Roxanna Slade Part 3

And that's when my own heart chilled and clamped down. Lark is aiming toward some kind of trouble. Ever since I've asked myself why I thought he was aiming. From that time on I've never felt it was accidental or even G.o.d's will but a plain choice of Larkin Slade's in full

possession of his faculties on a perfect day, having just met a girl he claimed to want.

There in the lead he was riding even higher in the river than he had been. That was decades before anybody I knew had water-skied, but it really seemed Lark might be on the verge of standing up and running toward me on the thick brown surface.

I was standing too so I got the first glimpse of him going under. He plunged out of sight like an iron statue. But as sudden as it was, I told myself Lark was playing some trick on Ferny and Palmer. He'd reach land fast as a real torpedo and say some word I'd never imagined, better than undying love or faith. Whatever life Lark and I would live to enjoy could start from that instant.

But Fern and Palmer had stalled where they were and bobbed upright in the water like decoys. Their faces looked baffled or maybe just miffed to be outstripped so effortlessly by Larkin who'd barely seemed their match till moments ago. But in a few seconds more of mutual frowning, they began to dive in place where they were. They seemed to know something n.o.body else knew yet, and their frantic diving went on for a long time.

When I looked to Major Slade for a sign, he had got upright on his peg leg and cane. But his eyes were downward and streaming tears.

Not raising my voice I asked him who or what we should get--meaning more strong boys or some other form of rescue.

Major's head stayed down. He didn't seem to hear me.

When I checked the river, neither Fern nor Palmer were visible. So I'm afraid I cried out to Major Slade "You're standing here letting all of them die."

It at least made him face me. His old eyes were open and he nodded his head slowly time and again to tell me Yes, that's happening here. One more time.

It didn't quite happen, not to all three boys. But Larkin was gone. Ferny and Palmer nearly drowned themselves in the hunt for Larkin. Before my eyes they were swept downriver more than four hundred yards. And when they fought their hopeless way to land, they were not just all but dead with exhaustion, they were also cut and bruised from rocks and snags they'd struck. They stopped on the

bank to let the sun dry them a little. Then they put on their drawers and came up toward us.

At first I thought Fern and Palmer were being too cruel, slow as they were. But now I realize they were in shock. Larkin truly was gone. Not a sign or a trace according to them, and I knew they were honest. The pain had cut into both their faces. Nothing to do but head back downstream in an old rowboat and wait till the body floated itself or came to rest somewhere they could reach it, if that ever happened.

I've always been very slow to respond to possible danger or grievous news. Somehow I barely believe in trouble at the time it's happening even down to this day. So it takes me awhile to admit to trouble. As they left I said in a voice so calm I can hear it still "You ought to take the hounds." I don't know which way I thought hounds could help. But I know I pictured that yellow-haired dog and thought for an instant it might have some brand of unearthly powers.

Ferny and Palmer didn't even look back, though Palmer said "The hounds are far gone in the woods."

All I could do was stand in place and watch the river separately. After a blank and chilling wait, I felt the lightest touch on my arm.

It was Major Slade who'd somehow made his way downhill, stumping along on his peg leg and cane. He'd got his tears dry and was offering me his arm, though he couldn't speak. He pointed behind him to the house, the homeplace. By then his patchwork face had been so torn by his failure to save Lark, he was barely recognizable.

I thanked him and said I believed I should stay there at least till Ferny and Palmer were back.

That freed him to say "They may be gone for days or longer."

Someway I started to argue with him. "They've got no change of clothes or a sc.r.a.p of food, Major. They'll be hungry soon."

He thought that over carefully and said "The world's full of chickens and shoes." Then he took the first hard step up toward the house. Slow as he was, he never asked for help.

To his back I said "There must be hands all over this place that could come down and help us." I meant black people and any white overseer or

foreman to help us comb the river for Lark. Country people who lived by rivers always had rowboats at the very minimum and nets to drag.

The major kept going at a crushed snail's pace. But he clearly said "Not a sane man left above ground here now."

I said "Palmer and Ferny--"

But he moved out of sight, leaving me as desolate as I'd ever be for many years more.

I sat on a bench in the old pavilion, thinking Miss Olivia would be there soon. In a minute I realized I'd yet to pray for help. So I got still and tried. Even in those days prayer was hard for me. I felt, and still feel, G.o.d goes his own way and is not all that susceptible to change. But to let him know my hopes occasionally in some narrow strait, I'll say a word or two--mostly just Help or Please, kind sir (though the kind is mostly a form of politeness).

What else in the world is there to say that isn't as pointless as those long church prayers that mention the gra.s.s and leaves and birds which plainly survive, whether I pray or not? Very little of what I've watched and been forced to a.s.sume as G.o.d's own will has seemed steadily kind, though Jesus appears to promise that's the case. I don't blame G.o.d. The human race has got to be more than discouraging to work with, Roxanna Slade included.

