When they were gone, I stood alone over her fresh grave. “Retta, your prettiest petunia will always miss and love you. Thank you for reading to me every day when I was little, for your love.” I kneeled down. “Mama, Papa, I miss you. Come home soon. Come home, I need you.” I struck a fist to the earth, delivering my demand. Time passed, shadows stretched longer as my grief grew and sat lodged like a live stone in my throat that my sobs couldn’t loosen.
In a while, Junia called out softly. I looked out to the ancient hills and said one last prayer, then scooped up a handful of the Kentucky soil and tossed it across her grave. “I love you, Retta. Go dance with your angels.”
Sixteen
Back at Retta’s, I fed Pennie on the porch, then went inside and collected the linens. After I’d washed them, I tidied the home, trying to stay busy, trying to forget that for the first time in my life, I was all alone. They were all gone now, and the thought gnawed at me and brought on a fresh sheet of tears.
Retta’s home was a fine one nestled here up on a ridge. My grandparents’ cabin was in the dark holler surrounded by the rotted breaths of dampness, moss, and lichen. But I ached for home from time to time—ached for the loving family who had driven out the darkness with light.
I was grateful Retta had seen fit to share her home with me, told Alonzo to let me stay. I wiped down the worn table, dusted the wobbly legs, smiling at the wedge of pine Retta had used to prop it up. Straightening the split-bottom chairs, I ran my hands across the woven seats Retta had painstakingly made from bark strips. I picked up her worn cobbler’s apron, admired the lace and tight stitches, pressed it to my face. How many times had I sat at her feet, watching her fashion one thing or another? I stared at a small photograph of us sitting on her nightstand. I was seven, standing beside Retta on the porch in a dress she’d sewn for me. I studied her big, wide grin and soft, comforting arms around me.
Neatly, I folded the apron and hung it over her chair. The grief spilled out again. How I missed her! I slowly scanned the room, soaking up the details. Retta had left her love, her life, and the small cabin drew breath from it in her homespun curtains, doilies, hanging woven baskets, and quilts.
I pulled an ol’ hanging copper teapot off its hook. It was so heavy, it slipped out of my grip and crashed to the floor, spilling out silver dollars. Surprised, I scooped them up, dropping the coins back into their container. Lifting one up to the light, I studied the sitting Liberty gazing off in the distance, rubbed the date, and did my arithmetic. I picked up another coin and then several more, looking at the year on each. All were stamped 1861. Retta’s birth year. Had her papa brought these from Texas and been saving them for his daughter?
I fed the last silver dollar back into the teapot and placed it on the table. I didn’t know how much a gravestone would cost, but surely with the coins and my money inside my coat, Retta would get a fine marker. Maybe even one with a pretty angel looking down on her.
When I was through cleaning, I sat down on Retta’s stripped mattress and stared out the window, the March day unusually warm. Several turkeys strutted into the yard. Clean sheets hung on the clothesline, rippling in the afternoon breezes. Somewhere in the hills, a train whistle sounded two blows.
It was as if the world would not pause for anything, not even for death. I pulled open the drawer on her nightstand and saw Mama’s last letter to her, asking her to take guardianship of me, and I found myself growing fearful.
What would happen to me now? I pressed a knuckle to my mouth. Would the state come and shackle me, throw me into the House of Reform once news of her death spread?
Judge Norton’s face flashed across my mind, and a fear clutched hold. I jumped up and escaped outside, struggling for breath, shaking. In sixteen months, I would be eighteen. Could I stay hidden in these hills for that long?
***
Afraid to leave Retta’s, I fretted the next morning about the judge, hoping no one would ask about her. I struggled several times with announcing the news, or keeping quiet about the burial. My mind went to the hearing, and I thought about Retta sassing the judge. Thought about how close I came to being shipped over to the Leslie County social worker who would throw me into prison in a blink. Surely, Retta would rather see me safe.