Part 6 (1/2)

6.

When Aunt Ella woke up in the morning, Darthamae was still in the house. Leon had gone home, and the baby with him. Darthamae offered to comb Aunt Ella's hair for her, and Aunt Ella thanked her meekly and got up. Her knees were so stiff she could hardly walk, but she refused to be troubled today. The Lord was with her. She sat still in front of the dresser mirror, deliciously conscious of the lightness of Darthamae's combing, and she tried to think how old Darthamae was, whether she was old enough to remember when the yellow-white hair had been red. Darthamae began to roll the bun and slip in the amber pins. All quickly, quickly.

”I've been thinking,” Darthamae said.

Aunt Ella looked at Darthamae's face in the mirror and waited.

”About Brother Flood,” Darthamae said. ”It doesn't really matter that he won't admit what he did. That is, it doesn't hurt us.”

Aunt Ella smiled docilely and waited.

”And of course it does hurt him, you know? I mean, how can his wife respect him, knowing what she does? And how can other people-those of us who know the truth, that is? How can he even respect himself?” Her hands hesitated a moment. She said, ”You know, Aunt Ella, I feel sorry for him. Really.”

”You're a wise girl for your years,” Aunt Ella said, smiling. ”Bless you.” She felt light as a bluejay, warm and sweet and old as summer fields.

Darthamae's glance was sharp, and Aunt Ella looked down at the dresser doily. ”I've been foolish,” she said with sincere humility. ”Leon was right from the beginning. I should have put on charity.”

When she glanced up into the mirror again, Darthamae was looking at her harder than ever.

”Aunt Ella,” she said, ”I want to know what you're thinking.”

”Why, Darthamae!” she protested sweetly. Outside her window there were b.u.t.terflies playing over the gra.s.s. The lightest of them was not as light as she was.

”I warn you, Aunt Ella,” Darthamae said. She clenched her teeth.

Ralph moaned, in the parlor, and Darthamae went to him. His head was splitting, poor boy. Aunt Ella thought sadly, Poor Ralph, poor dear child. It was Ralph who'd gotten the worst of it, right from the start. It was all her fault, and no one else's. And the greatest of these is charity. Yes. Oh yes.

”Ralph's got a headache, Aunt Ella,” Darthamae said. ”What should I do?”

”It's going to be all right,” she said. ”There's aspirin in the medicine closet in the bathroom.” On second thought she said, ”Perhaps if you run cold water over his head it will help. Run it for three, four minutes.” As soon as Darthamae was gone she got up, still light, despite the sharp pains in her knees, found her cane in the closet, and went as quickly as she could out onto the porch. Slowly, slowly (and yet quickly, for all that, borne aloft on the mighty wings of charity), she slipped around to the barn.

The white hat was right where Betty Jane Flood, poor dear, had left it, hanging on the chair. She made her way back to the corner of the house with it and stood there a moment, head c.o.c.ked craftily, listening. When she heard water running, she hurried as fast as she could to the Preacher's car and got herself up in behind the steering wheel. Merely by releasing the emergency brake she was able to back the car fifteen feet down the driveway. She got out and planted the white hat on the ground beside the driver's door. Then she went back in the house, listened at the door, then went in and sat down by the window, meek as a dove, to watch. She heard Darthamae helping Ralph to his bed.

At lunchtime Darthamae said, ”Aren't you going to eat, Aunt Ella?”

”No thank you, dear,” she said. (Outside there were swallows, light as feathers blowing.) Darthamae stood thinking, her forehead troubled. ”You just keep looking out the window,” she said.

”I'm praying,” Aunt Ella said, smiling sweetly. ”You run along and eat.”

Darthamae said, ”Are you praying for somebody or against?”

”Have charity, child,” Aunt Ella said. ”Do unto others ...”

She pretended to be satisfied.

