It was nearly dark in there.
Sairy came in and lighted a candle and stuck it upright on a box and then she went out.
For a moment Ma looked down at the dead old man.
And then in pity she tore a strip from her own apron and tied up his jaw.
She straightened his limbs, folded his hands over his chest.
She held his eyelids down and laid a silver piece on each one. She buttoned his shirt and washed his face.
Sairy looked in, saying,
“Can I give you any help?”
Ma looked slowly up.
“Come in,” she said. “I like to talk to ya.”
“That’s a good big girl you got,” said Sairy. “She’s right in peelin’ potatoes.
What can I do to help?”
“I was gonna wash Grampa all over,” said Ma, “but he got no other clo’es to put on.
An’ ’course your quilt’s spoilt.
Can’t never get the smell a death from a quilt.
I seen a dog growl an’ shake at a mattress my ma died on, an’ that was two years later. We’ll wrop ’im in your quilt. We’ll make it up to you. We got a quilt for you.”
Sairy said,
“You shouldn’ talk like that.
We’re proud to help. I ain’t felt so—safe in a long time.
People needs—to help.”
Ma nodded.
“They do,” she said. She looked long into the old whiskery face, with its bound jaw and silver eyes shining in the candlelight. “He ain’t gonna look natural.
We’ll wrop him up.”
“The ol’ lady took it good.”
“Why, she’s so old,” said Ma, “maybe she don’t even rightly know what happened. Maybe she won’t really know for quite a while.
Besides, us folks takes a pride holdin’ in.
My pa used to say,
‘Anybody can break down.
It takes a man not to.’
We always try to hold in.” She folded the quilt neatly about Grampa’s legs and around his shoulders.
She brought the corner of the quilt over his head like a cowl and pulled it down over his face.
Sairy handed her half-a-dozen big safety pins, and she pinned the quilt neatly and tightly about the long package.
And at last she stood up. “It won’t be a bad burying,” she said. “We got a preacher to see him in, an’ his folks is all aroun’.” Suddenly she swayed a little, and Sairy went to her and steadied her. “It’s sleep —” Ma said in a shamed tone. “No, I’m awright.
We been so busy gettin’ ready, you see.”
“Come out in the air,” Sairy said.
“Yeah, I’m all done here.”
Sairy blew out the candle and the two went out.
A bright fire burned in the bottom of the little gulch.
And Tom, with sticks and wire, had made supports from which two kettles hung and bubbled furiously, and good steam poured out under the lids.
Rose of Sharon knelt on the ground out of range of the burning heat, and she had a long spoon in her hand.
She saw Ma come out of the tent, and she stood up and went to her.
“Ma,” she said. “I got to ask.”
“Scared again?” Ma asked. “Why, you can’t get through nine months without sorrow.”
“But will it—hurt the baby?”
Ma said,
“They used to be a sayin’, ‘A chile born outa sorrow’ll be a happy chile.’
Isn’t that so, Mis’ Wilson?”
“I heard it like that,” said Sairy. “An’ I heard the other: ‘Born outa too much joy’ll be a doleful boy.”’
“I’m all jumpy inside,” said Rose of Sharon.
“Well, we ain’t none of us jumpin’ for fun,” said Ma. “You jes’ keep watchin’ the pots.”