“No, the preacher wan’t no kin.” She took the jar from him and went into the dark tent.
She unpinned the covering and slipped the fruit jar in under the thin cold hands and pinned the comforter tight again.
And then she went back to the fire.
The men came from the grave, their faces shining with perspiration.
“Awright,” said Pa.
He and John and Noah and Al went into the tent, and they came out carrying the long, pinned bundle between them. They carried it to the grave.
Pa leaped into the hole and received the bundle in his arms and laid it gently down.
Uncle John put out a hand and helped Pa out of the hole.
Pa asked, “How about Granma?”
“I’ll see,” Ma said.
She walked to the mattress and looked down at the old woman for a moment.
Then she went back to the grave. “Sleepin’,” she said. “Maybe she’d hold it against me, but I ain’t a-gonna wake her up.
She’s tar’d.”
Pa said,
“Where at’s the preacher?
We oughta have a prayer.”
Tom said,
“I seen him walkin’ down the road.
He don’t like to pray no more.”
“Don’t like to pray?”
“No,” said Tom. “He ain’t a preacher no more.
He figgers it ain’t right to fool people actin’ like a preacher when he ain’t a preacher.
I bet he went away so nobody wouldn’ ast him.”
Casy had come quietly near, and he heard Tom speaking.
“I didn’ run away,” he said. “I’ll he’p you folks, but I won’t fool ya.”
Pa said,
“Won’t you say a few words?
Ain’t none of our folks ever been buried without a few words.”
“I’ll say ’em,” said the preacher.
Connie led Rose of Sharon to the graveside, she reluctant.
“You got to,” Connie said. “It ain’t decent not to.
It’ll jus’ be a little.”
The firelight fell on the grouped people, showing their faces and their eyes, dwindling on their dark clothes.
All the hats were off now.
The light danced, jerking over the people.
Casy said,
“It’ll be a short one.” He bowed his head, and the others followed his lead.
Casy said solemnly, “This here ol’ man jus’ lived a life an’ jus’ died out of it.
I don’t know whether he was good or bad, but that don’t matter much.
He was alive, an’ that’s what matters.
An’ now he’s dead, an’ that don’t matter.
Heard a fella tell a poem one time, an’ he says
‘All that lives is holy.’
Got to thinkin’, an’ purty soon it means more than the words says.
An’ I wouldn’t pray for a ol’ fella that’s dead.
He’s awright.
He got a job to do, but it’s all laid out for ’im an’ there’s on’y one way to do it.
But us, we got a job to do, an’ they’s a thousan’ ways, an’ we don’ know which one to take.
An’ if I was to pray, it’d be for the folks that don’ know which way to turn.
Grampa here, he got the easy straight.