Lucy’S Path

1

T he only light in the room was the changing flicker of colors from the television screen. The volume was low, and as my habit had been for years, I pulled my chair very close to hear a little better. I was exhausted and welcomed the relief of sitting down. My mind was struggling to adjust to the changes my life had undergone in the last three days. I thought about the funeral and the closing of the grave and the strange silence in the house. There was a chill in the room that seemed to seep into my bones, and even into my blood, so that the blanket I had tucked around me felt useless.

The thunder roared, filling the room with a rolling sound that sounded like a cry of pain to my shattered mind. Rain hit the windows with a torrent spray that made me pull my aching body from the chair to open the front door and look outside. I walked onto the porch while the wind tried to push me back in. I saw the black funnel in the distance, and as I walked back into the house and struggled to close the door against the wind, I thought how glad I was that it had not rained at the graveyard. I was not concerned about the weather and never thought to seek shelter, but my black widow’s clothes were wet from the short trip to the porch. I made my way into the bedroom to change into something dry and warm before returning to the television to listen to the news.

The tornado had touched down in our little town and in just a few minutes destroyed homes and businesses. The newscaster said in a sober voice that it looked like a war zone. Destruction was everywhere. He said the funnel had moved up and down as it passed from one end of town to the other and how lucky it was that, except for a few minor injuries, no one was seriously hurt. After showing the footage, almost like an afterthought, the film shifted to one of the cemeteries. Headstones had been torn down and scattered as one would throw a handful of pebbles. The fury and force of the wind as the headstones fell had torn open the earth, exposing some of the graves. The newsman expressed regret for the pain it would cause the families of those whose graves had been opened by the tornado and said that the police were on the scene. It was not the cemetery where I had watched them pile on the red clay today, a cemetery that held so much of my life and my dreams.

My breath escaped me, and my body stiffened in horror. With a flash stronger than the lightning outside the window, I could once again see what I had spent years trying to push away from my mind. Somewhere inside my fractured brain, I realized the police would soon be here with questions about Billy’s grave. Somehow I knew his was one of the opened ones. I had never feared punishment from the police. It was just that my life had burned out like a candle. It was the telling that I feared, knowing that I still had a few hours before they would question me. My thoughts fell hard and took me back to that time so long ago. The memories pulled me and were more real than this room was to me. I felt frozen and cold, pain gripping my chest with a heaviness that made it hard to breathe. The pain ripped through me with such savage agony that I clutched at my chest, feeling like my heart had surely stopped. That would have been a welcome escape, but it was not to be. I gave in to the horrible, eternal pain of remembering what I had lost.

2

I couldn’t remember a time in my life when I did not love Billy. He was always in my heart. I could see him walking toward me, the wind blowing his dark-brown hair—and his eyes, so dark brown they almost looked black. He had been so handsome, his face sculptured with high cheekbones, a straight nose, and full lips. Even though he was young, the farm work had made his shoulders wide and strong. He’d had an easy way about him that made everyone comfortable. His smile had been radiant and was often followed by a joyful laugh that was contagious to all who heard it, but the best of him was his goodness and kindness. I never heard him say anything bad about anyone. He always looked for the best in people, and in doing so, it seemed they did not want to fall short of his belief in them. The farm animals even responded to him as he tended them with a strong yet gentle touch. He was the golden one to all who knew him, and I never doubted that he was mine.

Our families were neighbors, owning farms divided only by a patch of small trees. Billy’s family farmed one side of the trees, and we farmed the other side. Our families were close, maybe out of need for each other, and the need could be great during those times. We were poor, eating mostly what we grew and sometimes barely surviving the hard times. As strange as it seemed now, at that time I didn’t know we were poor. Everyone I knew lived like we did. Our house was simple, and we only had things we really needed. We lived in a small wood house that had weathered to a dull gray. It was a small five-room house, and as our family grew, Papa added another room at the end of the kitchen. Mama kept her wash kettles and jars of canned food there, and that was where I slept. There were only two bedrooms. Mama and Papa shared one, and my brothers slept in the other one. A front porch spanned the length of the front of the house, and Papa had built a wooden swing that hung from metal chains on one side of it. Sometimes we would bring out a couple of straight-back kitchen chairs for company, but most of the time Mama and Papa sat in the swing while the rest of us sat at the edge of the porch with our legs hanging off the side. We spent a lot of time on that porch. When our work was done, we rested there. We would talk about the weather and the crops and something we had heard from our neighbors. Our bond was a warm, healing connection that soothed the burden of our hardships and kept us strong. Our faith in each other was solid, and we carried it in our souls, never considering even a small chance of betrayal.

