Marbles

 I had plans for that summer and everything changed because of the marbles. But I’m way ahead of myself.

My brothers, Jeff and Mick, hung around Farmer Tom’s place, feeding chickens and riding on the tractor with him, watching while he milked his yellow cow, Bess. I’d been over there a time or two when Mama had shooed me out of the house to go fetch my brothers home for supper. I’d seen Mrs. Farmer a few times, a slight woman with gray hair pulled back loosely into a long ponytail and we’d waved at each other.

Farmer Tom died the last day of June and we were let out of school early, to mourn the loss of a great friend our teachers said, and to get us out of the school building because we couldn’t sit still for excitement. I should have figured something was up when I saw Jeff and Mick whispering intensely with Sam, the undertaker’s son.

Two days afterwards on Saturday, my whole family and me sat scrunched together in a stifling hot church, the fans creaking to push out even hotter air. Mr. Farmer’s coffin sat in front with a single vase of blue forget-me-nots next to it. Mick kept shoving Jeff with his elbow, which jostled me into Mama. Mama looked at the three of us and glared, her lips in a tight line. Finally, she slid between Jeff and Mick. I kept noticing that Jeff and Mick were paying unusual attention to the coffin all the while the Reverend was speaking in his deep sad voice. I sat there wondering about Mr. Farmer and about what I’d do this summer since I kept lists of things I planned to do and at this point, my summer was pretty full up.

I don’t know how long we were in the church but I was about to roast and Mama was fanning herself with the church funeral bulletin. I suppose I should have felt more sadness for Mr. Farmer except I’d never seen him but from a distance and never done more than wave at him and it was so hot, I could barely think. Well, when the Reverend finally stopped droning and Mrs. Chesterfield began to play the piano as loud and lively as she could, Jeff and Mick jumped to their feet. Mama snatched the back of their shirttails but they whispered something to her and she nodded. I noticed she wiped away a tear.

Well, just as the ushers were walking forward to get in line to carry the coffin out, Jeff and Mick followed close behind them and the two of them grabbed a handle on each side. Then the eight lifted the coffin and all went well while they slowly walked down the aisle and through the dark-wood double doors to the steps. Everyone else was making a wild escape out of the church and I had to scoot out quickly so I could watch the coffin being carried down the stairs. I don’t know what happened but one of the eight tripped on the last step down and the coffin lurched as if it was coming alive. The lid opened an inch or two and out flowed a wave of water, it looked like, and the men in front slid on something shiny. The coffin flew upright and out jumped Mr. Farmer in his black suit, whatever breeze there was catching at his cuffs as if he was walking and his arms flailing, and then Mr. Farmer fell on his face with a thud. Mrs. Farmer shrieked and jumped over to him, straightening out his pant legs and tugging his arm to pull him up. Finally, Mr. Farmer was gathered into his coffin again and the lid closed and the procession continued toward his gravesite near the church while Jeff and Mick picked up the marbles. I kept backing up away from the churchyard step-by-step, wanting to see everything but not wanting to be too close. When the last shovelful of dirt was tossed and flattened, I headed for home.

That night at supper, Mama’s mouth was little more than a taut string. She banged bowls of potatoes and beans on the table. Daddy sat at the head of the table. Mick and Jeff squirmed in their seats. I think we all waited for the thunderbolt to happen. Mama asked us for our plates, dished beef stew and potatoes on each of them, and passed them back to us. Daddy said grace. I felt like I could hardly breathe waiting for the cloudburst and being glad it wouldn’t land on me this time. Then she burst.

“How could you! I was so ashamed of you. And Mr. Taylor was your friend.” 

So, that’s his name. I half listened and then I realized Mama’s anger was now directed at me. “I didn’t know anything about this,” I said. “Honest. Mick and Jeff didn’t tell me nothing.”

“Mary Lou.” Mama’s blue eyes looked like they could flash lightning. “You will go over each morning and feed Mrs. Taylor’s chickens and each Saturday morning, you will go over and help her with whatever she wants you to do.”

“But it’s summer vacation.”

Mama just glared at me. I looked at Daddy but his face was set like stone in an expression I’d never seen before. I sighed.

“Now everyone eat,” Mama said. “I don’t know what Mrs. Taylor is going to do now, them living on leased land and him no longer here to work it. Life does have its troubles.”

I didn’t say anything further throughout that meal and afterwards I dried the dishes. When I finally could escape to my room, I didn’t feel even like reading which was my favorite thing to do. I just lay on my bed feeling like all my plans had been blown up.

