---

---

 

How to Wash the Dead

Lenten, pansy, crocus, snowdrop

 

Lewellen Hubbard was the corpse laid out before me. With my sponge soaked in sweet oil—Lenten and crocus blossom—I worked around the old scars on her arms: slash marks between elbows and wrists and her tiny hands white-wormed with them. I’d heard stories of the days of storms: buildings collapsing, of people emerging from rubble and rebar or beating their way out of drowning cars.

Nobody had told me Lewellen’s story.

Her son said Lewellen had been a quiet woman, but her body told me different. This was a body that declared itself alive and surviving. As I washed her brown skin, the scars rose and gleamed whiter. I could feel her energy with me in the little kitchen.

Lewellen? I asked without looking up from her stiffening body. That you?

The air had a tingle to it.

Move on now, I advised. This storm is over.

The son and his daughter opened and closed drawers in the rooms above me, searching for what Lewellen would wear out.

She stayed with me, watching as I washed her.

I said, Bless the tongue, stroking it with a painter’s brush, Marvel of taste and words. Then I sealed her mouth with warm beeswax. I held the lips together with my thumb and first finger. So you can’t climb back in, I told her. I got a shiver like it happens when the spirits slip through me. Lewellen was afraid without her body. I got that. They’d been through so much together in this hard world.

Go on, Lewellen, I said a little louder, but not so loud people upstairs would get worried. Nobody likes the idea of their loved ones hanging around longer than necessary. This body of yours, I lowered my voice, All it did for you? That’s something, I said. The lips were sealed fast now, so I placed my hand on the forehead. But I’m closing it down now, see? It’s done all its work and you are free to go.

Corpse washers are also spirit untanglers. It was our role to guide spirits away to wherever it is they go from here.

Her body was clean and oiled. Her eyes and lips sealed. Her children would be down soon and together we’d wrap Lewellen in the shroud and silks. We’d place the flowers and greenery and set up with her until the goodbyes could be completed. She’d settle after that. I felt certain.

Later still, we’d open the earth and place her inside.

 

Escaping Death

Daffodil, violet, gorse, olive, peony, iris, narcissus

 

My first live washing was a child with a fever named Luli Freeman who’d come to town with her mother to cook for Mrs. McDowell.

Luli’s mother came to me distraught as Mrs. McDowell wanted the fever out of her house and not even in her barn thinking the sickness could hop species. I guess Luli’s mother figured that someone who washes the dead has some sort of living contract with death or has watched its comings and goings long enough to be immune. Maybe I was.

Ms. Freeman said, Please, and held her little girl out for me at the threshold of my house. I have to get back, she said, looking at her child.

I took Luli in my arms and didn’t ask about Mrs. McDowell’s household needs. Made me wonder what death had in store for a woman like that.

Luli was brown with the blotched redness that comes with some fevers. I put her in a cold-water tub, and I swear my hand burned rubbing the ice shards up and down her bony spine. She was as quiet as a block of wood. Or rather, a floorboard since she moaned some as I set out to work her fever to calming.

Luli, I said. She put her head between her bent knees. I rubbed her damp head. I’m going to get more ice. It’s the best way I know. I left her alone—what else could I do?—to punch the ice that had gathered at the edges of the pond. Poor Luli’s little body shook and her teeth set to chattering seeing me with a bowl of new ice.

Now Luli, I said, rubbing the ice around her fiery neck. It’s not up to me whether you live or die. These things we just can’t determine.

I paused but she only sniffed and looked up at my face.

But I’m going to try my best to keep you on this side of the dark veil, and you’ll be stronger for it. Stronger than that old Mrs. McDowell.

She nodded.

Think living thoughts, I said. Think of all the strong creatures you know. Wolves. Mothers, I paused again, my hand on the hard cage of her ribs. The wild wings of a swan.

 

Afterlife

Hawthorn, honeysuckle, St. John’s wort, woodruff

 

It was the housemaid of Mrs. McDowell who came to my door sweat-soaked through her cotton dress. She was out of breath and put her hand to her chest to slow herself down.

Yes? I asked.

It took awhile for her to explain, but apparently, Mrs. McDowell had sent for Luli, the cook’s daughter. I stepped from the stoop and into our living space where Luli sat working a wooden puzzle on the floor. Luli looked up at us with eyes big as plates.