Our yard wasn’t much to speak of either. Between the chickens pecking for food and us kids playing, the grass stayed beaten down. Mama did plant some rose bushes close to the well, so they could be watered without having to carry the water too far. A few hundred yards from our porch was a narrow dirt road that passed seven farms and the Baptist church before it joined the main highway. When anyone walked down that road, they would stop and visit for a while and get a drink of water or sweet tea. They would tell us how their family was or who among them might not be well. There was always camaraderie among the families who lived along that dirt road. Those were my happy years as I liked to call them. I felt safe and did not realize what true sorrow was.

We grew mostly cotton, but we also planted hay and corn for the few livestock we owned. We always had a vegetable garden. It wasn’t like today where food is easy to find; if we didn’t grow it, we didn’t eat. Food was never wasted. Any food not eaten was canned, dried, or stored in our root cellar for winter. How I hated that cellar. That dark place scared the life out of me with the bugs and Lord only knows what else. Papa made the boys shovel it out each spring to make way for the new crop of potatoes and root vegetables, and I would stay clear of that job. It was about the only time I left them alone with a nasty job, even though I was the only girl with four brothers. I didn’t mind cleaning hen houses and pig or cow pens, but I did hate that root cellar.

In the spring, we planted crops, and as they grew we would be in the fields by sun up hoeing the weeds away from the plants. We occasionally stopped for water and what we called dinner, and then we worked until the darkness started gathering around us. Our lives were controlled by the seasons, and each one had its own chores. When cold weather arrived, we would kill hogs, saving each part of them for some use. Most of the meat went to the smokehouse to be smoked. We rendered the fat for cooking and to make our soap. During hog-killing time, the families took turns helping each other so the meat would not ruin. The men did the killing while the women built a big fire under large cast-iron pots. We children would have a little free time to play with our friends as we waited for the fire to get hot and the water to boil. The work was hard, but we all worked together until dusk, and the women brought out some of the pork they had somehow found the time to prepare. They spread tablecloths on the ground, and everyone gathered around to thank God for the blessings of that day.

Once it was dark, we watched the glowing embers of the fire and sang or listened to stories told with real feeling—stories about what we remembered, about potions or ghosts or even failure and fear. All of us, family and neighbors, sat quietly, listening with a sense of belonging and knowing we could depend on each other. As the darkness deepened, everyone made their way home, and even with the final goodbyes, there would still be talk of who might be sick or what plans someone had made. There was a quiet peace and comfort in the fellowship we shared.

As I looked back, I realized Mama and Papa had taken on all the hardships. While we all pulled our weight and did our share of the work, we didn’t really know the struggle. It didn’t take long before the struggle also became my burden to bear.

3

P apa’s name was Buford Paul and Mama’s name was Verily May. John was the oldest boy, followed by Raymond and Boyd and then me, with Paul being the youngest. All the boys were named after someone in the family. Mama named Paul after Papa, but I never knew why she named me Lucy.

Mama looked different from most women of that era. She was beautiful in a time when women wore down fast, but she didn’t look worn down. Even as a young child I was aware of her beauty. Her eyes were a deep blue, and each feature on her face was perfect. When she let her hair fall free of the pins, it fell to her waist thick and black as the night. Papa would go up behind her as she went about her chores, and he would pull her small body gently close to him. He would put his face close to her neck and kiss her before she turned around to wrap her arms around his neck. They had a look of wonder as they gazed at one another. I never remembered them raising their voices in anger with each other until that fateful time when all of our lives changed forever.

Billy was two years older than me, and he had a sister named Justine. He had two uncles who lived in a small house next to his parents, and they helped work the farm. Billy still had lots of chores but not as many as we seemed to have. After he finished what he had to do at his house, he cut across the field and came to our house. If he missed a day stopping by, one of us would say, Where is our Billy Boy? Somebody best go check and see if everything is all right. Not like him to not stop in.

He would step beside any of us while we worked, joining in and helping out without being asked. He just did it. It seemed he was at our house more than he was home, but he was always welcome. For most of our meals, Mama set a plate for Billy, whether he was there or not, because it had become such a habit for him to be there. We were all close, working hard because we had to but loving each other and finding laughter and happiness in some of the smallest things. We were united by our love and also the love of the land. We sustained each other with our love, and the land sustained us, but I never dreamed as I walked the fields that the love of the land would destroy me and everything I believed in.

4

I t was the spring I turned thirteen when I noticed Billy seemed to spend more time talking to me than he did anyone else. One morning, Papa was working with the livestock, but Mama and the rest of us were hoeing cotton