I slept in as long as I could until Mama pulled the quilt from off my eyelids and told me to get up. I could tell from her expression that this wasn't a morning to argue with her. After breakfast, I took my time getting over to Mrs. Taylor’s and I dribbled out the chicken feed figuring if I took too long, nobody would want me back. Instead, Mrs. Taylor thanked me and insisted I come in and share a cup of tea with her, which I had to do to be polite. If Mama found out I was less than polite, who knew what else she’d pile on me but this dawdling was eating into my time. On my way home, I realized if I got to Mrs. Taylor’s about the time the sun rose and hurried with the chickens, I’d be home in time for breakfast and have the rest of the day to myself.

My plan worked out well for a few days but Saturday morning I had to go help Mrs. Taylor in addition to feeding the chickens. I arrived after breakfast, fed the chickens, and then knocked on her front door. She didn’t look like she was expecting me so I had to explain why I was there. She let me in. The kitchen was tidy, the floor sparkling clean and there wasn’t a particle of dust anywhere so this was going to be easy.

“Come in, Mary Lou,” she said. “Let’s have a cup of tea before we begin.”

Though I felt grown up sipping tea out of a fine china cup with pink roses and a matching saucer, I was tensed up anticipating what she had in mind. I kept eyeing the clock that tick-tocked on the mantelpiece and seemed to me for every minute the clock moved forward, it must have moved back a half one. I was nervous about breaking something so I finally quit drinking anything at all and looked over her shoulders through the window for something that needed to be done outside.

“What I’d like more than anything with Mr. Taylor gone, God rest his soul, is to have you read to me. Mr. Taylor used to every evening in his lovely deep voice.” She sighed, and I felt a breeze of sadness float over me.

I scanned the room and then spotted four shelves loaded with thick leather-bound volumes. It would take an eternity to read all those out loud. “That’s probably more than I could possibly do. I’m only eleven, going into the sixth grade. I’m sure you’d hate to hear me stumble through them.”

“Let’s try it anyway, shall we?”

I was her prisoner, what else could I do but agree, and so I watched as she set the china cups and saucers next to the sink and then walked into the living room and stood in front of the bookcase. I wasn’t sure whether I should get up from the table or go in and suggest which book might be interesting to start with, as if I would have known. We didn’t have books at home so I borrowed as many as I could. Mama didn’t know it but I’d gotten a card from the town library, too.

Anyway, Mrs. Taylor came back into the kitchen with a thin book and I breathed a sigh of relief inside. Pilgrim’s Progress. I kept reminding myself of Mama’s thin mouth and the tight lines on her face when she’d told me I’d have to do whatever Mrs. Taylor wanted me to do the whole summer so I knew I had to stay.

“Maybe we could share reading,” I said, hoping she’d jump at the bait and then I’d just let her keep on reading while I feigned interest.

She handed me the book and sat there still and quiet, breathing in and out quite normally. “Go ahead, Mary Lou.”

I opened to the first page and began to read and somehow it turned out to be a lot easier than I’d expected and it was noon hardly before I knew it and I was free to go. I looked forward to the next Saturday but I wasn’t going to let anyone know that.

And that was how July and early August went: I was up each morning with the chickens, pardon the pun, and by now I’d named them all and learned their different personalities, and each Saturday morning I’d read another two or three chapters in Pilgrim’s Progress and we were almost through the book and I was beginning to wonder what we’d read next. I don’t know what possessed me though and the third Saturday of August I slipped in a few other papers and when it was time to read, I read those. Well, Mrs. Taylor stopped me cold with her words, “What’s that you’re reading?”

“Well,” I said fetching for some quick excuse. “I figured we’re almost through Pilgrim’s Progress so I thought a change might be nice.”

“Tell me what it is you’re reading.” Her eyes, I noticed for the first time, were brown but in them was a sternness I had not figured on.

“My writing,” I muttered almost under my breath. I took my pages and scrunched them into my jeans’ pocket. “I like to write.”

“No, no, go ahead. I quite enjoy it for a change.”

I pulled out the papers and smoothed them out. I’d never felt this before, my heart feeling like birds flying inside, all free and happy like when they chirped good mornings to each other on summer mornings. I read what I had and Mrs. Taylor laughed until she cried. I was greatly encouraged. When I finished the pages I’d brought, I asked her if I could read her more next week and she nodded.

So for the next two Saturdays, I brought what I could of what I’d written. And something else happened because we started to talk to each other like one woman to another and I found out she wasn’t that different from me and that being older didn’t mean that you’d become someone stern and only concerned about grownup things. I’d ask her about her childhood and she’d tell me all sorts of stories which, when I remembered them later, I wasn’t sure whether they were entirely true or not but it didn’t matter because here I was able to talk and laugh with a lady who was much older and wiser than me.