The maid held out her chubby hand and said, I’ll lead you over.

Hell you will, I said.

Seems Mrs. McDowell’s orders were not often ignored. The maid’s mouth hung open for a beat before she said, But Luli’s had the sickness and so she should attend to the missus.

She kicked Luli out. Left her for dead. Now she wants her back? I shook my head. No indeed. Feeling smart, I added, Besides, Luli doesn’t work for her.

The maid had collected her air by now and she used it in a great huff at me. She put her hands to her hips and said, But her mother does. And her mother needs the job, doesn’t she?

She’d gotten the advantage of me that way.

I looked at Luli again, barely over the sickness herself. To the maid I said, I’ll come. To Luli I said, There’s bread in the box and honey butter. She nodded. You’ll remember about lighting the flame for tea? About turning it off again? I said these things while packing my bag. Raven’s feathers, beeswax, and the sickness ointment I’d made with camphor and eucalyptus and spearmint. I bent down to Luli and kissed her smooth forehead and she surprised me by wrapping her arms around my neck. Almost toppled me. I guess you could say we’d grown on one another some.

I’d never had cause to go inside the McDowell house. Nobody had died there and asked after a corpse washer. It occurred to me, with Luli being the first, that this was the second time I was called to tend to the living. I didn’t feel comfortable about it at all.

This way, the maid said as we walked into the great hallway.

Can I stop by the kitchen? I asked with my voice a whisper. Whispering in other people’s houses was what I was used to. In my experience, quiet is expected for death and disease.

The maid huffed at me again—a signature expression of hers, apparently—and pointed to the dining room. Or rather, the swinging door beyond. Hurry up, she told me.

The kitchen warmed my face. I smelled fowl of some sort and the richness of sage.

Ooh what’s that? I asked.

Luli’s mom put down her pin and smiled at me, flour dusting her cheeks and hands. Chicken and dumplings, she said, coming to me for an embrace. She looked over my shoulder. You bring Luli?

Of course not, I said.

She sighed the way only a mother can. You going up?

Yes, I’m going.

She’s mean. The sickness has made her meaner, only she can’t yell as loud.

I wiped the flour off her cheek with my thumb. I’m not scared, I said. But I was scared, actually. More than just a little. I preferred my clients dead. Especially the mean ones.

---

It smelled in Mrs. McDowell’s room. Sour like feet get in wet socks and yeasty like a cow’s infected teat.

The maid pulled a face and said, Let me get the window.

No you won’t. That from the lump in the very middle of a large four-poster bed under layers of satins and quilts. Mrs. McDowell’s head disappeared into a white pillow. She was only a nose and thin lips. Seemingly nothing to be afraid of until she opened her mouth again and asked, Who are you? Now I could see her eyes, hazy with cataracts and framed with furrowed brows.

I’m Vera Ledbetter.

Where’s the girl?

Who? I asked.

The bedsheets rustled and I realized she was trying to sit up. The maid rushed over to help, climbing on the bed with her knees and fluffing the pillows. Don’t exert yourself, the maid said.

Mrs. McDowell ignored the maid and said, Don’t you who me. I called for the cook’s girl that got the sickness.

Well, I’m here instead.

Who are you?

I’m Vera. The corpse washer.

Mrs. McDowell shrieked and then coughed with the effort. The spray landed on the maid who jumped back from the bed and wiped her face with her apron. Mrs. McDowell threw a teacup and hit the maid on the chest. I’m not dead, you fool! The maid hustled from the room and the matching saucer broke against the doorframe.

---

But she was dead soon enough. And the maid and poor Luli’s mom after her. I washed all three of them, but I made Luli help me with her own mother. She cried as she rubbed the rose and chamomile oils into her mother’s hands. It’s how it should be, a person washing and caring for their dead. They don’t need me to do it for them.

Nobody had come for Luli’s mother, although I’d put notices for all three in the papers. I watched Luli tending to her mother and thought, We’re each other’s now. Two motherless souls. One just ready for school and the other barely completed.

 

The Calling

Chamomile, rose, lily, lavender, yarrow, oak, daisy, elder

 

When Luli went to the school in the fall, I realized how I’d grown to depend on her help making oils and tinctures. She was intuitive and careful—both qualities I admire. I also felt a little lonely during the days, whereas before I’d just been alone. It seems dusk and early morning are the times when death rides between our worlds, and I was often called away. Luli had to learn to soothe herself to sleep or get herself up and ready for school.

