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  Harmony’s undertaker was Mr. Timmons, a tiny figure of a man who scarcely weighed as much as his somber black suit. His house was situated next to the rectory, which was convenient; with a minimum of fuss people could file from the funeral home to the church to the cemetery. The Timmons’ place was double-fronted, one door opening to where the family lived, the other to the hall where the deceased was laid out for the final gathering. Bethan sat there now, her hand holding Jodie’s, and remembered all the times they had joked over how it would be to live next door to a funeral parlor. As she sat and watched the townsfolk pass by the sealed coffin, she reflected that she would never be able to look at this home and smile and joke again.

  People filed solemnly by, stopping first by the coffin, touching the edge, looking down, many offering a simple prayer. The women held handkerchiefs crumpled to their trembling mouths. The men carried hats up close to their hearts, faces uncomfortable with the task at hand. Even those who saw Parker Harland every day were reduced to fumbling formality when they stopped before the griefstricken man and offered him their hands. Some he took, clinging to them with abject brokenness. Others he did not see because of his unchecked tears.

  They moved on. Another halt, this time in front of Jodie.

  She stared at the coffin, even when the view was blocked by people stopping in front of her. The hand Bethan held was as cold and blank and lifeless as Jodie’s eyes. Many of the women bent down to hug her and whisper a few words into her ear. Jodie neither responded nor looked their way.

  Later the two girls walked the short distance to the church together, and it seemed to Bethan that all the town was there to stand and do homage to Louise Harland. No one seemed to think it odd that Bethan was there with the grieving family throughout, leading Jodie up the endless aisle and into the front pew, one hand still holding hers, the other arm now wrapped about her shoulders to offer both strength and guidance. For it was clear to all who looked their way that Jodie was going nowhere this day on her own.

  Afterward they left the church and waited as the pallbearers brought out the coffin. Together the silent procession walked the short distance to Louise Harland’s final resting place. Bethan’s brother, Dylan, walked strong and straight, the coffin’s front right handle upon his shoulder, setting the pace for the other pallbearers, though it was hard to imagine how he could see to place one foot in front of the other for the tears. Parker Harland made it down the lane and through the gates and up to the open grave site between the pair of great oaks only because he had a strong man on either side, hands gripping his shoulders and keeping him upright.

  Jodie’s gaze remained upon her mother’s coffin, blind to everyone and everything about her. Bethan guided Jodie forward, willing her own life and warmth into her friend. As together they passed between the cemetery’s stone gates, Bethan thought it was uncommonly strange how even the normally joyous church bells could toll the day’s sorrow, how even the overcast sky could draw a veil across the sun’s sweet springtime brightness, as though the whole world were pausing in its steady turning to bid a soft farewell to a fine country woman.

  SIX

  THE AFTERNOON AIR felt so thick and heavy with heat that Bethan imagined it tasted salty to her tongue. Maybe it was the perspiration that moistened her skin which made her think of salt. She wasn’t sure. Nor did she really care. It was too hot to even think straight.

  She glanced over to where Jodie sat rocking silently beside her. Almost three months had passed since her mother had died, and still Jodie spoke scarcely a word. Sorrow blanketed her as heavily as the heat. Bethan was left with a feeling of helplessness and frustration that she could not do something for her beloved friend.

  The porch swing squeaked as it rocked back and forth. Bethan listened to the protest of its worn hinges, to the hum of the honey bees in the bougainvillea. Nearby, a pair of hummingbirds disputed the rights to the hollyhocks, darting back and forth to challenge each other, neither gaining much from the sweet nectar.

  Bethan brushed dampened hair back from her forehead. “Would you like to—”

  Jodie shook her head before Bethan could complete the question.

  “Go see Sherman?” Bethan persisted.

  Again Jodie indicated no.

  There was silence as the swing squeaked on. “Would you like some cold lemonade?” Bethan finally ventured.

  Jodie looked about to decline one more time, then nodded her assent.

  “Do you want to come to the kitchen, or shall I bring it out here?”

