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asked Grandpa, coming back from the river where he'd gone to avoid knowing what men never wanted to know--only fitting for men to disappear until birthing was over. The way of the men of the hills, to flee from women's screams of suffering, and pretend
to themselves they never suffered at all.
I looked up, my face streaked with tears, not
knowing how to tell him. "Grandpa . . ."
His faded blue eyes widened as he stared at
Grandma. "Annie . . . yer all right, ain't ya? Git up,
Annie . . . why don't ya git up?" And of course he had
to know when her eyes were staring backward into her
head. He stumbled forward, all his agility fleeing as if
his life had flown the moment he knew his better half
was dead.
On his knees he took Granny from my arms and
cuddled her against his heart. "Oh, Annie, Annie," he
sobbed, "been so long since I said I loved ya . . . kin
ya hear me, Annie, kin ya? Meant t'do betta by ya.
Had me t'best intentions. Neva knew it'd turn out this
way . . . Annie."
It was awful to see his suffering, his terrible
grief to lose a good and faithful wife who'd been with
him since he was fourteen years old. How strange to
know I'd never see him and Grandma cuddled up
together on their bed pallet, with her long white hair
spread out to pillow his face.
It took both Torn and me to pry Granny's body
from Grandpa's arms, and all the time Sarah just lay
on her back, tears gone now as she stared blankly at a
wall.
We all cried at the funeral, even Fanny, all but
Sarah, who stood frozen as stiff and empty-eyed as
any cigar-store Indian.
