Part 12

The house was lost, but she was determined to regain it. It was hers by the deeply imbedded elements of memory, hers by all the fragrant, richly toned ideas that had grown with her own growth. She looked now at her first memory of the earth and saw in it its enhanced qualities as they had come to her first-seeing. She knew that she had been born at the farm, Linden Hill, but that she had been brought to the town house a few months after her birth, when Linden Hill had passed to other hands. She saw, as if it were a super-drama where time and event are enlarged, herself at play as a little child at the foot of the large rough stone chimney in the east wall, and she knew the soil there intimately with her eyes and with her fingertips, for in the drama she had dug into it with a small spade and had shaped it with her hands. A few herbs such as sorrel and dwarf mint grew there, and a little beyond, away from the damp of the wall, were the first clover blossoms. She saw her hand prodding into the earth to find out its way, her head bent low to see and to smell the crumpled soil. Her mind was fixed now to regain the visible sign of the old play, to keep the trail that led back to her first-knowledge.

She saw how the great trunk of the elm tree came out of the earth, deeply wrinkled and gray or black, as the light fell. Among the floating festoons of leaves overhead, a sharp sudden cry, remembered, so real and vivid as to be cruelly felt, had struck her with a quick and joyous pleasure which was like a recognition—and she had heard her first bird-song. “At these points I am attached to the earth,” she thought, looking at her moving hands, her feet, her memories, at the sorrel and ivy of memory. Aunt Bet had gone to another place without regret or outcry, and Siver was gone. She taught her class with fervor. “I perceive the earth, myself imbedded into it, attached to it at all points,” she thought, “sinking at each moment into it.”

* * * * *

It was spring then, the beginning, a new beginning, she reflected. Infinities of springs were crouched back under the earth waiting to come out in their turns, a spring and then another, flowering momentarily, annually. “Who am I that I should know?” she asked. She walked out the Johntown pike in the mildness of sunset, the hills and the pastures faintly tinged with the first green, a mere wash of delicate light over the top of the pasture, and the color went with the setting of the sun. It is the beginning of the beginning, she reflected anew, the first of the first, the before that stands before itself, the quiver of a closed eyelid. The roads were drained now of their winter mud and slop. A stillness was settled over the creek where the frogs would cry later when the nights were warm. The thing would give birth to itself out of itself, the color of the picture would grow out of the picture, dawning up from within the thing itself. The streets of the town, when she had returned to them, had no sign of that which she had seen on the pastures in the light of sunset, but they had their own token. It was Sunday night, the night after the festival at the hall in Hill Street.

She could feel the tension of the street as it was left from the passion of the night before, as it centered now in the church, in small groups that gathered in doorways or moved swiftly by. There was little gayety left. The leavings of the night before were summed up now in unfinished and unappeased emotions. These were the first mild February nights when a soft balm sifted in from the south. The dim lights began to appear behind the stained windows of the church entry. She pushed open Lethe’s door, without knocking, and went quietly inside. Stig was there with them in the gloom. He was sitting on the bed beside Americy, and in a moment Theodosia saw that Americy was quite drunk, that she laughed and wept in turn, tears on her face.

“Where’s the light?” Theodosia asked. “Why not have the lamp?”

She lit a match and made a light in the small lamp on the shelf. Then she saw that Lethe was sitting beside the table that stood near the fireplace. On the table there was a small bit of food, untasted, but this had been swept back toward the farther edge of the board. Before Lethe’s hand lay a knife. It was sharpened to a keen edge and the point was well tapered. It was such a knife as was used to cut leather, to mend harness, and she knew that Stig had brought it to the cabin.

“What knife is that?” she asked.

“A good knife. A right good blade,” Stig said.

Americy was dressed in her best garments, a silk dress and a scarf brilliantly dyed. Her stockings were torn, the color faded and spotted with abuse, and her low shoes were defiled. Her clothing had not been changed since the day before and her hair had not been set in order since she had slept last.

“I wanted a drink,” Stig said, “but nobody wouldn’t give me none. Stingy.”

Stig was less ragged than he had formerly been, and Theodosia thought that Americy had probably given him the necktie he wore. He munched at something which he carried in his coat pocket, nuts or hard candy, and his hand would go to his pocket from time to time.

