Requiem by Fire by Wayne Caldwell

Author:Wayne Caldwell [Caldwell, Wayne]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-58836-972-7
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2010-09-01T04:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 19

Her Husband’s Absence

“Blue and yellow, Hiram dear?” Aunt Mary cocked her head at two remnants of cotton fabric. “I always thought they blended well.” She laid them on the kitchen table. “Don’t you think they’ll make a quilt as pretty as can be?”

Blue goods slightly duskier than Carolina skies made her think of heaven, and yellow with no hint of orange reminded her of buttercups. She measured, finger to shoulder—six yards and a fraction of blue, barely five yards of yellow, but plenty for a quilt top. She cut a yard from each and put the large pieces aside. Stopping frequently to rub arthritic knuckles, she cut the yellow and blue pieces into inch-and-a-half squares. After laying out a checkerboard pattern, Mary polished her eyeglasses on her apron.

“My mother quilted circles around us girls, but she taught us good. I can see her, by the fire, piecing squares, humming hymns. I reckon she’s in that sweet by and by she loved to sing about.

“Law, I used to quilt intricate stuff, double wedding ring, log cabin, fence rail, you name the pattern, remember? Piece, baste, quilt, bind, tedious work. Don’t do that no more. Older I get, the better simple looks. Don’t you think so, sweetheart?” She put her spectacles back on. “That’s better. Helps when a gal can see.”

She didn’t remember exactly when she had begun talking to her husband’s absence. Certainly long before this cool April morning. It had been about fifty years ago, after he’d branched from farm work into the teamster business. When he’d hauled produce or timber, she had found herself, a new bride, doubly alone—bereft of husband, marooned at home with his mother, recluse from everyone. Talking to Hiram, whether present or not, became as important to her as prayer. When he died, in 1926, she mourned in silence. She couldn’t have said why—she was a Christian woman—but she felt him tug her toward death, like Cherokee people said their newly departed did, and it frightened her enough to stop. As her fear subsided, she began to talk to him again. It took about a year.

When Thomas’s boots hit the back porch, Mary dismissed Hiram with a discreet wave of her left hand. As the screen door opened, her son saw her search for thread with her right.

“Who you yapping at, Mama?” Thomas darkened the door frame, turning his hat in his meaty hands.

“What do you mean, Son?”

“Looked like you was talking to somebody. We got any buttermilk?”

“In the springhouse, where it always is. And every now and again I talk to myself when it’s lonesome.”

He lurched from the door and put his hat on. “Long as you don’t answer yourself, that’s fine.” Chuckling, he headed outside.

She smiled. “Hiram, stay here. We’ll lay these things out just so.” The hall clock Hiram had made for her birthday chimed ten, as resonant as the sound of a woodpecker working a hollow tree.

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