All Bedlam Courses Past (part one hundred fifty-four)

 

 

 

 

 

All Bedlam Courses Past

 

Chapter Six

Short Days

(part one hundred fifty-four)

 

 

 

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Lawrence wore his black town coat. His only town coat, black every day of the year—but signifying on his behalf, while none of the sentiment and promises, the goodbyes, brought tears. The women and his mother, sweet-voiced when she recalled the words, drew something wistful.

It was proper, his fetching her, but also he had never done this duty, of bearing news. Had enjoined Carolina, even, to keep silent if visiting.

“…until I can.”

Carolina hadn’t bought this. “Your father be sleeping most afternoons.”

A pegged man for an unremorseful heart, Lawrence climbed, hoping his father had traded a buck for a jug.

Only the poor little figure on the cot, bent over her stitching.

“Mama.”

“Well, have a lookee! My son come to see me! Dressed up for Sunday!” A singing voice, projected to no one present. Her arms went out to hug him, and Lawrence by the nearer tugged and steered her down the cabin steps. “I have a thing to tell you, do that on the way, come on along to supper, clothes you have on are fine…”

“Ellen Bayne” made Mama cry, and Libby, and Pearletta, and the song broke up. He closed his mind to his mother’s wept recollections, backing indoors for another plateful.

“I don’t know why I never did see her. Samuel I seen plenty, he’ud come right up and call me Granny…”

She would get on to her Nildie and her Lucey, next. What had those two ever done to be loved? They were not even charitable.

Mrs. Clark, thinking his hands shook for grief, sidled to him at the board. “Bless you, Lawrence. Now I want to ask…you know what kind of people the Bayards are? You know he’s colored?”

He thought she should fret closer to home. Whether or not Pearletta turned up every day, Lawrence had no weakness for being lonely. It was Junior went to fetch her, a short walk in fine weather. And Pearletta no shrinking violet, a girl to talk the devil out of hell…

It was Junior had ears, if Lawrence had eyes, for all Pearletta had to say.

 

Early morning, still in the Sunday coat, he was throwing blanket rolls in the wagon, letting Junior shoulder up Mary’s chest.

“You want a canvas to cover that, case of rain.”

A question probably, but Lawrence was watching Samuel wrestle a stick with Gippy. Gippy could not come. The boy was damned excited for going, capering in and out of the wagon.

No.

Buttoned inside, Lawrence had an envelope of bank notes, exchanged for the coin he trusted. Because he knew of thievery, because his brother was a thief. You could not jangle as you walked, have your chest pocket sagging…

He had counselled himself, be prepared to offer Onella a good sum of money, couple hundred. If by God she was Samuel’s blood grandmother, a woman with natural feelings.

He was Mary’s, ma’am. He’s not mine.

Oh, but how much better if she’d just say it herself. Child, this is your home.

The little picture almost made Lawrence mist up.

 

 

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Bedlam

All Bedlam Courses Past (part one hundred fifty-five)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(2024, Stephanie Foster)