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UP FROM THE GRAVE HE ROSE

It is the first Saturday in April. Jedidiah stands in his shallow punt and looks across the salt marsh where the cord grass is beginning to green even though patches of ice persist. He takes a deep breath—briny decay of grass and lets it out unevenly through the pockets of sadness in his chest.  He thinks of his Martha, how she loved this spot and pictures how only last June, she stood here on the beach at low tide, her skirt tied up around her knees digging for clams, her huge belly full of promise. And then he winces as her screams and pleas for help close in on him, and how he yelled at Doc Hand to do something. All that blood and then silence which even now makes him shudder.

The next day there is the sound of shovels being thrust in to the ground, one coffin--mother and baby lowered, his Emma, just twelve, holding on to his arm sobbing, and William, now eight, holding onto his hand, crying quietly while he held Elizabeth, three, who whimpered for her moma as he held her against his shoulder. The thought that he knew that Martha was afraid of having more children barged in on him like a relative who was told they are not welcome but who shows up anyway and can’t easily be put out. Against his wishes he recalls how he wanted her so badly; and well she wanted him too, or at least seemed to. He shakes his head attempting to throw off these thoughts, turns to check on his horses and wagon tethered to a tree, pulls his hat down and squints against the sun playing with blinking diamonds across the water, picks up the long oak pole and pushes off hard. He’s a big man, 6’2” with huge hands and broad shoulders. Once at a fair, a barker challenged him to pick up a cow and Jed refused, laughing, “Why should I frighten the cow?”

 As he poles the boat along, he wonders if the breeze from behind him is God’s hand on his back pushing him along. He pauses to stretch his back and notices a great Blue Heron standing along the shallows. He whispers, “Greetings friend, lord of the Salt Marsh.” The huge bird spots him, lifts off with a loud squawk of complaint. Jedidiah stops poling, follows him as he banks low over the far wetlands, murmurs an apologetic, “Sorry, didn’t mean to disturb you.”

By now he can see Caleb clearly on the far shore. “He’s got a nice family,” he muses, then smiles, “homely kids--poor jug-eared Thomas.” He thinks of Caleb’s sister, Abigail, a widow now after James’ fishing boat went down in a storm, what, is it four years already-- a sweet woman, soft and pretty too, with thick red hair and a great laugh. Then he recalls the pastor telling him to remarry, “The children need a mother,” and, looking over the top of his glasses said, ”Besides, Emma will soon blossom into a woman and she’ll need a mother then.” He paused, cleared his throat and looked off to the side, “And, a man needs a wife, lest he be tempted by impure thoughts.” Jedidiah shakes off thoughts of Abigail by picturing Martha’s warm smile, her trim body, her light brown hair flowing over her shoulders and down to her full breasts. He recalls how when she first died he’d smell her clothes just for the scent of her and how he slept holding her nightgown, carefully returning it to the drawer in the morning lest someone go into the bedroom and suspect what he’d done. The chill breeze makes him shiver.

Jedidiah poles across the back of the bay where he half expects to see terrapins but knows they won’t appear for another month or so. He recalls how their heads which look like small branches reach up to take a breath, then duck under the water while he was still yards away. He stops to watch small rafts of dead cord grass stalks slowly flow out in the tide. A gull feeds on what’s left in a clam shell.

As he approaches Cord Wood Beach he stops, looks up to see Caleb standing next to his wagon loaded with firewood. He is a small man with a round face and waves of red hair. Jedidiah immediately sees that Abigail isn’t with him and feels disappointed but relieved too. He poles up to the beach, steps out and pulls the boat up.

“Jed, it’s good to see you, ” Caleb smiles pounds him on the back, forces extra cheer, “How are things going?”

“Oh okay,” Jed manages a smile.

Caleb’s face turns to furrows as he retreats.

Jedidiah’s sadness weighs down the air and they move slowly as they load the wood up on the punt without speaking. When they finish they sit on the edge of the boat. Caleb passes the jug of water and they drink, still without speaking. Finally Jed stands, “Thanks. With Emma, William and Elizabeth, I don’t have the time to cut my own wood.”

They turn away, Jed toward the boat and Caleb toward his wagon

but Caleb turns around, adds a lighter lilt to his voice, “Say Jed, how about coming for Easter Sunday dinner. Bring the children of course. You know Abigail will be there. She uh, always thought a lot of you, you know.”