  “Here,” was the terse reply.

  Lemonade seemed like a trivial thing at such a time of grief and longing, but Bethan was glad for something to do and for the response from Jodie. She hurried in and was soon back with two tall glasses, their sides already frosted from the cold contents. The hummingbirds chose that moment to call a truce and share the hollyhocks, though they stayed some distance apart, each feeding from opposite ends of the patch.

  “Did you know hummingbirds are very… very territorial?” Bethan observed, glad she could use the word and hoping to engage Jodie in something.

  Jodie nodded.

  “I’ve seen them have some real scraps,” Bethan went on. “It seems so strange. They are such little creatures, and so beautiful, you’d expect them to be sweeter—nicer to each other.”

  Jodie stirred restlessly. For the first time her eyes came to life, but not with her usual interest in the world. Rather, the eyes flashed with angry bitterness. “Things are often different than they seem.”

  Bethan glanced uncertainly at her friend over the edge of her lemonade glass.

  “The preacher is always saying that if you are good, God will take care of you. Isn’t that so?”

  Bethan gave a hesitant nod. Those were not the exact words she remembered, but maybe something like that had been stated. And at least Jodie was talking again.

  “Well, it’s not true,” Jodie went on. “Momma was good all her life.”

  “I know she was,” Bethan quietly agreed, understanding where the dark thoughts were headed.

  “So why did—” Jodie’s emotions made her voice tremble, but she began again. “Why did she have to leave me?”

  Bethan set aside her glass of lemonade and reached a hand out to Jodie. “You miss her very much, don’t you?” she said, her own voice full of emotion.

  Jodie did not even bother nodding her agreement.

  “Momma was talking about it the other day,” Bethan continued. “She said your mother was one of the finest women she had ever known. She said it’s hard to understand why someone like her had to go so early.”

  Bethan stopped and sought more of her mother’s words. She couldn’t remember them exactly. Nor was she quite sure they were the words Jodie needed to hear. But she didn’t know what else to say to her friend. “Momma said that maybe God saw she was ready for heaven and her reward. That her mission on earth was done. That—”

  “Her mission!” Jodie’s eyes were flashing again. “What was her mission?”

  Bethan was taken aback. “I… I don’t know. Maybe being… being kind to people—”

  “She was my momma,” Jodie cut in with vehemence. “Don’t you think that was a mission? Being my momma?”

  “Of course it was.” The words seemed so weak, so flimsy. But she could think of nothing else to say.

  “She wasn’t done with that.” The words were flung angrily at Bethan.

  Instinctively Bethan set aside her mother’s words. They had sounded good and comforting when spoken to her, but she knew in her heart they were not what Jodie needed to hear. They would not bring comfort and healing to her friend, lonely and in deep inner pain from the loss. Bethan’s eyes filled, and her chin quivered as she sought the words of her own heart.

  “Jodie, I don’t know, I don’t understand why your momma died. But I know if it had been my own momma—” And the impact of that thought, the reality of it as she sat there beside her friend and fully shared the loss for
the first time, caused the tears to run freely down her cheeks. Her words were barely a whisper as she forced them through trembling lips, “If it were Momma, I’d feel so awfully sad. I’d be so lonesome. I think I’d just cry all the time.”

  Before Bethan could speak another word, Jodie leaned her head against the smaller girl and began to weep. Bethan placed her arms about her friend’s shoulders, and they cried together. The squeaking hinge, the sultry day, even the dueling hummingbirds were completely forgotten in their moment of shared grief.

  “Momma, are we poor?”

  “The questions you ask.” Moira was too busy with her dinner preparations to look around. “We are doing quite well, thank you kindly. Who put such a thought in your head?”

  Bethan pulled silverware from the pocket in her apron and polished it before setting it down. Late afternoon sunlight streamed through the big window behind her, warm and welcoming. It was the last week in October, seven months since Louise Harland’s funeral, and though the first frost had not arrived, the days were becoming both shorter and cooler. “Oh, just something I heard the teachers talk about at school today.”