So that October afternoon for what felt like days or weeks again, I sat there watching the current and saying "Help" or "Pardon" every time my mind repeated the new fact, the one that was just beginning to sound true and unchangeable. Larkin Slade and I only met this morning and loved each other in some real way, and now he's been swept off by the single hand he couldn't refuse.

Miss Olivia turned up in the midst of that. It didn't surprise me that she'd already changed the dress she wore for the picnic and was now in black, a plain black cotton all the way to her shoe tops. She might well have come from a battlefield long years ago with the burial crew and the flocks of crows. These people were on close terms with death. Anyhow she never said why she'd returned.

But the first thing I could think to ask her was what time it was. Women then very seldom wore

watches. They did their ch.o.r.es till the ch.o.r.es were finished or they fell over dead, whichever came first.

She knew to the instant. "Not but quarter till two." Against her black dress those blue eyes burned like Larkin's own wherever he was now, facing his death or a transformed life. Miss Olivia gave a sharp nod, walked alone to the river and looked a long time. Nothing about her tall broad back invited me to join her. But when she came toward me, she could manage a thin smile. "You need to lie down. Let me take you to the house."

Far as I knew up to that point, n.o.body but Major had shed a tear. I suspected Ferny was as sad as anybody. But he and Palmer were still downstream well past the bend. So my eyes shed a few hard drops, one of the few times in my life when tears have come at the same time as real loss. I generally weep long after the fact when the bruise has worked its way from my skin down into my heart and begun to scald me.

At the sight of my tears, Miss Olivia's own eyes filled.

I've already mentioned that Lark had her eyes, but it occurred to me to wonder if Lark was truly her son. Maybe his mother was Major's first wife who'd died long since. I actually asked her.

Miss Olivia said "Mine. Every grain of his body was made by me." Her tears continued, though silently.

So I said again "There's got to be somebody on this place that could go out and help them." I pointed downriver and suddenly thought "Our cousin Roscoe is just over there." I pointed to the bend.

Miss Olivia also thought that through. Then watching the water, she said "Oh Anna, Roscoe's in Petersburg with one of his wh.o.r.es. There's n.o.body else on Heaven or Earth to help Larkin now."

It was the first time I'd ever heard the word wh.o.r.e said aloud, and I wasn't entirely sure what it meant. But that wasn't what struck at me so hard. Even then long before there were ambulances and rescue teams with helicopters, I could barely understand Miss Olivia's desperation. I'd never come up against bedrock before.

She seemed to understand but what she said was "Never let a child die before you do." She had now lost

three and later confessed to me more than once that she was just part of the person she'd been before standing watch by those three bodies when the hearts had ceased.

The thing I couldn't know at my age was that the thing she warned me against this day would come down on me four years from now. Still I recall how that same moment I felt for the first time since I was born You don't want this. This costs too much. Get out of this now. By this I meant life, and many times later I'd face the same choices before I took action.

Strangely I managed to sleep like a child flat out and abandoned like a bat on the ground. Miss Olivia had led me to a little room up in the eaves of the house, a squat walnut bed with a mattress full of sweet pine needles. It must have been past three o'clock in the afternoon when I lay down. I didn't know another thing till well after dark when somebody sat on the edge of my bed and touched my shoulder. The air was pitch dark when my eyes opened. All I could see was the slightest flickering from somebody's oil lamp and the dimmest outline of what must be a man seated beside me.

I was still cloudy-minded but something about the man's clean river smell and the shape of his head--tall skull above the ears--made me know it was Larkin. I lay back still looking up at the shape; and "Oh," I told him, "I dreamed you were drowned." I more than halfway thought I was dreaming. Whoever it was he was holding a lamp, a ruby-red small children's lamp from the true old days.

Then the dark boy near me just said "I am. I'm drowned for good."

In that many words I could hear it was Ferny. And knowing my brother as long as I had, I could estimate he was missing Lark more than half as much as I was. So I never blamed Fern for his brief deceit. I've always thought Lark's spirit was in him that whole long night. Anyhow I let us both go silent till I nearly dozed again. Then I knew I'd have to ask sooner or later. I said "Has anybody laid eyes on Larkin?"

Fern said "Eyes and hands. We finally caught him."

"And he truly is drowned?"

Fern's head seemed to nod.

I asked him shouldn't we head home now. I thought he hadn't heard me, he took so long. Then he said "You got to let me stay here tonight."

I realized Muddie and Father wouldn't know what had happened to us once sunset had fallen and we weren't home. They'd be sick with concern, and of course there were no telephones for miles. But all I asked Fern was "Just tell me why."

He said "You're bound to know."

I found his hand. "I don't."

Fern said "You loved him too, didn't you? I'm fairly sure I saw it."

