We Buried You On a Tuesday

We buried you on a Tuesday, in a shallow grave on the outskirts of town. It was just me and Mamie. I was too tired and she too young to do any better. And goddammit you was too pitiful to deserve anything more.

You got cleaned up before you left. That was what I kept thinkin about afterward. You washed and put on a good shirt and said you had to go to town. I waited all day, stayed up all night wonderin what you was doin. When the sun came up, I went lookin for you. We both did, cause Mamie caint stay alone.

You was on the road halfway between us and Mister Baker, missin one of your shoes and your daddy’s pocketwatch. I figured you’d been fightin or drinkin or both, then got robbed comin home.

I knowed you was dead at first sight cause your mouth was open and you was an unnatural color, somethin like dirty dishwater. Not drunk. Gone.

The only other dead person I’d ever seen was Mama. She had enough goodness that even when she was gone, some of it stayed back. Up until they nailed the casket shut, you could see it.

And I cried when she died. We all did, maybe you more than anyone. But when I saw you dead, I was just mad, and scared if I’m tellin true.

You used to be a good Daddy. But you hadn’t been in years. Mamie don’t even remember you like that, like I do. She was just two when Mama died.

You’d had the flu first, and Mama nursed you back before she took sick herself. You never got right again.

When the church ladies came with food, you run them off. I tried to catch them once before they got back to the road, but you called me inside. After that I learned to make what we had last.

We ate what Mama canned till it was gone. I planted the seeds she’d put up and tended the garden like she showed me. When Mamie turned four, I took her to school with me. They let her sit with the other children. She liked to try.

We was runnin out of money, seein as we wasn’t farmin anymore.

You was all we had left, me and Mamie. Well, you and a scrub farm you ain’t tended right since Mama got sick.

I didn’t want no one to know you was gone because I didn’t know what would happen to us. Somebody might take Mamie one place and me another. She wouldn’t sleep a night without me.

So I stood there with her cryin and snot nosed, tryin to figure what to do next.

I tried to drag you home, but your shirt pulled up under your arms and your head rolled back. I got scared somebody would come up the road. So I rolled you down the hill into that gulley that fills when it rains big.

Mamie wouldn’t let go of your hand. I had to pull her fingers loose.

I went home for the shovel. The ground was hard from it bein so hot and dry, so I scraped back the old leaves and moved a dead log. There was a bit of crevice I could put you in. I dug what I could and covered you up.

I knowed it was wrong. But the sun was goin down and Mamie hadn’t eaten, and I couldn’t think what else to do.

We walked home. I made dinner and we washed and went to bed. Mamie slept with me. The days went on like that. I thought maybe I could keep us goin a while.

Then they came to the house.

I heard the car before I saw it. You hardly ever saw one out our way. Most folks still traveled by horse or buggy or on foot.

I figured they’d come to arrest me.

They’d come to take the house.

They said you sold it, house and farm both. I said you’d done no such thing. When they said to ask you, I let it go.

They gave me copies of the papers you signed, and an envelope you’d left for me. I hoped there was money in it. There was a receipt for money you sent to Ohio.

We had a month to move out.

The next morning I walked to town with Mamie. I took the receipt to the post office.

Mrs. Cooper remembered you. She’d helped you with your letters to Ohio. She asked where you was.

“Home,” I said.

I could feel Mamie lookin at me.

Mrs. Cooper asked whether we had enough to eat. I told her we did. Then she said you’d gone to the store when you finished, so we went there next.

The dry goods store had just finished the dresses you’d ordered. They was bundled up with a suitcase. You didn’t have enough money for it all, so you sold the watch.

I asked if you sold your shoe too. The man looked at me funny and said no.

We carried the bundle home. It felt good and wrong to be excited, but we was. We never had new dresses made just for us. Mamie held hers against herself and walked backward so I could see.

They was too pretty to wear around the house. I folded them in the suitcase and put it under the bed.

Two weeks later Mrs. Cooper came to the door. She had a letter and two train tickets.

Dear Laura,

My name is Mable Bennett. My late husband was your grandfather’s brother. Your daddy wrote asking whether you and your sister could come live with me. I wrote back that you would be welcome. He has since sent the money from the sale of your farm, to be kept for your care.

Mrs. Cooper wrote also. She said you had been into town and she was concerned about you girls. I have asked her to help arrange your journey.

Your daddy asked me to tell you he was sorry. I hope you can tell me more when you come. I have a comfortable home and plenty of room. We will take care of each other.

Aunt Mable

I read it twice.

Mamie wanted to know if we could wear the dresses now.

You’d sold the farm. Sent away the money. Sold the watch too, the one you wouldn’t let me wind even when you was too drunk to do it yourself.

I wanted to ask what you figured on doin here without us. Where you thought you’d sleep once the month was up.

And I was mad you’d never told me. I could have helped you pack us. I’d been packin our school things and washin our clothes and fixin our supper for years. You could have told me.

Mrs. Cooper sat at the table while we filled the suitcase. There wasn’t much. Mamie put in the little cloth rabbit Mama made her. I put in the letter.

“We ought to speak to your daddy before we go,” Mrs. Cooper said.

I kept my hand on the letter.

When I pulled my dress over my head, the sleeve caught on a scab near my elbow. I’d scraped it on a stone gettin you into the crevice.

I sat on the bed.

Mamie came over with her buttons done up wrong. I undid them and started again.

“Is Daddy comin?”

“No.”

She watched my fingers.

“Does he know where we’re goin?”

I had to stop a minute before I could finish the buttons.

Outside, Mrs. Cooper took the suitcase. She said we had time before the train.

I still don’t know why you died.

I told Mrs. Cooper where to stop.

We buried you on a Tuesday, in a shallow grave on the outskirts of town.