“You know Lou Trainer? Did you ever see Lou Trainer anywheres?” Lethe asked, and she turned toward Theodosia slightly, asking her.

“I know Lou. A dark girl. Thin. Walks fast. Yes. I saw her since dark.”

“Where’d you see Lou Trainer since dark?”

“Just now. Out the Johntown pike a little piece.”

A cry like a wail came from Lethe’s mouth and was mingled with her words which were at first undistinguished. “Out that way. Let me get a hold on her throat. I’ll strangle her breath outen her body.”

Americy had begun to sing, or to hum unevenly, some song that was used in the church. As she sang she rocked herself back and forth. Her tune ran with a long slow measure and she intoned the words as if she thought of an organ accompaniment. The song,

Comen home, comen home, Lord, I’m comen home. Open wide thine arms, Oh, God, Lord, I’m comen home.

Each word was slowly pronounced and widely slurred, as if Americy heard a great throng singing. Lethe arose and walked twice up and down the chamber, but she came back to her seat before the table, and presently she broke into another outcry which put a swift stop upon Americy’s song.

“I said if he spends one quarter on Lou, or if he walks with her one time in the dark, I’d cut her clean open with this-here knife. I’ll knife her, and Ross he knows I will.”

Stig laughed a great burst of ill-balanced laughter and began to cry out, “She’s done it, she’s done it. Afore now. A whole lot. God’s sake. Lou Trainer. God knows. I want be there when you-all cuts her guts out. See old Lou Trainer’s insides drip out.”

Lethe’s words were set widely apart, dispersed by hate. She pushed the knife back with a careless unseeing gesture, or she rested her hands on the edge of the table, leaning hard upon her palms. “I said I would and I will,” she continued to say, or she made her oath. Her words were set against Stig’s sudden laughter and Americy’s singing or weeping, or from time to time there would be a space of quiet when no one spoke.

“There’s singen in the church. I got to go. Where’s my hat. I got to go,” Americy said. She got up from the bed and walked around the room, but she forgot the hat when it did not come to hand and settled again to the bed, and presently she sang, as before intoning the words slowly.

I wandered far away from God, Lord, I’m comen home. The paths of sin no more I’ll trod, Lord, I’m comen home....

“Oh, for God’s sake let me get my hands once ahold onto her throat. Let me get my hand in her face. I’ll stab to kill. I’ll learn her what I mean.”

“There’s singen in the church. Let all you-all sing now. Let all you sing. All together. Stand and sing the song of the invitation. I see the new Jerusalem and the glory of the Lord. Come sinner, Halleluiah!”

“One time, I said, one time. If she goes a night with him once. I’ll get my hand aholt on her....”

“One time?” Stig said, and he broke into a burst of laughter. “One time. Oh, God’s sake! Skeeter Shoots says to me, he says, ‘Ross, now,’ he says. ‘Ain’t Ross he Lethe’s man? God’s sake! Thought Ross,’ Skeeter Shoots says, ‘thought Ross were Lethe’s man. Thought Ross took up along with Lethe a long while ago,’ Skeet Shoots says.”

Americy looked at Stig amorously and began to kiss his face, her own face wet with tears. Or she would stop in her caressing and, with hands on his shoulders, she would sing again, always the same tune. Theodosia had been sitting near the middle of the floor in the chair she had always used when she had been there before. It was drawn near to Lethe’s chair now, and thus she sat, but presently she arose and walked to the door or she returned to stand a moment over Lethe. In Lethe hate was apotheosized, a hungry god, ravenous, beside an altar waiting for food. Lethe’s breath was fluted and broken, timed to the beating of her heart, marked by regular sobs that were softly voiced now and then. Her eyes were beyond seeing, turned glassy with their own inner sight. She was unaware of the presence of Stig and Americy, and after her first questioning of Theodosia she had seemed shut from any recognition of her. Theodosia pushed her chair near the table and bent one knee into it, standing uncertainly, looking about at the dim walls, at Americy’s weeping. She stood over Lethe, leaning slightly forward, and her breath became hard, fluted with the beating of her own heart where anger began to arise and was timed to Lethe’s panting breath.