I said "I knew him three hours give or take twenty minutes."

Fern took that in silence.

So I had to say "I did."

We never said anything else about leaving, and he never had to ask me again what Larkin Slade had meant to me in the few bright hours I'd stood in his light. Nor ever again did I choose to ask what Lark had actually meant to Fern. Back then you didn't just ask sane people, even your family, to lay out their inmost feelings solely because you were curious to know.

When I'd washed my face in the bowl of water Fern brought up for me, he came up behind me and touched my back. As I looked around he was holding a narrow blue box out toward me. I said "What's that?"

"The remains of your birthday." Fern looked as sad as if he'd caused the whole horror.

In the warm lamplight I took his blue box and opened it, genuinely scared of myself. Would I break down again, whatever this gift was? It was something I'd asked for all my life and had never yet had. A perfectly plain no-nonsense pocketknife, good steel and mother of pearl on the sides. I couldn't think how but I told myself This proves you'll have a life to come. Then and there I felt Fern had saved my life, and I knew I'd have to tell him so when I felt strong enough to talk. I even have that knife to this day, and it's served me well.

Anyhow by then Fern's own tears could flow. So we two sat back on the edge of the bed till we felt we could face other people, looking strong.

To compose myself I stopped at the wash stand one

more time before we went down. In the mild light my own face shocked me. Till that bleak moment I'd thought of myself as average-looking with trustworthy brown eyes, a good-sized straight mouth, firm jaw and clear skin but n.o.body's beauty by any means. Tonight though, high in this sad old house, a whole new fire had lit inside me and was striking as foxfire. I rubbed both my dry hands over my eyes and down to my neck. I had to be wrong; I was just Roxanna. But I turned to Ferny and said "Am I changed?"

Fern took a long look through the dim air between us. Then he finally nodded and said "No question." He didn't say whether for good or bad. But as he moved to lead me downstairs, his own face gave almost his last smile. It stayed till we heard Major's voice say "No" from the kitchen.

All the Slades were back in the kitchen with black old Coy. Miss Olivia, the major and Palmer were round the long dining table. Coy was sitting on a bolt-straight green chair small enough for a baby. It was back against the far wall but as far-off seeming as the last moon of Jupiter, and Coy was wearing a long black s.h.i.+ft that might have been a shroud. Somehow I wanted to see only her. She was that far out of my whole little world, and her face was as blank as a virgin tombstone.

Coy seemed to feel the pressure from me and to understand it. She spoke before the others. "You got to eat something or you be dead."

Fern was behind me. I turned to him. "I'm staying, I guess--"

Fern nodded. "Got to."

Miss Olivia said "No way on Earth I could let you set out on a night like this."

The night itself appeared to be calm, no wind or thunder. But I figured she meant the dangers of driving on country roads in something as fragile as a Model T Ford. I had this sudden picture in my mind of Ferny dead in a ditch and me watching helpless one more time.

By then Palmer had drawn up two more chairs, and Major Slade pointed Fern and me to them.

Coy had understood fully. I was starved as any dog. So we ate the cold remains of the picnic in virtual silence before Coy opened the pantry door and brought out a caramel cake she'd made for today, my twentieth birthday. We'd been meant to eat it with strong cups of

coffee in late afternoon before heading home.

The sight of it clearly surprised Miss Olivia. She'd either never known of its existence, or it shocked her now. All she said though was "Coy, please don't light a single candle. I doubt we could bear it."

As I said we were eating by kerosene light. The whole room was dim, but I understood her wish for darkness. I've mentioned that she'd now lost three children, though I wouldn't know that for some days to come. Still grim as we all were, we ate the cake--Coy included, back in her wall chair. I remember the delicate taste and feel on my dry tongue as if I were chewing it here this moment seven decades later.

Then Major said "Let me take you to see him."

Even at my age I'd seen a lot of dead people. Funeral parlors were scarce as money which meant that--as is normal for the human race at large--the women in a family washed the corpse and dressed it, and the men built the coffin. So it seemed not only natural but urgent that I should go see Lark.

Miss Olivia said "Major, you keep your seat. You've strained your heart. Palmer, lead Anna in there."

I got up and asked Fern to come with me. But Miss Olivia said "Ferny's torn up, Anna. Let him rest here for now."

Ferny nodded blankly as if that were true. Right or wrong I've always believed that Fern not only tore but broke that long fall day.

Palmer took my elbow and led me onward.

The Slades' front parlor was darker still, only one small lamp. And Larkin lay on an old leather nap-couch that had the upper half of his tall body propped. He was in a black suit, a white s.h.i.+rt but no necktie. The s.h.i.+rt was open at the collar to show his strong throat, a column that still looked too strong to fall. And while his eyes were shut in the dimness, they seemed on the verge of opening again at the sound of any kind voice.