  “Well, they most certainly were not talking about us,” Moira harrumphed as she dusted the counter-top with flour, lifted the wet towel off the big mixing bowl, and brought out the biscuit dough. “We do not have much but, thank the good Lord, we have enough, and a bit left over.”

  Bethan nodded her agreement and continued setting the big hardwood table. Their kitchen opened directly into the dining area, forming Bethan’s favorite rooms in the house. They held all the fragrances of Moira’s cooking and were lit by a great bay window which looked out over Gavin’s vegetable garden and the fields beyond. The rectangular table Gavin had made with his own hands, his first gift to his new bride. The afternoon light caused the beeswax-polished wood to gleam with a ruddy glow.

  Bethan’s mind went back to the conversation she had heard in the hallway after school. She had waited until all the students had left to make her departure. That week the doctor had pronounced that her eye was not improving, and the only thing to do was for her to wear the eyepatch every day for two months. Bethan had been horrified, but the doctor had been insistent, repeating his solemn warning that the lazy eye might otherwise go blind. Her mother had then included her own voice with the doctor’s, and that was that. Bethan hated the eyepatch almost as much as she hated the way the others picked on her. So she arrived at school early and slipped through the halls alone unless Jodie was around. After school she waited until all the other voices disappeared into the distance before venturing out.

  As Bethan had walked down the lonely hallway, she had stopped at the sound of the two voices up ahead. It had been an argument, really, between Miss Charles and the teacher Bethan was most frightened by, Mrs. Sloane. She shared the same large frame as her daughter, Kirsten, and had a way of tightening down her face that made even the wildest of children quiet down in fear.

  Mrs. Sloane’s voice held a quiet fury that had backed Bethan around the corner and out of sight. “You’re doing nothing but building up the hopes of these poor village children so they can be destroyed.”

  “I most certainly am not the one intent on destruction,” Miss Charles replied, her voice tight. “Jodie Harland has every right to compete.”

  Jodie. They were arguing over her best friend. Bethan moved up to the side wall and edged as close to the corner as she dared.

  “She will disgrace herself and this school,” Mrs. Sloane lashed back. “Children from those big-city schools will make her look backward and us foolish for even considering putting her in the competition.”

  “Well, we should let her have the chance to change an illconceived perception,” Miss Charles responded. “She absolutely amazed the judges at the town spelling bee, not to mention winning here in our own school. One of the town judges even said she was a shoo-in for the state finals.”

  “I have been teaching these children far longer than you have been on this earth,” Mrs. Sloane snapped. “If my experience has taught me anything, it is that poor village children are not up to this sort of challenge. And I most certainly discount anything a local judge says about one of our own. As should you, if not for your sake, then for the sake of this poor child.”

  “And I am telling you that Jodie Harland is one of the most brilliant young ladies it has ever been my pleasure to teach,” Miss Charles replied, her voice shaking with anger. “As to the challenge, we shall never know for certain, will we, since you are refusing me the chance to use the school’s discretionary funds.”

  “Absolutely out of the question. Such a thought is simply absurd. The family is not destitute. If this were such a good idea, the father could certainly afford to pay for his own daughter to travel to Raleigh.”

  “We went all through this in the administration meeting. Parker Harland has been simply devastated by his wife’s death. He can scarcely remember his own name, much less see to the needs of his daughter.” Miss Charles’ voice took on a desperate note. “I beseech you, think of what this might mean to the child.”

  “That is exactly what I am doing,” Mrs. Sloane replied, her tone full of cold satisfaction. “I am guarding this child from a disappointment which might crush her fragile spirit.”

  “But—”

  “This matter is closed. Good day, Miss Charles.” Heavy footsteps echoed behind her as she stalked down the hall.

  “Bethan!” She wheeled about at the sound of her mother’s voice. “Child, you have been staring out that window for nigh on ten minutes. What on earth has gotten into you?”

  “Nothing, Momma.” Hastily Bethan returned to setting the table.