Jed feels a lightness rising in his chest, hopes it doesn’t show as he walks back to Caleb. They stand facing one another, “I don’t want to seem ungrateful,” Jed looks down, pushes a small stone with the toe of his boot, “but well…I don’t know…”

“You and the children’ would just be coming to dinner. Not like you’d be courting or anything. Besides, Jed,” he pauses for Jed to look up at him, “it’s almost a year now, it’s time. If not Abigail then someone else.”

“Well, I appreciate it a lot, but let me think about it.” He turns to go.

“Jed, one more thing,” calls Caleb, “You know Martha always liked her.”

Jed nods then pushes off. The load weighs down the punt leaving only a few inches of freeboard. A wind bears down from the north causing small waves to slap against the side of the boat sending spray and water into the boat. He poles toward the reeds where the water is calmer but the tide is going out fast now and he sees it is too shallow there so he heads straight for the shore across open water. The waves grow, form white caps which wash over the low sides of the punt making it sink lower in the water. He poles hard then bends to bail, alternating between poling and bailing, struggling midway between the two shores, making only slow headway. He catches a glimpse of Caleb watching him from the shore and ahead at his horses and wagon waiting for him, then tries to measure his progress against a patch of snow lingering in the shade along the shore. He is unsure if he’s going anywhere. Despite his bailing, he sees that the water in his boat is threatening to swamp him and pictures the boat foundering leaving him in the frigid water and the wood floating away. He now puts all his weight and strength against the pole.

Finally he manages to get close enough to the shore so the trees shield him from the wind and he floats the punt down to the beach where it crunches against the sand and gravel.  He wades ashore avoiding the horseshoe crabs in the shallows by the beach. By now he is cold and wet; his boots squish on the hard packed sand. The Great Blue Heron is roosting on a nearby tree. Jed tips his hat. He leads his horses and wagon close to the punt and throws log after log up and onto the wagon.

Jedidiah sits on the edge of the punt to rest, his back to the beach and  looks out across the water. He can barely make out Caleb slowly making his way from the beach, imagines him telling Abigail that he saw him and about the invitation and how Abigail might smile to herself. He imagines Sunday dinner at Caleb’s house and how they’d seat him across from her and how strange it would seem with everyone including his children sitting there: all the adults would understand the purpose but everyone would act as if it were just Easter dinner. Jed imagines Abigail would be wearing a yellow dress with buttons down the front and maybe if they took a walk after lunch and stopped by the pond he might touch her hand, and although he knows it unthinkable for him to try, he allows himself to wonder if she would permit him to kiss her, which in his reverie she does and they walk hand in hand, Abigail smiling. He sighs deeply, puts his hands on his knees and pushes himself up, looks at the lowering light in the sky and suddenly concerned about getting home before dark takes the reins and urges horses and wagon up the beach to the rutted road which winds its way through the woods of maple just beginning to show its purple panicles. The road near the beach is still hard-packed sand so the wagon moves easily. Jed notes the skunk cabbage just beginning to unfurl—a sign of warmer weather to come. A newly thawed stream fed by underground springs and snow melt, gurgles alongside the road; small stones—tan, black, white, even red—line the bottom, bright green duckweed grows in shallows. He stops walking and quickly kneels down, dips his cupped hands into the icy water and takes a drink—so cold but with the peaty taste of water flowing through woods filled with unfurling ferns. The road is deeply rutted, strewn with rocks heaved up by the spring thaw. At first he walks ahead and afraid of breaking an axle under the heavy load he clears rocks out of the way. Then in a muddy stretch where the stream has overflowed the road, Jed gets behind the wagon and pushes. Several times a wheel gets caught in a rut under the mud, and worriedly looking at the declining light, he turns, puts his back against the rear of the wagon, finds a solid spot, digs his heels in and strains so hard the veins stand out on his neck and forehead. The light is fading quickly now and in a second stretch of mud he rushes to take chunks of wood from the wagon, puts them into the mud and uses them as steps so he can help push. When they finally near the top of the hill he breathes easier, takes the reins and leads the horses up, encouraging them with soft talk and rousing “gee-haws.’ 