It was early October when I was called to the hemp farmer’s house by his wife, Aubrey. Of course I’d figured on a death and had come prepared, but instead I found myself at the sickbed of her father-in-law. My third live body. Aubrey told me he was close to death and scared and what with the harvest about to start, and a house full of toddlers, she needed my help.

Help with what? I asked. I could see the old man was agitated like old Mrs. McDowell had been, being on this side of the dark veil and here came the corpse washer.

He’s scared to die, she said.

I reckon so, I said.

Since you’ve seen death enough, maybe you could explain it to him. Soothe him about it. She said this with a toy truck in her hands, and with the father-in-law groaning a little, his legs moving around under the blankets.

Nobody had asked me to soothe before and the idea had my attention. Not trying to heal the sickness, not showing up afterward, but guiding the soul on the journey out.

When Aubrey had gone, I pulled a chair over next to the bed. Mr. Habersaat’s nose had bulged and purpled; his bony hands stroked the stitching on the blanket. He kept his eyes closed, but something passed along his face. A clinch of the jaw, a movement under the lids. He knew I was there.

I know who you are, he said, keeping his eyes closed.

You do?

Of course I do.

Well, here we are then, I said, not knowing what else to say. Then I remembered my oils. Would you like to smell a bit of summer? I asked.

He didn’t budge, but I rummaged around in my bag anyway and took out four glass jars. I uncorked the rose and rubbed a little oil on my wrist, then held it up to his nose. His nostrils responded and he opened his eyes on me. They were cloudy like Mrs. McDowell’s had been, but open and kind and curious.

Hmmm, Mr. H. said, Rose.

I smiled. I used my dress sleeve and let him smell the lavender and lily and basil.

Then we sat in silence. I thought of the summer month with Luli and summers long ago with my mother. Perhaps Mr. H. was thinking of his own summers.

He cleared his throat and said, All that smelling gave me an appetite.

I went out to the kitchen to fetch his tray, which Aubrey had laid out on the counter and covered in a tea towel: Warm farro with seeds and crowder peas. Strawberries and hard cheese. Out the kitchen window, I saw the men working in the field and stopped. Among them was a young man guiding the old mule. I didn’t see the whip in his hand, but there they were, gliding through the rows while the cutters stacked the hemp on the trailer. The man’s shirt was stuck to his back, wet with sweat, and I could see the movement of the muscles in his shoulders. It gave me a little shiver.

I helped Mr. H. with his lunch and lingered while he fell asleep. Then I went to the living room to wait for Aubrey. The shades had been pulled against the afternoon sun, and I guided the fabric aside with my fingers and peered out at the fields. The mule skinner and the younger Mr. H. spoke to one another, and as they did, the mule skinner’s hand idly stroked the mule’s nose. I couldn’t see, but I imagined her eyes closed, enjoying the feel of his attention. I would.

How’d it go? Aubrey had tiptoed in on her bare feet fiddling with a tiny jacket on a baby doll. Someone had gotten the buttons wrong, it gapped at the bottom.

I let the curtain drop and said, He’s not dying. He’s just old and bored.

Aubrey let the baby doll drop to her side. I know, she said. She tossed the doll onto the couch—a little too rough, in my opinion. But I got three little ones and all the cooking and laundry to do. You know how hard it is to get that resin out of a pair of britches? How it sticks to the floors? She shook her head. I’ll pay you good.

Okay, I said. But I need to be home when Luli gets out of school, and if someone dies, I’ll need to go.

Yes, she said, nodding her curly head, her eyes bright.

---

The elder Mr. H. liked to have me read books to him. Or maybe he just wanted me to appreciate the books he had on his large bookshelf. One I liked best was about volcanos. It was a book from before the decade of storms and it, like many others on his shelf, had survived flood and fire to be here in my hands.

Mr. H. had been a boy during the storms and a young man after. When he wasn’t feeling so winded, he’d tell me stories of those times.

What I don’t understand is how people took all this time with science, I said, tapping my finger on the colorful page in the book with seismic readings and calculations, And nobody could stop the storms. People shot to the Moon and Mars and here we are.

