Glory

Glory 

By

Leslie S. Talley

“Mama, you can’t stay here by yourself no more,” said Martha.

Bernice compressed her lips into a thin line. She’d ignore her daughter. That had always worked with the girl’s daddy. Pretend she hadn’t heard. Never admit nothing. Not by so much as a flicker of her eyes. Bernice tucked a stray strand of hair back into the roll at the nape of her neck and then clutched the sweating glass of lemonade tighter, as though holding to an anchor..

Why shouldn’t she stay in her own home? Wasn’t helpless. Hoed her garden this spring just like every other spring for the past fifty years. No trouble going up and down those stairs, even the ones to the basement. Why she’d even painted the stairwell—and what a ruckus that had raised. She could repeat chapter and verse all the objections of Martha’s brothers and of Martha herself.

“What if you fall in the tub?”

Hadn’t fallen in the tub since she was three and laid her lip open.

“What if you get sick in the night?” Davey, her youngest, her baby had asked.

Reckon they hadn’t heard tell of the telephone.

“There’s been break-ins, Mama, just half a mile down the road from you.” This from the eldest, Josh.

Kept their daddy’s twenty-two on the floor beside the bed. Knew how to use it, too.

Bernice waited patiently, knowing her daughter would wind down eventually. Don’t answer back and drag it out. Bernice willed herself still, the way she had with her husband, Larkin. Make herself so small no one could see her. From under her eyelids she surveyed Martha, noting the whining voice coming from that pinched, narrow-lipped mouth. Larkin’s voice. Imagine having to live with that fretful voice day in and day out. Bernice couldn’t take it. In vain she searched for some feature of her own mama or daddy, but all she saw was the hunched bony shoulders of her mother-in-law and her father-in-law’s jowls.

Her daughter started making going home noises. Bernice stood up, faster than usual, trying not to walk stiffly. She dried her hands on the tea towel and followed Martha to the porch.

“Be sure and hook the screen door behind me, Mama.”

Lot of good that would do if someone really wanted to break in. Bernice watched her daughter drive away and breathed a sigh of relief. Reprieve. A little one, anyway. She knew her daughter would be back Sunday with reinforcements. She’d bully her brothers, Josh and Davey, like always. Martha had turned out to be such a managing woman. Wonder where she got that? They’d all, the whole clan, gather here for dinner and decide her–Bernice’s—future. She noticed she wasn’t considered too feeble to roast chicken and fix biscuits and gravy. They’d expect fresh green beans and tomatoes from her garden, too.

Bernice closed the door firmly and started down the center hallway, which split the house from end to end. Cooled the house considerable of a summer evening. Didn’t need no air conditioning like you did in that hot box Davey lived in. She’d never be able to catch her breath if she had to live there, all shut up.

She paused at the sliding doors of the parlor. Better pull the shades before the afternoon sun hit that side of the house. She entered the parlor and stopped to gaze reverently at the pictures of her great-grandfathers, her mama’s grandfathers. Preacher Josiah. Doctor David. Her pride and joy. Davey had had the old daguerrotypes restored and enlarged for her one Christmas.

That had been one of the few battles Bernice ever won with Larkin. Naming the boys for her great-grandfathers. She’d had to remind Larkin whose homeplace it was. Hers. Larkin give in. Grudgingly. Couldn’t fuss too much while his in-laws were alive.

She jerked the shades into place, ran loving hands over the sheen of the drapes. A special room. Mama’s room. Mama said you were poor whites if’n you didn’t have a parlor.

Larkin’s folks didn’t have one.

Bernice sighed and started toward the kitchen. Better change her shoes and pick some apples for fresh apple cake: Josh’s favorite. Needed to get the roasting pan from the attic where she’d moved it after Christmas; figured she wouldn’t need it for anything but turkey, but if—let’s see, with all the grandkids, fourteen of them…But would they bring the children to a family showdown? Her daughters-in-law would: trust them not to cook a meal they didn’t have to. They neither one ever cooked anything fit to eat.

Bernice stood on the stoop and gazed out at the fields: burley tobacco on the left—needed topping. Tasseling corn on the right. She remembered her daddy’s explaining corn fertilization to her. How the tassel on top of the stalk was the papa and the silks protruding from each ear, the mama. She closed her eyes and pictured his lean brown hands; only his hands, neck, and face browned by years in the sun. He’d shuck the ear open to display perfect rows of corn. And her mama’s hands, reddened from scalding, wringing, scrubbing—she could see them, too, snapping beans, shucking corn. Letting little Bernice use the silk to fashion a nest for the caterpillars uncovered in the ears.

Strange how you could tell the seasons by the fields. Setting done by Decoration Day; cutting, Labor Day weekend; stripping, Thanksgiving. Well, it wasn’t her lookout anymore; she’d rented out the fields since Larkin’s death. Reckon that made her a tenant landlord.

