Orphan Journey Home Chapter Five
? Chapter FIVE
THE STORY SO FAR: As the Damron family travels to Kentucky, Mama comes down with a disease called “milk sickness.”
June 20-22, 1828. Posey County, Indiana
Mama lingers one more day and night before she closes her eyes and leaves us forever. We forget to eat, and no one sleeps after she’s gone. Nettie dies, too. I want to scratch the cow one last time behind her ears, but Papa won’t let me touch her.
After Papa covers Mama with their wedding quilt, I whisper the secret that’s gnawing at my belly. “Nettie put her foot in the milk, the day we left home,” I tell him. “And she did it again last night.”
Papa pulls me close. His face is ashen above his beard. “The sickness was inside Nettie,” he says. “It didn’t come from her dirty feet.”
Papa is trying to make me feel better, but it doesn’t work. Everyone else drank the milk. Will they die, too? I hide my face in Papa’s shirt.
“Where will we bury Mama?” Louisa asks in a quivery voice.
“On high ground,” Papa says. “She hates the damp river bottoms.” He takes some coins from his pocket and beckons to Moses. “Son, we need to build a coffin.” So Moses drives the wagon upstream to a sawmill to buy pine boards while we search for Mama’s final resting place.
Papa holds our hands, and we climb a bluff high above the river. The sunshine melts the wisps of fog, wind ripples through the prairie grass, and a white oak spreads its leafy branches in a wide circle. Papa’s voice breaks as he looks around. “She wanted to live in a spot like this,” he says. “If only I’d listened.”
My own heart is too full of cracks to comfort Papa. After Moses comes back, I take Solomon and Louisa to pick wildflowers while they build the box.
When the coffin is ready, Papa and Moses set it in the wagon and lay Mama gently inside, covered by her soft gray shawl. Sadie strains as she draws the wagon to the top of the bluff. Did Mama grow heavier from the weight of our grieving?
Papa calls us over to say good-bye. Louisa clutches Mama’s hand. She’s crying too hard to speak, and Papa draws her into his lap. Solomon says, “‘Night, Mama,” as if she’s gone off to sleep. Moses kneels to whisper in Mama’s ear, then stumbles away, his hands over his face. He hasn’t spoken to Papa since Mama died. Does he think Mama might still be alive if we’d stayed in Illinois?
“I love you, Mama,” I say. “And I’ll learn about your medicines. I promise.” But who will teach me, now she’s gone? I kiss her forehead.
When Papa nails the lid on the coffin, Solomon screams. I take Louisa and Solomon away and hold them tight while Papa and Moses dig the grave. It takes a long time. They lower Mama gently into the ground, and we scatter wildflowers over the pine box. Papa brings me the leather Bible. “Read your mother’s favorite Psalm,” he says. “And those verses about the mansions.”
The book feels like a stone in my hands. I read “The Lord Is My Shepherd.” Mama loved that one. And then I find the verses Papa wanted.
“‘In my father’s house are many mansions. …'”
Mansions? I try to picture Mama in a big red-brick house, like slave owners have in Kentucky, but she would never live in a place like that. She loved our cozy cabin. Now she’s cramped in a tight box, forever.
I give the Bible back to Papa. I think of Mama’s gentle smile, her wide soft lap where I loved to snuggle when I was small. I can’t watch Papa fill in the grave. I run away and fling myself down in the tall grass, sobbing until I fall asleep, and wake up feeling gentle pats on my back. “Jesse,” Louisa whispers in my ear, “Papa wants you.”
Papa sits against the oak tree near the mounded earth that covers Mama. He sends the others away and beckons me close. His face is as gray as the fog drifting along the Wabash. He tears a page out of Mama’s leather diary and hands me her pen and a bottle of ink. His hands tremble. “Write a letter for me,” he says. “In case I’m not with you long.” As he speaks, I notice his tongue. It’s coated with white – like Mama’s when she first got sick. My blood runs cold, as if winter has come in June.
“No,” I whisper.
“Jesse, I may have the milk sickness, too. Now listen.” He grips my hand. I struggle hard not to scream. How can we live without Mama or Papa?
“Papa, if we’re orphans – will we be bound out?”
“Not if I can help it. Take down my words. It’s a blessing your mother taught you to form your letters.” Papa stares across the prairie as if he’s already left us.
“My fellow Masons,” he says. “My children travel to their grandmother in Kentucky. They are not to be bound out. I ask for your help and protection. . . .”
Protection? How do you spell that big word? I want to ask Mama, but she can’t help me. So I write it as best I can. At the end, I add his oath that these are his words. “Written in my daughter’s hand,” Papa says.
Papa explains that there are Masons in many towns. “They take care of widows and orphans. They’ll keep you safe.”
Papa squints at the letter and shakes his head. “These letters wiggle around like tadpoles.” Tears stream down his cheeks, and he grips my hand. “Teach the little ones,” he says, “and keep learning. Your mama wanted that for you.”
“I will, Papa. I promise.” But how can I teach the little ones, when I’m still learning myself? I’m glad Papa’s done with his letter. I can’t see a thing through my tears.
• Next Week: Tecumseh’s Ghost