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He won't eva love me, not even like me. Ain't
nothin I got that he admires. Cept my good health, an
he's ruinin that. By God, he's ruinin that!"
"Why ya keep sayin that, Sarah? Ya seem
healthy nough."
"Neva thought that dead wife would take his
heart in t'grave with her, neva did think that," Sarah
whispered brokenly, as if she hadn't heard Granny's
question. "Don't kerr no more bout him, Annie. Don't
kerr no more bout nothin. Not even my own kids. I'm
jus here, puttin in time . . ."
What did she mean? Panic hit me hard. I almost
tipped over the washtub and the scrubbing board I was
leaning so hard against the rim.
The next day Sarah paced the floor again,
mumbling to herself and anyone who chose to listen.
"Gotta escape, gotta get away from this kind of hell.
Ain't nothin but work, eat, sleep, wait an wait fer him
t'come home--an when he does, ain't no joy, no
happiness, no satisfaction."
She'd said all that a thousand times, and she was still here. It had been building so long I thought it could never happen, though I'd had ugly dreams of seeing Sarah murdered and bloody. I dreamed of Pa in his coffin, shot through the heart. Many times I wakened suddenly, thinking I'd heard a gunshot. I'd glance at the walls, see the three long rifles, and shudder again. Death and killings and secret burials were all part of mountain living, which was always
close to mountain dying.
Then the day came . . . what we'd all been
nervously anticipating. It started early on a Sunday
September morning when I was up and putting on
water so we'd have some hot water for quick washups
before going to church. Out of the bedroom came
howls of distress, loud, sharp, full of pain. "Annie, it's
comin! Annie, it's Luke's dark-haired son acomin!" Granny scuttled around lamely, but her legs
hurt and her breath came in short gasps, making my