Here we are, said Mr. H., and I realized he was grinning at me.

There were old ones I washed who knew the days before the storms. Like Mr. H. I asked him if he was nostalgic for those times.

I was only ten, he said, What did I know?

You lost your family. You were alone.

No, he said, I was cared for. He went quiet like he did sometimes. Leaving me wondering. Then he asked, Will I see people I know when I die?

I shifted in my chair, folded the book closed, and set it on the night table. Oh, I can’t know that, I said. I’m not sure who you will see.

You don’t know?

I don’t.

He folded into himself, frustrated without the right answers.

I pulled his hand loose from where he’d tucked it under the covers. I said, I only see them when I’m washing their bodies, and I guide them to where they need to go if they aren’t sure. But I’ve never followed. I don’t know where it is they get off to. I just know it’s the right place, or else they’d come back.

Do they?

I thought about what I’d heard of hauntings. Yes, I guess they do. I rubbed into the pads of his hand to quiet him and leaned closer. I do know that if you want to stay, if you hesitate, I’ll make sure you find your way. I promise I’ll make sure.

He closed his eyes. It’s like being in this room, forgotten about. I don’t want to die and be alone someplace. Forgotten about.

What he said brought tears to my eyes, and I was glad he couldn’t see that. I squeezed his hand and held it until I was sure he had fallen asleep. Even if that meant I’d be late meeting Luli after school. Even if it meant I couldn’t lollygag near the field where the mule skinner worked.

 

Practical Wisdom

Grains, grapes, heather, blackberries, sloe, crab apples, pears

 

One day as I read to Mr. H., I heard noises in the hall. I turned around in my chair and saw movement at the keyhole. I gave Mr. H. a wink and set the book down softly, then flung open the door to two little boys full of giggles. I bent down to tickle them.

The oldest boy Habersaat pushed me away and said, We want to come in and see Grandpa.

Come in, I said.

Mr. H. was already moving himself to seated, and I helped him prop the pillows.

The youngest grandson said, It smells funny in here.

Mr. H. said, Like farts?

The boys laughed and said, Farts! It’s farts!

Get up here, Mr. H. said, and the children jumped on the bed, bouncing on his legs and belly in a way that couldn’t have been comfortable, but the old man just laughed and rubbed their hair.

You’re not dead, the youngest said.

Mr. H. looked over to me and rolled his eyes. Nope, not dead.

Why not?

I’m too quick for Death, he said. Then he cleared his throat and quieted. In the dead of night—the boys stopped bouncing and listened—I can hear Death coming up the driveway. His feet crunching in the leaves, his big sickle whistling as he swings it. Then he’s at the foot of the bed calling for me: Grandpa, Grandpa. The boys sucked in their breath. Mr. H. continued, And he says, I’ve come to take you with me. And he gets closer and closer and closer and when he’s right up close? The boys nod. I say, You can’t have me! And I tickle him under the chin. Mr. H. reached out and tickled the boys until they screamed.

What on earth?

It was Aubrey at the doorway with a pile of folded sheets in her arms.

We’re visiting Grandpa.

What’s wrong with you? This she said to me. To the boys she said, Come off that bed. You know Grandpa’s sick.

Mr. H. waved his hand at her. It’s nothing, Aubrey. Just a little fun. I could see it had winded him quite a bit. But so what? It was good for him to be with those boys.

---

Once Mr. H. was asleep and I brought the lunch tray into the kitchen, Aubrey asked, What have you done?

I heard the accusation in it. So I only smiled and started washing the dishes.

She hovered. He seems to have caught a second wind.

Yes, I said.

What do you think it is?

I put the dishes on the rack to dry and turned to her, wiping my hands on my skirt since she’d blocked my access to the towel. I guess it’s me, I said, and I laughed to show my sarcasm.

It wasn’t just me, though. It was the hope of living for something other than a lonely sickroom. Books and songs, air through an open window. Grandchildren, watching the hemp harvest. Being included in the family, choosing what to eat, a sponge to clear away the skin’s sour sweat, mint oil rubbed into the chest, lavender on the pillow, the strong breath of fall, color, the circle of time. The promise of a son’s face at the door saying, Dad? Saying, Dad, you still awake? Saying, The skinner trained Old Rosie, you wouldn’t believe it.

Also it is me. I changed death’s clock.

