was terrible.

I combed my hair back and freshened up a
little, saddled up Shake, and we trotted off to town. Bouncing up and down on
Shake’s broad back sure made me wish we had a saddle horse.

My first task was to find Moses. I tied
Shake to a hitching post in front of Al’s Barbershop, which was about halfway
in between the places I wanted to visit. My boots clomped on the wooden
sidewalk as I strode toward the saloon. At one time the old shake-clad building
had had two shingles, one that said “Dead Man” and the other that said
“Saloon,” but the Dead Man part fell off and had never been picked up, never
mind put back up, and since it was the only watering hole in town, it really
didn’t matter much what it was named. It was old, and it was a dive.

“Sorry ’bout your ma,” Gus Picket, the town
blacksmith, offered.

“Thank you,” I returned over my shoulder as
we passed, a little surprised to hear that from a man I hardly knew. News
doesn’t take long to make the rounds in a small town. Other people I met just
nodded grimly, as if soberly acknowledging my loss.

Moses’ car was parked outside the saloon. I
felt a little anxious as I approached the saloon door. I wasn’t sure how Moses
would respond, or exactly how drunk he’d be.

The place wasn’t exactly hopping that early
in the day. “Teetotaler Tommy” Horton was lasciviously caressing a bottle of
wine off in a corner by himself. His mind was permanently pickled, and he sat
and muttered stories and told jokes to himself, which made him giggle and
cough. Even up to a few years before he’d give me chills when I’d meet him in
town, but now he was just a weak old man to me. Aside from him there were a few
boys I didn’t recognize playing billiards. I assumed they must have come from
the backwoods somewhere for a few days out on the town. They didn’t look like
the type of fellows that would be in for revival meetings, anyway.

Garth, the saloon owner, was wiping glasses
with his apron. He turned to me, looking over spectacles whose arms were
ensnared by a grizzled bramble brush of muttonchops.