“I’ll kill. I’ll stab her afore daylight,” Lethe said with her shaking breath.

“Lou? What for? Lou?” Theodosia asked.

“Oh, I’ll kill. I said kill.”

“Ross,” Theodosia said. “Didn’t he look at Lou? Didn’t he want Lou? What call have you got to let Ross go? Where’s Ross?”

“Lou. My hand on her heart. I’ll tear her guts outen her side.”

Theodosia walked to the door and looked out into the dark, but she returned again and stood as she had stood before. Her breast and her throat were shaking in a sobbing rush of ineffectual hate, her teeth chattering when she ceased to speak. She could hear Stig’s taunting laughter that came in strange, high-pitched bursts of feminine tone as he recounted the surmises of his friends and the opinions of the hands at the stable.

“Ross,” she said.

“Lou. I’ll stab to the heart of her. I’m not afeared. I’ll stab fitten to kill.”

“Did Ross bring Lou to see you? Did he ever? You see how it is with me. Did he?”

“Oh, I’ll kill. Ross he knows I’m no tame woman. He knows.”

“‘I brought her here so’s you’d see for your own self,’ he says. ‘The easiest way. No fuss.’”

“Oh, I’ll kill. Afore day I will.”

“He said ‘You see how it is with me, Dosia. I brought her here.’ It’s all the same. He brought her in the door of the hall, before all the people, came inside the door with her, his hand ahold of her arm, before your eyes, came inside the hall of the festival.”

“Oh, I can’t bear not to. I’ll kill, kill....”

“‘I brought her here so’s you’d see for your own self.’ ... Then he bought her a treat at the counter where the things to eat were. His hand on her arm and on her shoulder. His hand on her back.”

“Kill, I will. I couldn’t bear not to.”

Theodosia felt her body slipping into the chair and leaning nearer. She wanted justice. She leaned close to Lethe’s body, her hands on the edge of the table beside Lethe’s hands. She was shut into a complete stillness and she was mingled with Lethe’s anger and hate.

“Ross,” she said.

“Lou. I’ll rip her open. I’ll stab inside.”

“Did Ross bring Lou to see you? ‘You see how it is with me,’ he said. Did he ever?”

“Oh, I’ll kill her. She knows. She ought to know.”

“‘I brought her here so’s you’d see for yourself,’ he said.”

“Oh, I’ll kill. Afore day, I will.”

“‘She’s out at the gate to wait for me. I brought her here so’s you’d see. For yourself.’”

“Oh, God, I aim to kill. He knows I mean what I say.”

“Kill Ross. Who’s he to go free?”

“Lou. She’s already dead now.”

“He said, ‘You see how it is with me....’ He brought her in the hall of the festival. He came inside the door with her.”

“Oh, I can’t bear not....”

“‘I brought her here so’s you’d see for your own self.’”

Suddenly Lethe turned upon her and threw her arms about her neck, holding her in a deep and tender embrace for a long instant, a powerful maternal caress. Theodosia could feel the impact of the stiffened muscles when, after relaxation, they leaped to renewed force, and she could hear the deep sob of hate where it arose and shook Lethe’s bosom with a force that beat with pain upon her own more slender body. When Lethe turned away toward the table again she sat leaning upon it as before. She seemed to have sunk into a dream.

People were passing, voices talking softly, steps falling unevenly on the rough road. Americy had fallen into a state of quiet weeping, her arms about Stig’s shoulders. Then Lethe lifted her head suddenly as if she were hearing something from without. Her hand leaped to the knife-handle with such suddenness and such force that Theodosia’s hand was swept off the board. Then Lethe had sprung from her place and had rushed out at the door. Theodosia sat bowed over the table, staring at the place where Lethe’s hand had been, or her eyes would dart about over the board, looking for the knife, expecting to see the knife where it had lain. A remote footstep went by in the street or another paused at the gate, or drifted on. She accepted these as a part of the night outside.