 

Threshold

Corn, aspen, acorns, oak sprigs, wheat stalks, cypress cones, pine cones

 

Evenings with Luli have taken on a quiet rhythm. A gentleness rises between us, even when we fight about face-washing or hair-combing or practicing her letters. Because we also mix oils and press flowers in books and knead bread. She folds into me in bed and for some reason, I hold her little foot by its arch as I find my way into sleep. I figure if something tugs at her in the night, I’ll tug right back.

I can’t recall if there was fighting about hair-combing when I was a girl. I only remember my mother with her brow furrowed and bowls of flowers and herbs turning out their precious oils, and more people dying than my mother could tend to alone. The food we had was what was given as payment for the washing and burying of the dead. My father had died before I could remember him or could remember what marriage or a family might be like.

I didn’t want to be like my mother. Luli deserved some life, some happiness. So did I.

I wonder if the mule skinner and me could have a happy marriage. Me washing the dead, him tending to the cycle of the earth. Would I find him in the barn and would he turn to me and rub his nose under my chin and breathe me in?

Mule skinner, wait, I imagine myself saying in the dark cool, Old Rosie stomping her foot to scare the flies. He’d turn to me with a question in his eyes, his brows lifted, creases forming on his dusty forehead.

Wait, I’d say again, but then what? I’m not sure if I know what to do. Perhaps I would step forward and close the space between us, place my palm on his chest, raise my face to meet his. Maybe he’d pull me by the waist, press his hips into me. Kiss me.

It’s just as possible, he’d say, What? And I’d know this about him, about how he might play dumb. I’d say, Wait, did you give Rosie fresh water? And he’d say that Rosie could wait one minute longer and I’d say, Wait, where’s Luli? And he’d remind me she was in school.

Then he’d put his mouth on mine, and the whole world would disappear around us.

 

Shallow Grave

Chrysanthemum, wormwood, apples, pears, hazel, thistle, pomegranates, pumpkin, corn

 

Mr. H. had wanted his lunch early, but only picked at the corn Aubrey had creamed. Didn’t touch his biscuit.

Your stomach okay? I asked. Want to walk around some and get your appetite back?

No, he said. He lay down in his pillows, and I pulled the quilts up around him. He closed his eyes and breathed a shallow sigh.

I brought his dishes into the kitchen where Aubrey prepared the midday meal for the workers.

Want to stay for lunch? she asked me. My first thought was to say no, but there was some kindness in her voice.

I surprised us both by saying, That would be nice, thank you.

Help me with the table then, she said, and we put out the plates and silverware and cups. She filled a pitcher of water and set it on the table, stacked mugs on the counter by the stove where the coffee perked.

There were three field hands plus Mr. H. Junior and the mule skinner. They stomped up to the porch and scraped their feet on the bristled mat. Once inside, they hung their hats on the pegs by the kitchen door and removed their flannel shirts. This shedding made me blush and I turned to adjust the bowls and food on the table.

Aubrey had already fed the children at their little table on the porch and put them down for their naps. The dogs had cleaned up after them. Aubrey wiped her hands on a towel and tossed it on the counter. Vera is joining us for lunch, she announced.

The men looked up at me and nodded. Mr. H. Junior said, Sit sit, and we did, with me feeling like I’d made a mistake to stay. The men in their undershirts smelling like they did. It made my face go hot.

Mr. H. mumbled something I guess was grace and then everyone reached and grabbed and passed. The mule skinner’s arm brushed mine twice. He said, Pardon, each time.

Once they’d filled their plates, Mr. H. said, We’ll figure it out, Shawn.

I’m not so bad with Old Rosie, one of the hands said. We’ll just be plowing under.

You don’t need the whip, the mule skinner said. A few of the men laughed.

They went on talking and I realized the mule skinner was Shawn. He buttered a biscuit and said, I’d love to come next year if you’ll have me.

Mr. H. pointed at the mule skinner with his fork, We don’t want to lose you for good.

Lose him? Where was he going?

The conversation moved to hemp and curing. They’d have it all hung up in the barn by the end of the week, the kerosene lanterns slow-drying the leaves. The stalks would be stripped and wound into yarn for fabric.

I couldn’t taste my food. Once the men were off the porch, I helped Aubrey wash the dishes.

Where’s he going? I asked.

Who?