 When they turn onto the main road, he gives each of the horses a few carrots, strokes their necks, climbs up on the seat, makes a clicking sound with the side of his mouth and the horses fast-walk the mile down North Road lined with maples and scrub oak. Their branches reach up stiffly into the darkening gray sky and clatter in the chill wind. He notices a mountain laurel swaying  hopefully in front of the Wilkins’ funeral parlor. The hooves of his horses clop; the wheels grind against the hard road. He takes a deep breath--the air has the icy smell of a spring snow on the way and yet he detects the pungency of woods beginning to stir. Jed holds his hands under his jacket to keep them warm. He nods to Pastor Wentworth just coming out of the church. A woman with red hair reminding him of Abigail, comes out of Thompson’s General store and walks the wooden walkway to her carriage. Jed watches the sway of her hips, the curve of her generous breasts, the shape of her calf as she climbs up on her wagon. He touches his hand to his hat and suddenly wants so very much to be with her, imagines her smile encouraging him, how he would hold and kiss her, how she is staying at the Inn on her way to the East End and imagines her inviting him to her room and how she would be as hungry for him as he would be for her. Suddenly he is aware of his longing  and he berates himself, “My God, maybe she’s married and has a child, and Martha...” His face reddens with shame, hoping no one can see what he was thinking, imagines that the tree branches swaying in the wind are clacking like disapproving crones.

He turns down River Street where there are no trees, giving it a barren, wide-eyed look and he recalls how last year this time Martha said how bleak it looked and how she longed for spring. He thinks of her and how they used to enjoy each other’s bodies, how he loved to hold her breasts and kiss her nipples and how eager she was to have him enter her. He smiles as he remembers when they first got married, how tentative they were, neither of them had ever been with anyone else but soon all it took was a smile and nod on his part toward their bed room and a sly smile on her part and they were enjoying one another. He is jostled out of his reverie when a dog snaps at the heels of the horses so they shy and rear. He soon brings them under control and continues along the hard-packed street spotted with horse manure. He turns down Brown’s Road toward his house and notices that Mary Raferty has picked some yellow bellworts and put them in a jug by their door. He remembers how Martha used to do that and feels sadness spread across his chest and lodge in his throat. He arrives at his house—it looks so drab to him, with its weathered-gray cedar clapboards. He takes a breath trying to clear away the loneliness which lifts momentarily when he thinks that maybe he should get the children to pick some wild flowers to brighten up the house. Then the sadness flows back like water in the bay which has flowed up the beach and then inevitably slides back into the bay.

After caring for the horses he makes tea and sits warming his hands on the cup while watching the blood-red western sky fade into purple, lavender and palest blue before turning black. He eases himself into the rocker and sits in the dark house thinking back, as he has thousands of times, to that night with Martha. How he wanted her so badly, how he knew she had an awful time giving birth to Elizabeth, how he moved over toward her in bed and how she said she was afraid. He closes his eyes remembering how he touched her breast and she moved his hand away but he touched her again and she didn’t stop him and then she turned to him and how after they made love she burrowed into him and said, “I’m glad, I’ve missed you,” or, he wonders, is he just now imagining she said that? And then he recalls a few months later how she would look down and stroke her large belly and how her forehead wrinkled with a worry he had never seen with her other pregnancies. He sits there in the dark, rocking back and forth hugging himself as if trying to hold himself together against the grief and the guilt that he knew her fear and yet the doctor’s telling them that it would be all right—don’t women sometimes have a difficult time giving birth with one baby and then next is easier.

The clock on the mantle chimes six reminding him that Emma would soon bring Elizabeth and William home and start dinner. He lights the kerosene lamps—one in the kitchen and one in the parlor near the door to light their way. When they come in, William and Elizabeth laugh and giggle as they climb on him using him as a friendly tree. Emma informs him that, “The children have been good but William didn’t want to eat his lunch.” And then, “Mr. Thelan should bring his cart through next week; maybe we should get a new shirt for William—his are getting small.” Later, as Emma is serving the few remaining potatoes from the root cellar, he notices the way she carries herself, how she no longer seems to be the tall, skinny schoolgirl she was just a few months ago, but now he notices something womanly about her—hips and a hint of breasts.

The next afternoon after church and lunch, he rides out to Martha’s grave. The cemetery overlooks the water, cedars with their red peeling bark dot the area. He goes through the iron gate, passes a cedar and rubs his hand across the bark then smells its fragrance on his fingers. He walks up to the grave and kneels down. He bows his head and begins telling Martha the news of the children--how Elizabeth is beginning to read and how William had to stay after school because he was late coming in from recess and how Emma, he takes a deep breath, is becoming a woman. “I don’t know how to talk to her---she needs a mother, all the children need a mother and I’m so lonely and,” Jedidiah weeps “we can’t have you.” He pauses, “Caleb asked us to Easter Sunday dinner.” He pauses again. “Abigail will be there. Is it all right to go?” He covers his face and waits as if asking for her blessing. He kneels a long time. The knees of his pants are wet. The cedars blow in the gentle breeze which comes over the salt marsh bringing the piquant smell of freshly greening cord grass. He slowly gets up from the grave.