The Saturday before school was to start, I knocked at Mrs. Taylor’s door and a woman I’d never seen before opened the door.

“Come in, Mary Lou,” Mrs. Taylor called from somewhere in the back of the house. “This is my daughter Lisa.”

I thrust out my hand and she barely touched my fingers.

“So this is the girl who reads to you each Saturday, Mother?”

Mrs. Taylor walked into the room and she looked different like she was both glad and sad to see me, and I could see she’d been crying. “I’m leaving today. Lisa’s insisted I come live with her. Since Mr. Taylor died, I haven’t been able to keep up with the farm lease payments. It’s for the best but I’ll miss our times together.” Her words sort of hung in the air and then they fell with a crash to the floor and I wanted to pick them up and somehow cradle them and make everything back to what it was.   

“It’s not for the best! Isn’t there another way? You could come live with us.” I tried very hard not to, but I burst into tears, big sobs that just tore through me, and I felt like a little girl again. I finally was able to stop, and I stood there clutching the packet of papers I’d had the foresight to put into a used manila envelop that I’d scrounged from Mama. “Why do you have to leave? You’re the only friend I’ve ever had.”

I helped with packing the china cups and saucers in newspaper. When we were finished, there weren’t many boxes of things from a lifetime, which surprised me. The three of us somehow tied a rocking chair to the top of the Chevy, set an ornately carved jewelry box, that Mrs. Taylor said was a wedding gift from Mr. Taylor and that he’d carved himself, on the backseat, along with a couple of boxes of wood-framed family photos I’d never noticed before and fervently wished I’d paid more attention all the times I’d been there. My envelope of papers was on the kitchen table and I placed a newspaper on top. 

After lunch, Lisa left me and Mrs. Taylor to sit in the living room and I asked her if she wanted me to read to her for a bit. She shook her head. What I really wanted to do was to ask her if we could talk even though I didn’t know what I’d ask her and the time seemed so short that I couldn’t even think of what I might have wanted to hear so we sat there and I understood what silence being deafening meant.

Then Mrs. Taylor cleared her throat and reached over and patted my hand. “I don’t want to leave but I have no choice. It’s like losing Mr. Taylor all over again. It’s like losing your whole life.” She pursed her lips tight and took a deep breath that she held for the longest time. “I’ll miss you, Mary Lou.” She stiffened and pulled her hand back and walked into the kitchen where she found my manila envelope. “Are these for me?” She looked at me squarely with her brown eyes telling me something I couldn’t decipher. “Thank you. I’ll cherish these,” she whispered. “I won’t ever forget you, our Saturday mornings together.” She smiled and her whole face lit up.

I didn’t know at the time what any of this meant except that I felt like if someone had tapped me, I would have sounded hollow because all the life had gone out of me. I’d spent all week copying everything I’d written with the intention of reading a bit from them for the rest of the summer and maybe we could have continued into the fall and winter. And all that planning was ending right now and I didn’t know whether to run and hide or to act as grown up as I could. “Yes,” I said. “For you.”

I helped with carrying the last of the boxes out of the house. Mrs. Taylor alternated between a few sobs and telling me she wasn’t moving but sixty miles away and maybe I could come visit her but for me, those sixty miles may as well have been half around the world. 

At three o’clock that afternoon, Lisa said, “I think we’re finished here, Mother. I’ll let you two say your good-byes.” She walked out of the house with the last box, set it behind the driver’s seat, and settled herself in behind the wheel.

I stood on the stoop next to Mrs. Taylor. She still clutched the manila envelope in one arm and then squeezed me so tight with her other arm I could barely breathe. “We’d never have become friends if it weren’t for the marbles,” she whispered. “Mr. Taylor would have enjoyed seeing all the commotion for his sendoff.”

She squeezed me again and then gripped my hand while we walked down the flagstone pathway to the car and she let go when she slid into the car. I pushed the door shut, Lisa started up the engine and Mrs. Taylor mouthed “I’ll miss you,” tears in her eyes. I stepped back while the car rolled away down the dirt road, watched until the last puff of dust was gone.

Bio: Brigitte Whiting lives in Maine and often uses settings and experiences from her backyard in her writing. She earned Fiction Writing Certificates from Gotham Writers Workshop and UCLA-Ext and is working on her WVU-MFA Certificate. In addition to facilitating WVU classes, she meets weekly with two local writers' groups.