The mule skinner.

Shawn? There came a yowl from the back room where the boys had woken up from their nap grumpy as bears. To help with the baby, Aubrey said, then tossed her towel on the counter. Finish up? she asked, and I nodded.

I felt sudsy like the dishwater and just as dirty. I couldn’t get the dishes put away fast enough. What I wanted was to see my little Luli. To hold the one bit of sweetness I had left in my life.

 

Greening the Body

Holly, mistletoe, cedar, bay, juniper, ivy, pine, oranges, lemons, nutmeg, cinnamon

 

The knock on the door had been light, but I didn’t sleep deeply. Death called often in the night, and I’d come to feel its nearness in our community. Its presence. It was the Habersaats’ stable boy before me.

Miss? he asked.

I know, I said. I motioned him in from the chill and held a finger to my lips so Luli wouldn’t wake.

I didn’t need to do more than get my shoes and coat. I’d packed my bag when I returned from the Habersaats’ that afternoon. I’d held Mr. H.’s hand earlier and felt the disappearing of him.

Luli had been learning to read, but still I left two bluebird feathers under an agate on her night table. The symbol that I’d gone to be with the dead and not to worry.

The stable boy had driven the carriage, and we sat in silence on the way. I fiddled with the latch of my bag and bit my lip hard when I felt the heat of tears in my eyes. Death is no reason to be emotional, I repeated to myself.

Aubrey and Mr. H. Junior were pacing in the main room when I arrived and removed my outdoor gear.

Why aren’t you with him? I asked. He was still there, I could tell.

We didn’t know what to do, Mr. H. Junior said.

He’s your father. Sit next to him.

He asked for you, Aubrey said as I brushed past.

By the bed, I took the old man’s soft hand in mine. I’m here, I told him. It is safe to go now. Open yourself to what you can see. There was movement in his hand. A goodbye. There is no danger for you at all, Mr. H. If you get stuck, I’m right here to help.

The Habersaats stood behind me in the little room. It shouldn’t have surprised me that they didn’t know what to do. Most folks don’t know what to do with the dying and even less about what to do with the dead. I rose and Mr. H. Junior took my place by his father’s bed.

Dad, he said and bowed his head. I watched his Adam’s apple roll up and down his throat. Swallowing, swallowing.

I put my hand on his shoulder. Go on and grieve, I said. The spasm that erupted from Mr. H. Junior startled me. It startled Aubrey by the door. The little boys—who’d probably been awake in their room listening out—came running in.

What’s wrong with Daddy? the oldest asked.

Boys, back to your room, Aubrey ordered.

By then, they’d already rounded the bed and climbed up from the other side, clamoring over their grandfather. Grandpa, they cried and laid their heads on his legs and chest.

Boys, Aubrey said again.

Let them, I said, All of this is all right.

We let ourselves cry into the room with winter nudging at the window—frosty fingers palming the glass.

And something else there, too.

I took a deep breath and watched the elder Mr. H. take a shallow one. It was a long time before he drew another. And then he didn’t.

The son had his bandana to his face. The little boys let the tears and snot flow freely, wiping at the wet with their pajama sleeves. Poor Aubrey wrapped her arms around herself at the foot of the bed, shaking.

I took my bag to the kitchen and readied bowls for the washing. Frankincense I thought. And thyme. I put on the water for tea. The night would be long. Standing on the porch woke me up a little, chilly as it was. I said, Well, you finally got them all in your room. I laughed a little at that.

Time bends after a death. It moves through the shadows and pearls of light in a way that can’t be explained. But at some point, Aubrey came out of the sickroom with the little boys and took them into their bedroom and stayed there with them. Mr. H.’s son remained in the sickroom with his father. I could hear him talking. It wasn’t long before birds sang and the sun rose. I made a cup of tea and brought it in.

Best to take a door down, I said. The Habersaats were a big family, and important in this town. They’d want the body of Mr. H. laid out for visitors to come pay respects, and visitors would bring food. We’d wash the body in the bedroom and lay him on the door in the living room.

Mr. H. Junior turned to me, puffed and red. Okay, he said.

I’ll wash here in the bedroom, I told him. Then we’ll put a clean sheet on the door. We can wrap him with a special blanket or cloth.

Mother’s quilt, he said without hesitation. I nodded.