After a long while she moved in her seat, her body pained with its long, stiff pose, and after she had stared at her own hands and had stretched them on the top of the table and turned them about, searching for some sign or recognition, she arose and stood beside Lethe’s chair where it had been pushed roughly back and overturned. It was a token of Lethe’s going. Lethe was gone. The knife was gone. She walked to the door and looked out, up and down the quiet street, but the church was dark now and the houses were shut and quiet. Once she called “Lethe!” from the doorway, but there was no answer and she heard no footfalls anywhere in the dark.

When she came back to the room again Americy was caressing Stig with a deeply amorous intent and he had ceased to cry out his taunts after Lethe’s going. He was laughing in a hideous way, returning Americy’s caresses. She stopped before them, standing before the bed where they sat.

“Come on now, Stig, and go with me. It’s time to go now,” she said.

“Me, I don’t aim to go,” he said. “I don’t live in stable no more.”

“Come on, Stig. It’s time to go now.”

“I live along with Americy.” He laughed uncertainly, unable to talk farther.

“Americy,” she said. “Don’t you know what Stig is? Stig’s your brother. Wake up and know what I say. Your brother.”

“I’m your sister,” Americy mumbled as if she were asleep. “I always knowed I was your sister.”

“And Stig’s our brother. Our brother.”

Their replies were not articulated. Stig’s response became a low, monstrous laughter, falling rhythmically, like the bleat of some great animal, pleading laughter, crying to be appeased. Americy had fallen into a semi-sleep. Theodosia stood over them, trying to awaken Americy, calling to her, drawing at her arm. But Americy clung the closer to Stig and Theodosia came swiftly away.

* * * * *

It was late when she reached her room, near midnight. She sat on the edge of her bed staring at the wall, looking with horror at what she had left in Lethe’s cabin. Lethe had gone somewhere in the dark with the knife in her strong hand, and she would plunge the knife into hated flesh. Her hand would feel the dull resistance of human bone and it would rain up and down, stabbing deeper with each blow, letting out the blood, tearing through flesh until her hate had eased itself. She looked at the two, Lethe and Americy, and their two ways met and became one horror that dazed her mind and drowsed her eyes so that, moving back from it, she sank quickly into a deep sleep. She lay in the heart of evil and slept all the night, lying as if she had been drugged, uncovered to the cool air that came in at the open windows. She lay on the outside of the bed, as she had first fallen, deeply shut into sleep, and the chill damp air that came with a dense fog at dawn did not appraise her of anything, nor did the ringing of the morning angelus.

Late in the morning she stirred slightly and was aware of herself as the residue of disaster, the leavings of tragedy, the nothing of the evil hereafter. A faint cry for pity hushed itself on her lips. Then she began to chill in the cold and she slowly aroused herself to sit on the side of the bed. Her body was shaking in curious rhythms that built upward toward a climax and subsided only to arise again, a compound rhythm of quivering flesh. She reached for a warm dressing-gown and covered herself in the bed, but the chill persisted. Later the woman who had rented the house came bringing some food.

“I thought you might be sick,” she said. “I do believe you got a chill.”

She set the tray she had brought on the table and began to build a fire in the grate, talking meanwhile about her morning work, suggesting remedies for the cold she said Theodosia had caught. There had been a tragedy in the town during the night, she said. A man had been killed—Ross. She asked Theodosia if she knew a black man named Ross. He had been killed the night before. When she had told this news Theodosia cried out that she had killed him, and the woman was frightened as she came away from the fireplace and stood over the bed.

“You must be real sick,” she said. “Is your throat sore maybe? What hurts you?”

“Oh, I killed him,” Theodosia cried out again. She could feel the strange rhythms tearing her body in orderly stabs of pain. “I stabbed his throat with a harness knife. I cut his throat.”

“You never did no such thing. You’re clean out of your head. I better send for Dr. Muir.”

“I stabbed his throat with a harness knife.”

“How do you know it was a harness knife? How comes it you know so much about it?”

“I did it,” Theodosia said. She sank back to the bed then.

“It’s curious you know how it happened. But it was a black woman, Lethe, stabbed him. Everybody knows it.”

“Lethe stabbed Lou, but I killed Ross. I cut his throat open.”