That afternoon Jedidiah writes a note to Caleb and Emily accepting their invitation.

The following Sunday after church, and after making sure the children are all neatly dressed and combed, and wearing a new shirt he bought for himself from Mr. Thelan when he bought one for William, he seats the children in the wagon and drives over to the Thompsons. The sun is bright and warm; the mountain laurel is blooming and their pink and white blossoms wave cheerfully in the light breeze; the dogwoods look ready to burst. He finds himself smiling and hums “Up From The Grave He Rose,” a hymn he’d sung at church.

As the road bends toward the water, Jed watches a Great Blue Heron standing motionless suddenly jab at the water to catch a small fish. Although Caleb and Emily’s house is weathered-gray cedar like the others, the shutters are painted moss green and the path up to the front door has a fresh covering of crushed oyster and clam shells.  Two budding maples rise and sway near the path. Caleb’s entire family comes out to welcome them. Jedidiah’s eyes dart here and there looking for a glimpse of Abigail; he finally sees her near the door; she’s wearing a high-necked brown dress and looks heavier than he remembered, her hair not nearly so red. His smile fades from one of anticipation to politeness. Emma, and Sara Thompson who is a year older, pair off whispering and giggling, while William and Thomas go to the creek behind the house for a pre-dinner adventure.  Emily takes Elizabeth’s hand and leads her into the kitchen. As Abigail slowly comes forward, Jedidiah watches her, trying to remember if she used to wear glasses but keeps looking away trying not to stare.

Now it is just the three of them—Jed, Caleb and Abigail standing next to the wagon. “Hello Abigail, it is nice to see you.” Jed forces cheerfulness into his voice hoping his disappointment does not show.  “How are you this fine Spring day?”

“Hello Jedidiah, I’m feeling just fine. It is nice to see you too.” The warm breeze blows a wisp of her auburn hair; she tucks it behind her ear.

Caleb slips away mumbling that he’ll care for the horses.

She looks down, “I was so sorry about Martha,” then raises her eyes and Jed sees a softness and compassion in her mouth and around her soft brown eyes he’d never noticed in her before, “She was such a good friend to me when we were in school.”

Jed nods sadly, “Thank you for your note after she died. It was a real comfort.” He sees that she is studying his face and then she breaks out in a broad smile, “My Lord! Its been such a long time, two years now isn’t it.” She hesitates and then her face becomes serious, “I think we’ve both changed. Grieving’s put character in our faces.”

He sighs, “Thank you. I didn’t think it showed that much.”

“Jedidiah Hawkins,” she brightens into a kind smile, her brown eyes softening, “Now your face has character and it becomes you. You look fine, just fine.”

“Thank you,” he smiles eagerly, “you do too, Abigail Tuthill!”

Caleb calls over, “Emily and Abigail have made us a grand feast, I think we can go in now.”

They walk silently to the house; Jed watches her walking in front of him,  unaware of the comforting swoosh of warm breeze through the pines. He thinks she is a little short and squat with too big hips and without Martha’s elegant grace, and yet, he feels how kind and soft she is, without any of Martha’s occasional sharp edges.

Emily directs Jed to sit opposite Abigail at the long oak table Caleb’s father made. Jed notices that the grain of the wide boards forms six even cathedrals, a zigzag across the table between them. Caleb says grace and they begin with oysters from the salt marsh. Jed holds the rough gray-brown outside shell and as he pulls out the meat marvels at the smooth pear shaped inside. Then Abigail brings out a goose and a leg of lamb along with fresh peas and parsnips she had prepared especially for the occasion.  Jedidiah raises his eyebrows in delight as he surveys the feast before him, thinking that Martha had never made anything so grand, how Emma does her best now with Mrs. Mullins’ help; but everything is very simple.

Abigail offers him some of the lamb, which Jed eagerly tries. She stops eating to watch him cut and taste a piece then she smiles as she sees him break into a smile. He looks up, “Abigail, this is wonderful! I don’t know when I’ve ever had anything so good.” He pauses, focusing on her face, “You’re smiling?”