  “I declare, sometimes I think you lack the sense God gave a baby bird.” Moira shook her head as she slid the biscuit tray into the big cast-iron oven. She straightened, raised the edge of her apron, and wiped at the perspiration on her forehead. “I do wish a bit more of Jodie’s common sense would rub off on you, considering how much time you spend together.”

  Bethan put down the last of the cutlery, turned, and said quietly, “I heard them quarreling, Momma.”

  “Quarreling? Who, daughter, who? I need me a noun.”

  “The teachers. After school. They were arguing about her.”

  “About Jodie?” Moira dropped her apron. “As if the child didn’t have enough to worry about already, living in that house with a shadow for a father and a memory for a mother.” She inspected her daughter’s face. “It was bad, was it?”

  Bethan nodded worriedly. “I think so.”

  Moira sighed and walked over, reaching out to embrace her daughter. “Bethan, Bethan, child, you are too precious for this earth, and that is the plain and simple truth. You have a heart of pure gold, and more love in you than I ever thought possible for one sparrow of a child to hold.” She stroked her daughter’s hair, murmuring, “How ever will you find your way in this world?”

  Bethan returned the embrace, her head filled with the fragrances of her mother and the meal she was preparing. “I’ll be all right, Momma. The Lord will take care of me.”

  “I do so hope and pray you are right.” Her mother eased herself down into a chair and smiled sadly. “Soon after you were born, I had the strangest thought come to me. I was looking down at your little face, and already you had the most winning way about you. Eyes so clear you could see heaven in them, and a smile that would break your heart. I thought then that perhaps you were one of the Lord’s precious angels who had wandered down and been born by mistake.”

  Bethan looked at her mother, saw the sadness mingled with the love. “Why do you worry about me so much?”

  “Perhaps I shouldn’t,” Moira agreed quietly. “But I can’t help myself. I see the love shining in your little face, and I remember…”

  “Remember what?”

  It was a while before Moira answered. Her voice was low when she finally said, “I recollect just how hard life can be.” A shadow passed over her featu
res as she said the words. “My dad, your grandfather, may the blessed Jesus watch over him, was a miner. As were my three elder brothers.”

  Bethan nodded. This much she had heard, but little else. She only knew her mother’s parents from the gilt frame on Moira’s dressing table. The couple stood in front of a white slat house badly in need of fresh paint. The man wore a dark suit and string tie in the manner of one unaccustomed to such finery; the sleeves hung crooked, his coat was open to reveal suspenders, and his collar rode up his neck where one collar stud was missing. He wore a narrow-brim hat from the last century, a walrus moustache, and an expression which suggested he rarely if ever smiled. His wife stood beside him, dressed in a simple neck-to-ankle black frock. Her hair was fastened back tightly, her mouth finished in deep downwardsloping lines, and her eyes looked very, very tired. Bethan’s mother always referred to them as the hardest-working folks who ever lived, but had said little else of her life before coming to America. Until now.

  “We lived a miner’s life,” Moira went on quietly, “in a village climbing the side of a Welsh mountain, one road in and one road out, all the houses on our little lane owned by the same pit that employed the four men of my family. I was very young, but I remember, child. Oh yes, much as I would like to forget, the memories are etched deep upon my mind and heart.”

  Bethan stood and looked into her mother’s eyes, saw the dark gaze turn inward. One hand continued to stroke Bethan’s hair, but she doubted her mother even knew what she was doing. Moira’s accent became more pronounced as she continued, “I remember well, with a child’s clarity and a child’s pain. I remember how the coal dust settled on everything, turning even the rain a sodden gray. I remember how my father’s hands would never clean up completely, no matter how hard he scrubbed. Nor his face, with the wrinkles deeper than they should have been for a man his age, all darkened like veins in the earth with dust from the mine. I remember dear sweet Harry, my eldest brother, and how he coughed his life away. I remember how we stood at the graveside, my poor mother weeping as though it were her own life that lay in the coffin with her eldest son, and how my father swore then and there we would find a place to live where the sky was blue and the air was clean and the life was worth living.”