“Lethe tells how it happened. She’s in jail now. She’s confessed and there’s no question about who did it. She did it. She went after Lou, seems like, but when Ross defended Lou she killed him. Out at the brick-yard it happened, about midnight they say. Lethe’s in jail now and she’ll maybe go to prison for ten years or so. Ross was her husband, but he went off after Lou, and so the court will likely give her a light sentence, they say. Ten years or fifteen, but that’s not light, goodness knows. Anyway she won’t hang, or is not likely, they say.”

“I did it,” Theodosia cried out again, sitting up in bed again. “I’ll go to prison ten years, fifteen maybe. Hang maybe. I don’t want to be hung. But I did it....”

The strength of the chill multiplied and the rhythms flowed in a strange complexity, short rhythms fitted into the long flow of the heavier beat. Later the fever came and she was still again.

* * * * *

A month later Theodosia sat for a little while each day in the sunshine on the south side of her room. Dr. Muir had come every day to listen to her breathing through a stethoscope. She had let life bring her back to life if it would, lending little aid herself to the return. Her fiddle had been shut securely into its case.

She would have to rest for a long while, Dr. Muir said, and she would have to live in the country and have much rich food. She was shut into some remote death although breath came and went in her throat. The doctor’s suggestions became a law that moved over her, having its way without protest. Abundant food regularly taken, more than was desired—it came to her bed. Presently it would be owed for, but now it was merely there, to be eaten, the last caloric measure. She would not be playing the fiddle, Dr. Muir said, not for several months anyhow. Playing would put too much strain on the arms and chest. The town had its spring season, the birds in the trees. Her windows were always opened wide.

“You had better go to your Aunt Doe’s, in the country,” Dr. Muir said. “A long rest, fresh air, food. That’s all you need.”

She had better sell the house and let the mortgages be paid, the doctor said; she had better close her life there in the town. She was unable to continue her teaching. He went into the facts about her inheritance and weighed each in her presence, asking questions, making judgments. She had better sell all, he advised, and turn away the creditors, had better relieve herself of all worry. She had better go. In the heart of this remote death into which she had passed she stirred a little, remembering the great sweep of rolling land as it was to be seen from the upper windows at the farm.

Some light sorrel horses had stood by a fence, and the queen-anne’s-lace-handkerchief was spreading white beyond the creek path. “Oh, it’s a good morning. I someways like a day just like this,” the words arose and flowed back into the mingled picture—a path along a cornfield where sweet hot weeds gave out their savors in the sunshine of noon, the man in the low field plowing all day, the horse and the plow and the figure of the dark creature that bent over the plow-handles making an even pattern of dark lines that crept slowly over the earth and continued all day, pleasant to see and of no effort to herself. The high cackle and clatter of the feeding times soon after dawn when the poultry and the geese and the guinea-fowls sang their food cries through the baaing of the calves and the low grunting of the swine, and she had turned on her pillow to sleep again, lulled by the sweet blended clatter. The hill field sometimes plowed but mainly left in pasture grass. Out the upper window the land had rolled away a hundred miles, two hundred, never to be measured, beyond hills and fields, insufficient even where the last frail tree stood on the most removed hilltop, beyond two farms.

She would go. Frank came to sit with her frequently or he brought passages to read, tribute to her convalescing hours. “Good old Frank,” her tears surprised her in saying once when his departure clicked the latch of the gate.

A dealer in old furniture came from Lester and bargained for the pieces. A crier sold the house from the gallery steps one noisy court day in May. The archaic hatchets and flints were dispersed, culled over by a collector from Louisville, some of them rejected and thrown into a large basket. Theodosia saved for herself Anthony’s books, and she had them packed into boxes to be hauled to the farm. Dr. Muir had been to call upon her aunt and to ask hospitality for the invalid. All was arranged. She would go. The way was sunny and long on the day of the journey, the road heavy to go, distorted with shadows, the hedges standing back far and the woods vistas spacious to the point of giving pain. As if bandage had been removed from a recent hurt or fracture, the confines of the town taken away, she spread painfully out through the hills and fields, through the ways to go. She closed her eyes and the car slipped lightly, too lightly, among the road windings.

FIVE