“Yes, I was enjoying how much you were enjoying the food.”  

His smile grows.

Jed continues eating but sees how Abigail notices that Elizabeth, who is next to her, is struggling with her meat and how Abigail turns, leans down and whispers, “Honey, would you like some help?” Elizabeth looks up and smiles, nods yes. A warm feeling flows through Jed as he watches Abigail cut her meat, then lean over and give her a kiss on her head,  glancing over from time to time to see how she is doing. After dinner he watches Abigail and Emma laugh together while clearing the dishes, bringing them into the kitchen and then return to the table.

Jed plays nervously with his spoon,  “You have a nice way with children; you must like being a teacher.”

“I do. Very much.” She looks directly at him. “After James died, I was in an awful way—lonely, lost really. Then last year I got the position here and moved back. I love to teach but of course…” She looks away and Jed notices a wistfulness about her. He wants to reach over and touch her arm to comfort her but holds back. “Well,” she takes a deep breath and smiles, “enough of that.” Jed’s face becomes a mix of pain and compassion in the way his forehead furrows and his mouth tenses up. Her smile fades into concern, “It is hard for you now but it will get easier in time.”

“That’s what people say. I hope so.”

When tea is served, the children ask to be excused and go off; Caleb and Emily soon excuse themselves leaving Jed and Abigail at the table.

Jed glances over at her, takes in her straight nose, soft lips, but looks away quickly when she turns toward him. They both divert their eyes. Then looking up at the same time they begin talking at once and laugh awkwardly. Jed says, “I’m sorry, please go ahead.”

“No nothing,” she demurs. “I was just commenting that it was a pretty spring this year.” Jed notices her large brown eyes smiling as she speaks.

“Oh yes. Our kitchen garden is doing well. Peas are up. Radishes are ready.” They are both quiet for what seems to them a long time. Jed clears his throat.

“Did you say something?” Abigail looks up eagerly.

“No… Well, only that Martha spoke of you with such warmth—how you used to make her laugh .”

“She was a good audience. I remember the time when…” Abigail stops, as if unsure if she should talk about Martha. Jed leans forward and says, “Yes, go on.” She continues, “One winter we were walking home from school and some younger boys started throwing snow balls at us. Well,” she said with a note of triumph in her voice,  “we put down our books and showered them with snowballs chasing them clear past the General store. We had quite a laugh over that.”

Jed laughs, “The two of you must have been quite a pair.”

“We had some good times.” She looks down and says, “You were older and didn’t pay any attention to us, but I could tell Martha—she wouldn’t admit it—was sweet on you. Well, I was …” She puts her hand to her mouth and Jed notices her face redden, “I’d better see about some more tea,” she says pushing  back her chair.

“Abigail,” Jed looks up. “I’ll confess I noticed her—actually I, er, uh, noticed both of you.” His mouth turns up in a smile and then looks away embarrassed.

A thin light from the fading sun comes through a small window landing on the table between them.

Just then Emma brings in Elizabeth who is crying that William pushed her. Jed picks her up and comforts her, then turns to Emma, “I think its getting late. Perhaps we should go so that we can at least start out in the light.”

When they are saying good-bye, with Jed thanking them for such a wonderful afternoon and Caleb and Emily looking for some sign of how he and Abigail were getting on, little Elizabeth goes over and hugs Abigail’s legs. Abigail bends down and gives her a kiss.

On the way home, Emma jabbers away at what fun she had but Jedidiah is barely aware of what she is saying. The sun is setting behind him so he misses seeing how the clouds that evening were pink on the bottom and gray on top. He is unaware that the Great Blue Heron is roosting in a snag near the water. His horse clops along the road that with nightfall becomes less and less visible. After being with a whole family Jed feels even more alone than before. He thinks of Abigail, hair more auburn than the red he’d remembered, coming toward him, her softness and kind smile; and then Martha, tall, slim even after bearing children, sparkling blue eyes. The wagon hits a rut, then a stone he can’t see and lurches first to one side then the other as Jed calms the horses with a soft, “Easy now.” All his mixed feelings about Abigail engulf him and he feels so unsettled that he wants to escape from his body. He covers his face hoping that in the deep darkness Emma doesn’t notice.

The next morning he sits down at his desk, pulls out a piece of paper, takes up his pen, dips it into the inkwell, and writes a thank you note to Caleb and Emily, adding an invitation to Caleb, Emily, their children and Abigail to come to his house the following Sunday for dinner after church.