I went out to the kitchen and returned with the bowls of water and oil. Mr. H. Junior pointed to one of the bowls. I can help with that, he said. I smiled at him. He helped me pull off the bedclothes and tuck clean towels under his father. And together we washed. When I warmed the tin of beeswax over a flame and brought out my painter’s brush, I could feel the old man stir in the room. I closed my eyes and prepared myself, but he didn’t need me after all. He was gone like a snowflake on the tongue.

With the body laid out, neighbors arrived with food, and Aubrey stoically gave orders for what would go where.

Mr. H. Junior saw my packed bag and asked, You’re coming back?

Yes, I told him.

 

Rebirth

Snowdrop, camellia, rowan

 

I waited with Luli’s little wagon outside the church where she went to school. The Habersaats lived farther out, and Luli would be tired walking home afterward.

The wagon, she yelled and jumped right in with those skinny legs of hers straight out in front of her, hands curled around the metal rim. Ready, she told me.

I’d brought a quilt, and I settled it around her. We’re going to the funeral, you know, right? There will be food and children to play with. Unless I’d been asked to help out, I didn’t always stay on for the funeral or the burial.

Luli squinted up at me. Are you sad?

I gripped the wagon’s handle. I’m a little sad.

I thought you said death wasn’t a sad thing.

I said, I did?

Luli nodded. When Mama died.

Oh darling. I bent down to take her little hands. How could I have been so hard? I said, I’m sorry. I should have said it’s sad not to be with someone anymore. That we’ll miss being next to them.

And hugging them, she said.

And hugging them, I repeated.

Luli put her arms around my neck and pulled. It strained me, and I had to balance myself on the cold ground with my hands and knees beside the wagon until she released me.

---

The Habersaats’ house was full of people and food and old Mr. H.’s body looked beautiful dressed in rosemary and holly. There were oranges and nutmeg seeds and cinnamon sticks. Luli had never been a shy one: she marched up to old Mr. H., put her hand on his shrouded shoulder, then ran off in search of the children.

One of the field hands approached me with his wife, and introduced us all around.

The wife said, Thanks for your help, Vera.

Of course, I said.

She yours? The wife nodded at the knot of children where Luli played.

I hesitated. Yes, I said, We’ve been together for a time.

A few of the other hands joined, and a family member or two. Someone handed me a strong drink that felt good on my tight throat. Starting to feel more social I said, I hope Shawn’s wife had her baby okay.

The men looked confused and one said, That weren’t his wife. His sister-in-law. The brother had the sickness and couldn’t help out. Shawn’ll be back in spring.

I don’t know where the conversation went from there because the room felt electrified. Like the air during a thunderstorm. The mule skinner’s not married. He’s coming back in spring.

---

Before dusk, I walked with Luli to the Habersaats’ barn where Old Rosie blew her warm breath in clouds in her stall. She gave her foot a little stomp and poked her head out at us.

Mules have the softest ears, I told Luli and lifted her to my hip so she could pet Rosie.

Ooh, Luli said. She put her hands together like a clap and rubbed those long ears with vigor. Rosie turned her head and sniffed Luli’s jacket. Luli said, She tickles.

She likes you.

Does she bite?

I started to say no, but I didn’t know, actually. I’d heard Rosie had been ornery before Shawn came to her. So I said, Just be careful. Gentle on her nose.

We stayed for a while until I worried that Luli might catch a chill. Maybe she was stronger for the fever, but there was the cold wagon ride home. I didn’t want to take chances with the sickness finding its way into her lungs again.

Bye Rosie, Luli said. I put her down and she ran across the lawn to the wagon.

I put my forehead on Rosie’s long nose. I felt drunk on the mead and the smell of frankincense and with love for Luli and the mule’s soft ears. I whispered, There’s no wife, Rosie. He’ll come back.

 

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JENNIFER SPRINGSTEEN is a hospital chaplain and writer in Leesburg, Virginia. Her writing has won several awards including an Oregon Literary Arts Fellowship, two Multnomah County Regional Arts & Culture Council Awards, and a Pushcart Prize nomination. She is represented by Joanna MacKenzie of Nelson Literary Agency. Jennifer and her husband live with Sam the cat. Their daughter is a college sophomore who visits when hungry.

 

Featured image by Ren Ran, courtesy of Unsplash.