* * *

Bernice chucked her gardening shoes on the stoop and slipped into her carpet slippers. She mounted the stairs to the second floor, unlatched the door to the attic, and left it ajar. Climbing the short flight of stairs, she groped her way to the far corner under the slant of the roof, where all of the Christmas things were stacked. Hard to see here. Another bone of contention. Davey wanted to put some lighting in. But why pay for wiring a spot no one entered but a few times a year? Besides, she knew where everything was, could put her hand on anything she needed. Now where had Josh packed her largest pressure cooker? She’d cook up a mess of navy beans, maybe mix a couple of skillets of cornbread. Better not linger; it would be hotter than the hubs of hallelujah up here in no time. She smiled to herself as she remembered her daddy’s old expression. Funny that should come to her just now. Been thinking about Mama and Daddy a lot lately.

Still smiling she clutched the pressure cooker to her aproned bosom and tucked the roaster under the same arm. Had to leave a hand free for the rail. She descended the stairs. Strange. She hadn’t remembered closing the door. Hadn’t heard it blow shut, neither. Wouldn’t think that dry August breeze could ruffle a curtain, much less close a door. She pressed her hip against the rough-hewn wood. Nothing happened. Must be stuck. Floor’s expanded in this heat. She pressed again. The door didn’t budge. Sweat trickled down her back. Better lay the cooker and the roaster on the bottom step to free up her hands. She pressed with both hands using all her strength. The door remained firm.

It must be stuck. Couldn’t be locked. Bernice pictured the latch on the other side: a simple iron bar, which nestled in a slot on the jamb. Could the latch have fallen into place? She pushed again, then with her doubled fists beat on the door.

“Help!”

But who would hear? She kicked against the bottom, then favored her foot. Forgot she was wearing them worn carpet slippers. Forgot Daddy had fashioned that door from hard yellow pine.

Awfully close in here. Needed air. She climbed on hands and knees to the top of the stairs again. No window. Had to have some air. The ventilation slats. Birds nested up here; if they got in, surely air came in. Had to move them boxes to get to the slats. She set her shoulder against the stack and heaved. Something on top rocked, then wobbled over the edge. She reached with both hands to steady it, then gently lowered the lamp, with the creamy china base with the herbs and spices painted on it, to the floor. A kitchen lamp cousin Thelma had given her one Christmas. Needed wiring. She lifted off the shade and set that back on top of the box. She hefted the lamp, testing the feel. Plenty stout enough. Would make a good thwack.

Kneeling in front of the wooden ventilation slats, she drew both arms back and pounded with the lamp’s base against them. Just dents. Needed a better swing. She eased to her feet; she’d try it underhanded like she had seen those golfers on TV. Shifting her weight to her back foot, she twisted and swung with all her strength. The china base shattered, sending shards in all directions. She stared at the jagged fragments in her hand. Should have used the pressure cooker. Should’ve thought of that first. Could have saved Thelma’s lamp.

She retreated to the foot of the stairs. From beyond the door, she could hear the hoarse jangle of the telephone.

“Here, I’m up here!” she shouted. Bernice sat on the bottom step and drummed with her heels on the door.

Useless. No one could hear. Think, now. Stay calm. Who would be calling? Not her daughter, she’d just left. One of her sons, maybe? They’d probably wait till Sunday. Let’s see, today was Thursday, wasn’t it? Thelma! Thelma would be calling to see if she needed a ride to Seniors tomorrow. No, wait. What had she told Thelma last week?

She’d stood beside Thelma’s gray Plymouth, her hand on the door. Leaning in to say, “Won’t be going next week. Promised my tenants I’d trot over and help them put up beans.”

So who called? Someone who would wonder where she was? Check on her?

Probably one of them people asking if she took the Courier-Journal. As if she cared what went on in Louisville. Probably goings-on, anyway.

“Oh, God. Dear God. Help.”

Air. She must have air. She grabbed the handle of the pressure cooker and crawled back up the stairs. No strength to stand and swing. She sat Indian fashion before the ventilation slats and beat little tattoos, was rewarded by a splintering sound. She pressed her face to the crevice created and hungrily gulped the dry August air.

* * *

Startling awake later, she sat up stiffly and rubbed her face, felt the creases from lying on wooden floorboards. How long had she slept? She peered around, trying to measure the time by the change in shadows. Kneeling, she pressed her face to the crevice once again. Air still hot. Didn’t feel no cooler. She raised the pressure cooker and beat against the wood some more, enlarging the hole by the width of another slat. Placing her eye to the crevice she could discern the gravel drive between the house and the gully. The brightness of the sun glanced off the white river rock. She could see the heat shimmering, making the trees in the gully all wavy. That, or her eyesight was going.

Was that a car she heard? The crunch of tires on gravel? She pressed her eye even harder against the splintered slat. Yes! No, it was a pick-up. Black. Looked like Josh’s friend, Murl. It was! Coming to fish in her pond, she’d bet! Bernice let neighbors and friends back there all the time to the pond beyond the tobacco barn. Best fishing hereabouts, stocked with crappie, bass, and trout so many years ago by her daddy. All she had to do was holler at Murl. All she had to do was holler and scream, and he’d release her from this oven. He’d release her…

And tell Josh. Who’d tell Martha. And they’d say, “See, Mama? We done told you what would happen. We done said…”

Bernice sat up and resolutely placed her back against the wall, her legs stuck straight out in front of her, like a little child. She faced the gloom of the attic.

