Fields Of Gold by Marie Bostwick

Author:Marie Bostwick [Bostwick, Marie]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Kensington Publishing Corp.
Published: 2011-09-13T14:00:00+00:00

Mama cried and cried, but not at the funeral. Just before the service she pulled me and Morgan aside and said, “If you have any crying to do, do it now. I won’t have us shame your papa by blubbering in front of the neighbors, do you hear?”

For one wonderful moment, I thought the old Mama was back, ordering us around like always, but guarding her grief from outsiders was as far as it went. That was the last reserve of her force. She took my arm as we walked out to the front porch to greet the arriving mourners, leaning on me for balance, suddenly becoming ancient.

The day was hot. The house was filled to bursting with sweating, sober-faced neighbors. Farmers and merchants Papa knew from town twisted their hat brims nervously in their hands and looked pitifully at their shoes as they told me of a hundred little kindnesses Papa had done them, secret loans of money or tools, and well remembered words of encouragement given in moments of despair.

Women who would not have spoken to me on the street before suddenly called me by my first name, all my past sins apparently paid for by my loss, at least for this one day. They wrung my hand and told me how sorry they were and asked me to tell Mama to let them know if there was anything they could do, though she was standing right next to me and they could easily have told her themselves. Somehow they sensed that I was in charge now, the conveyor of condolences and maker of plans.

Mr. Ashton, from the bank, tipped his hat to Mama as he came in and shook my hand more firmly than I expected. He murmured his sympathies and asked in a soft, discreet voice, “Miss Glennon, would it be convenient for you to meet me at the bank tomorrow afternoon? If you’re feeling up to it, that is.” I just had time to answer yes before Morgan came up and whispered in my ear that it was time to start.

Everyone filed into the parlor where Papa was laid out in his best suit in front of rows of straight-backed chairs, some ours, some borrowed from neighbors. If I had not known it really was Papa, had not helped wash him and dress him with my own hands, I would not have recognized him, so small, so shrunken, so still he was. Strangely, that was a comfort to me. It seemed the part of him that I knew, the part that was truly Papa, was simply gone, leaving behind a shell that had nothing to do with him or where he was now. I squeezed Mama’s hand as she sat next to me, a black veil shading eyes that seemed to see but not understand what was happening around her.

Pastor Van Dyver gave a short, simple sermon about hope and eternal life. There was nothing fancy to it, but I liked it because it affirmed my belief that Papa was in heaven and past his pain.

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