Saturday, August 11, 2012
Kansas, 1939
Kansas,
1939
By
Phoenix
Hocking
October 7, 1939. On
a lonely Kansas hillside, silhouetted against a gray and barren sky,
stands a solitary man before a makeshift tombstone. His overalls hang
loosely on his gaunt frame, mute testimony to better days. Absently,
he scratches his nose, and then wipes grit and sweat from his face.
Another child gone.
Another child gone to the Great Beyond, he thinks, and he
scratches, and wipes, and wonders what land his child now inhabits.
Certainly it had to be better than this God-forsaken place.
I’m sorry,
God, he prays, and crosses himself like the papist do. I know
that no place is forsaken as long as You are there. But, where are
You, God? Where are You?
Scrawny prairie
grass stands weakly on every side, flat yellow in color and spirit,
tired of growing, of living, of fighting the winds. Autumn bears down
upon the land as though an early winter pushes it along, racing
behind it like thunderclouds on a stormy day.
With effort, he
tears his eyes from the tombstone and surveys his land. Parched,
wilted, tired. It has not rained for months, it seems. In fact, he
cannot remember the last time it rained. For ten long years he has
watched the deadly dust consume his land. His crops lie withered in
the fields; his friends moved away to lands more hospitable; his
children dead of hunger and strange diseases.
His wife, once so
beautiful and full of promise, is now thin as a scarecrow, unable to
muster the strength to bury one more child. She is home, staring into
the fire, hands idle, her hair uncombed, body unwashed, parched,
wilted, tired as the land.
Why did I stay,
Lord? He asks, but expects no
answer. God has been silent, after all, for what seems a very long
time. I thought this drought couldn't last forever, and
now I've killed my children waiting for You to help us. Where are
You?
Seven little graves
adorn the hillside. Seven makeshift tombstones, Rebecca being the
latest to join her siblings in Paradise. He says a prayer over her
grave. It is almost the only prayer he knows by heart, and he says
it, wondering anew just what it means. “Our Father,” he begins,
and the wind carries his words away.
He stands for a few
more minutes, gathering his energy and his courage. It is not easy to
bury your own child by yourself. The land without water is hard and
dry and unforgiving. It is backbreaking, soul-searing work to dig a
grave with your child’s dead body beside you, decaying in the heat.
But the work is
done now, the child buried and at peace, thank You, Jesus, and
now life must go on. He thinks for a minute about that. Life must go
on. Sometimes he wonders why, but that is the way of it. Life goes
on, and there is not much you can do about it until it doesn’t go
on any more.
He rubs his
sunburned neck, raises his weather-beaten face to the sky and says
the only other prayer he knows. “Thy will be done.”
He then raises the
shovel to his shoulder and turns in the direction of his home.
Down the hill and a
little way across the prairie his humble shack sits in the shade of
the only tree around for miles. A thin column of smoke rises from the
chimney. He imagines his scarecrow wife staring blankly at the
cooking fire and cringes. There is, after all, nothing left to cook.
In the beginning,
when the children began to die, the man and his wife would comfort
one another, holding on to each other in the dead of night,
whispering words of hope and encouragement, mingling their tears. But
not now, not any more. That was seven children ago and no more to
bury, thank You, God. They had no more tears to cry; not for
the children, not for each other.
He starts down, the
wind whistling through his thin cotton overalls as if he has nothing
on. He squints his eyes against the bluster, angry at the fickle,
lying weather.
How often had the
sky darkened and the wind blow, but no rain fell? How often had storm
clouds gathered on the horizon, only to disappear once they reached
his land? How often had the dust blocked out the sun and daylight
turn to night? How often had he prayed for rain and there was none?
How often?
He
searches the sky as he walks down the hill. Where are You,
God? Where are You?
He places the
shovel against the side of the shack and gently creaks open the door.
Inside, the shack is cool and dark, wind entering the chinks in the
walls like an uninvited guest. His eyes adjust slowly and he turns to
the barely smoldering fire.
The table is bare,
the chair is empty. A thin and hungry rat foots it across the
overhead beam, peering down with beady, yellow eyes. He grabs a metal
cup and throws it at the rat, yells, “Get out!” The rat jumps,
crosses the beam and disappears into the darkness.
He draws the
curtain that separates the bedchamber from the living area of the
shack, but she is not there either. Heavily, he sits at the table and
wonders where she might be. Perhaps she is in the outhouse, and will
return soon. He is too tired to go look for her. Hee doesn’t like
to disturb her there anyway. Everyone should have a little peace and
quiet while attending to the needs of nature.
He closes his eyes,
laden with the day’s wearisome burden. He is totally spent,
consumed by fate as surely as buzzards consume carrion. Exhaustion
creeps into his bones, and he sleeps.
He dreams. He
dreams of green pastures, and fat flocks grazing, and his children
laughing.
But mostly he dreams
of rain, wonderful, beautiful rain, soaking the parched earth. In his
dreams, his crops rise high, high, high into the sky, and his wife is
smiling as she works beside him to gather them in. And he dreams that
his children are alive again. It is a good dream.
It is dusk when he
awakens. The fire has gone out and still his wife has not returned.
Alarmed now, he rises up, puts his hat on and goes outside. The wind
whips fiercely around him, buffeting his thin body like a
prizefighter, over-matched.
He calls, and calls
again, but there is no answer.
He finds her behind
the house, crumpled like one of Rebecca’s old dolls, the revolver
beside her. Weeping, he cradles her limp, emaciated body. There are
more tears after all. He carries her inside and gently lays her on
the bed.
Outside the wind
howls and screams, and inside a man cries out to God. Why? Why,
God? Why her? Why me? Damn You, God! This
time, he doesn't cross himself.
He lays down beside
her and rocks his wife’s body, back and forth, back and forth, and
croons the lullabies he used to sing to his children. His tears drop
onto her face, now gray and ashen as the sky. She does not look
peaceful, she only looks dead.
After a while, in
the dark shack, his tears subside. He continues to hold her,
unwilling to let her go. And eventually, he falls asleep.
It is early morning
when he awakens. His wife is stiff beside him, and he thinks, One
more gone to the Great Beyond.
And then, he
becomes aware of a noise, unheard these many days. It is the
unmistakable melody of rain pattering on the tin roof; an amiable,
affectionate sound, like an old friend dropping by for tea.
He rubs his eyes
and gets out of bed. Briefly, he covers his face with his hands, then
straightens. He puts the revolver in his pocket, feels the weight of
it through the thin cotton. Gently, oh so gently, he picks up his
wife’s body and cradles her to his chest. He pauses to collect the
shovel by the door, and turns his face to a lonely hill across the
Kansas prairie.
End
# posted by Phoenix MaryGrace Hocking : 9:05 PM
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