It was midafternoon when Aunt Ella saw the Preacher walking down from the manse for his car. Darthamae was in the kitchen cleaning beet greens. Aunt Ella got up as quietly as possible and went out onto the porch and down, slowly, to the driveway. He hadn't yet seen her, though she made no effort at secretiveness, knowing the Lord watched over her. Six feet behind the car, on a span she'd backed over earlier, she smoothed the pebbles away and eased herself down onto her back. It wasn't as comfortable as she'd expected. She closed her eyes, and stretched one arm out awkwardly in a gesture oddly humble, like a broken wing. It seemed a long time before she heard his footsteps coming up the drive, the sound loud under her ear, far away, then closer and closer. Perhaps ten feet from where she lay, the footsteps stopped. She resisted the urge to peek. He'd be looking at the car, his heart beating slightly faster now-poor dear, poor dear!-remembering it wasn't where he'd parked it. Now he would have seen the hat. Now he came closer, his feet moving very slowly, his reeling wits knowing without any need of evidence that she was dead. He whispered, so close that she almost jumped, ”My G.o.d.” Then poor Darthamae was out on the porch, screaming in terror, and the Preacher was exclaiming, ”I never saw her. She came out of nowhere. Call Dr. Coombs, quick.” They went up on the porch and she waited until the door slammed, then opened her eyes. She couldn't see them or hear what was happening inside, and she could have kicked herself for forgetting to leave that blessed window open. Then she heard the door open again, and she snapped her eyes shut tight. It was Darthamae, running to her, weeping and bending over her. Aunt Ella opened her eyes and winked. Darthamae's face froze, first amazement, then outrage. ”Aunt Ella!” she whispered. But by the very act of whispering she'd turned herself into an accomplice. Aunt Ella closed her eyes. ”I called Leon,” Darthamae whispered. ”And we called Doc Coombs, too. And the sheriff. Oh, Aunt Ella, really!” Aunt Ella said nothing.

Then the Preacher was with her. Darthamae said, ”Don't touch her! Wait for the doctor!”

”My G.o.d,” the Preacher said.

Darthamae said, ”What will we do with Betty Jane's hat?”

He said again, as though his voice were stuck, ”My G.o.d.”

”It was bad enough when she ran Aunt Ella off the road,” Darthamae said, ”but this.”

”G.o.d,” he said.

There was a long silence. Then Darthamae said, ”Why don't we just hide her?” She began to speak more rapidly. ”We could stuff her under some hay in the barn.”

He moaned.

”The poor thing,” Darthamae said. ”Your wife, I mean. How will she ever live with it?” Suddenly she was laughing wildly and Aunt Ella opened her eyes for a moment. But he thought it was hysterics.

”You mustn't tell it was her,” the Preacher said. ”She's only a child.”

”That's right, we've got to lie for her,” Darthamae said eagerly. Again the laughing took her. She loved it all-sinfully. Poor child, G.o.d forgive her.

Then Aunt Ella heard the siren, far away, and almost the same instant another sound that she couldn't identify for a second. It came to her at last. The door banged shut. She thought, No, knowing the rest already. She opened her eyes. She saw them looking toward the porch, and she heard the crutches hurrying toward the steps. ”Ralph, be careful!” Darthamae yelled. But it was too late. They listened to the racket of his fall. There's no satisfaction, Aunt Ella thought. She sighed.

Now the police car was turning into the yard. Half from weariness of heart, Aunt Ella went on lying where she was. She heard the Preacher explaining to the deputy, ”I never knew she was there till I felt the b.u.mp.”

At last Aunt Ella opened her eyes and, little by little, shaking from the exertion of it, sat up. Ralph, too, was sitting up, over by the steps. Up the hill toward the burned-down church she saw the Preacher's wife running between the tombstones in a white dress, coming down to see what was happening. They too had seen her by now. And now they saw that Aunt Ella was sitting up, dusting off her hands and the sleeves of her dress. The Preacher stared. After a second he came over to her. Behind where the deputy's car was parked, Leon's car was just turning in.

”How could you?” the Preacher whispered, astounded.

Then the deputy was looking at her, and Leon was beside him.

”Aunt Ella,” Leon said. She had made him old before his time.

”What a childish thing to do,” the Preacher whispered. He was sweating.

”Of such is the kingdom of heaven,” she said.

”It's mean and spiteful, that's all there is to it,” the Preacher said. He was pale as a ghost.

”Do onto others as you would have others do onto you,” she said smugly, knowing it was smug and feeling delighted about it.

”Terrible is thy wrath, O Lord,” Leon said.

”It wasn't wrath,” she said. ”I did it for his correction, out of pure charity. Bless him.”