      There were worse coffins.

* * *

So dark, darker than before. Night coming on. Couldn’t last the night up here. Alone. Hot. No air.

God damn it! There. She’d blasphemed. Did it count if you just thought it? Didn’t say the words aloud?

“Sweet Jesus,” she murmured. Appease God. Appease Him before she asked, “Please, God, let me out of here and I promise…” Promise what? To be a better person? Already been saved. Kept the commandments. ‘Honor thy father and thy mother.’

“Mother? Daddy?” She’d done right by them. At least let them stay in their own home. She’d kept them alive as long as she could, a buffer against Larkin’s fierce temper. Those last months of her mama’s life spent tempting her fading appetite with favorites, turnip greens and dumplings, navy beans and cornbread. Reading to her from the Bible, singing the old hymns.

‘Thou shalt not kill.’ Hadn’t done that, neither. Or stole. Or bore false witness. Gossip didn’t count, did it? Covet. Well…Rest of them all had to do with fornicatin’ and she hadn’t done that. Good respectable woman, she was. Missionary position and then no oftener than was necessary. Twice a month was enough for anybody. Except these young people today, couldn’t keep their britches zipped. Indecent, that’s what.

Enough of that. She had nothing to worry about. God-fearing Christian woman like her. Only thing—she wasn’t ready.

Thirsty. Must be 110 degrees up here. How long had she slept this time? She wished she had a watch, not that she’d be able to see it. Josh had given her one for Christmas, but she put it in her dresser drawer. Too nice to wear around the house. She hadn’t known how to set it, either. She’d ask her son when he came on Sunday…

She wouldn’t be here Sunday. This was it. She would die up here, suffocated in her attic. Who would find her, she wondered? Her daughter? One of her sons? Thelma?

How would she look? All swole up? No, she’d by God look peaceful. She’d lay herself out. Just stretch out here on the floor. Hands clasped on her bosom. Decent. She positioned herself accordingly. Eyes open or shut? Shut, maybe she’d just sleep away. She heard people did that when they froze to death. What about smothering? No, eyes open. As long as possible.

Only, not much to see. Just the lampshade from the shattered lamp, mocking her. On its side, the web of wire looked like a halo, reminding her of Glory.

Except she didn’t want Glory. Not yet.

Wire. Bernice sat up on one elbow. She rolled to her side and hoisted herself. Plucking the shade from the top box, she tore indiscriminately at the fabric. She straightened the wire. Mama used to say warn’t nothin’ you couldn’t do with a hairpin. Think of this as a big, thick hairpin.

Groping her way to the stairs, she grasped the firmness of the handrail, reached the foot of the stairs, and felt for the crack in the door. Guiding the wire into the crack, she lifted. With satisfaction she felt the iron bar rising.

She pushed the door, which now swung freely.

Bernice stumbled to the window on the landing, leaned out, and breathed deeply of the cool, dew-laden air. Morning. Dawn. She’d been locked in overnight. Better call someone. Call Martha.

First things first, though. The bathroom. Water. Bernice cupped her hands under the bathroom spigot and, trembling, raised the water to dry lips. She slurped and let the cool water run down her chin and splatter onto her arms. My, that tasted good. Almost as good as water used to taste from Daddy’s old well, before Larkin capped it.

Must look a sight. Better freshen up a bit. Couldn’t let anyone see her like this. She emerged from her bedroom a few minutes later, went downstairs, and out onto the veranda. Felt cool out here, but she wasn’t fooled. Going to be a scorcher. She gazed at the fields. Burley on the left: needed topping. She’d have to remind her tenant. Corn on the right: tasseling. She descended the steps and made her way over to her vegetable patch. She’d pick herself a fresh tomato. Nothing sweeter or juicier than a tomato right off the vine. She twisted one off that would be past its prime by tomorrow. As she bit into it, warm juice burst forth and ran down her chin. She flung back her head and laughed aloud, wiping her chin with the back of her hand.

Then she turned back to the house. The rising sun caught the side of her tin roof. It sparkled like a million drops of dew. Glory. That was Glory.

Better call someone. Otherwise, she’d have Martha driving over to check on her. She’d make a cup of tea first. Then she’d call someone. Maybe a little scrambled egg and toast. Slowly she went about her breakfast preparations. After she had mopped her plate dry with the last crust of toast, she heard the phone ring.

She picked up the receiver. “Hello?”

“Mama?”

Uh, oh. Martha.

“Mama, I was worried. Thelma tried to get you yesterday. Wanted to see if you changed your mind about going to the Senior Center. And wanted to tell you what happened over to Shipp’s. Where were you? Are you all right?”

“I been right here.” Bernice propped her feet on the opposite kitchen chair. “So what happened over to Shipp’s?”