Bodark Creek - 47. Chapter 47

We hardly buried Rosalind when suddenly Martin was taken from us. He’d been complaining for a while. Or really, he’d been not complaining, but I’d been quietly noticing his troubles. The biggest was he was having a problem breathing. He’d get halfway up our stairs, and it was like he’d climbed to the top of our highest barn. I wanted to ask, “Are you all right?” But Martin never liked people pointing out his weaknesses, so I didn’t. Not that he would have talked about them anyway.

Still, I knew. And the boys knew, and they at least said something. Del started. “You really should see a doctor, Dad.”

“I don’t much believe in them,” Martin replied. “And I’m seventy-eight years old. So I’d say I’ve done pretty well without them.”

“There’s always time to change, Pop,” Neal put in.

But Martin almost never did that. And maybe if he did, he would have lived a few years longer. Though I don’t think he wanted that, either.

“There just comes a time...” he’d say. Then he wouldn’t go on.

“Is he in pain?” Susan asked.

“I don’t think so. He’s never had much patience for that. If he even catches himself on a nail, he’s off for a shot of whiskey.”

“Beats aspirin,” Del admitted.

“Yep, I think I’ve scratched myself, too,” Neal said, laughing.

But if Martin wasn’t in pain, I think he knew how much his body was giving out. He couldn’t ride any more. He was afraid of being thrown by even our tamest horse. And he wouldn’t drive a tractor after one tipped over and paralyzed our neighbor.

“It’s too bad,” Martin said. “Twenty-seven years old, and he’ll never walk again. It’s a good thing he’s had all his children.”

“Maybe the doctors can do something,” I suggested.

“Nope. I don’t think there’s ever been a man who broke his back like that and was able to walk right again.”

Martin didn’t even like to drive. If he had to go to town, he’d wait till one of the boys was heading that way. Or he’d ask if I was planning a trip. That always let me know when he wanted to go.

“I was just thinking of going into town,” I’d say. “Thanks for reminding me.”

So when he fell asleep one night on the couch watching television, I didn’t think anything of it. I was sitting in my chair reading. He didn’t make a noise, but he normally didn’t snore when he was sitting up. It was only when I went to wake him that I realized he was cold.

“You really should put on a sweater,” I said. And then I knew.

What do you do? I called Del. And I called the hospital. I knew Del would bring Neal, so I called Pat to pick up Joann. And then I waited. There was nothing I could do. I sat on the couch with Martin and cried.

It wasn’t hard sobbing. It was more like relief. And thanks. I’d had such a good life with him. We had a long time and a good marriage. Forty-two years. It would have been forty-three that June. We had four children. Five grandchildren. And just about everything we ever wanted.

Neal and Del got there first. Then came the ambulance. Then Pat and Joann. The men with the ambulance were men I didn’t know, but they were very nice. They could tell right away Martin was gone, just as we all could. So they didn’t do anything he wouldn’t have wanted.

“Are you all right, Mama?” Joann asked. Maybe she noticed I wasn’t crying. “I don’t want you going into shock.”

“I’m not all right,” I told her. “But I’ll be fine. Now you let these men take your daddy to the funeral home and leave me alone for the night.”

“You shouldn’t be alone tonight, Mama.” I think Neal said that.

“Come back and stay with me,” Pat suggested.

“No, I want to spend the night in my own bed,” I told them. “I want to wake up as I always do. And I want to think about Martin by myself.”

“Are you sure, Mama?”

“Yes.”

And so they left. I asked someone to call Charley, and they said they would. And I asked that Dock and Albie and Ruth and Leona be told, and someone promised to do that, too. I didn’t think that night about June, but I suppose someone managed to call her as well. And then I took the phone off the hook. And I turned out most of the lights in the house. And I made myself some hot coffee. I probably shouldn’t have been drinking it that late in the evening, but I needed something warm. And then I went upstairs.

I got into my nightgown. And I lay under the covers with the rest of the lights off. And I thought about Martin.

There was so much to think about, and the thoughts never ended. His funeral was simple, and all the songs they sang were fine. All but one of Martin’s sisters was already gone, but their families came into town, and it was good to see them. And everyone said nice things. Then everyone went home.

“Now’s the time you really shouldn’t be alone,” Ruth told me. “I always wait till a month after a funeral, and that’s when I send flowers. After everyone else has forgotten.”

“I don’t think they’ve forgotten,” I said. “They just have their own lives.”

“As we will.”

“I’m not worried about that,” I told her. “I have the farm. It’s always kept me busy.”

“The farm mostly takes care of itself now. You have the boys.”

“I have the cooking and the cleaning.”

“You’ll be surprised how much less of that there is to do. Or how much less you think is needed.”

I laughed at that. “You have the cleanest home I’ve ever seen,” I told her. “I don’t know how you do it.”

Ruth smiled. “It’s because there are rooms I don’t let anyone into anymore. After I’m gone, people are going to be very surprised.”

“You’re not going anywhere, Ruth.”

“You, either.”

But she was right. I did find myself having a lot more time. More than I really had things to do. I had my books. And I had my garden. And I still canned vegetables and fruit, though there was no longer a reason. But people seemed to like my pickled cantaloupe, and it wasn’t something you could buy in stores.

“What do you do with all your time?” Joann asked.

“I find things.”

“Well, if you ever want company...”

“I know where the telephone is.”

When Martin died, Del took over the Sunday dinners. “You don’t mind, Mama?” he asked. “It’ll make it easier for you.”

“What if I don’t like it easier?” I asked. But I was only kidding, and in truth, I didn’t mind. I liked cooking, and I still helped out on Sundays. Sometimes, I’d bring a pie or casserole. Or sometimes I’d go over to Del and Susan’s early and help bake a ham.

I was fine, but of course I wasn’t. I still missed Martin. Missed him every day. I’d go to tell him something, and he wasn’t there. I’d wait to hear him working in the barn, but he wasn’t there, either. I’d wake in the morning and wonder why he wasn’t still in bed beside me, and then I’d remember.

“Are you all right?” my children kept asking. “Is there anything you need?”

I had to keep telling them I was fine. I had to keep reminding them all. But strangely, I never needed to remind myself.