although it was full of people, the room seemed empty. The
many voices of the guests and relatives merged together into a hum that rose
and fell, that buzzed about her ears and then flew away, but stayed close
enough that she could sense its presence. Leta sat in a chair against the wall
in the corner of the living room, nearly hidden from view, watching the figures
move about, most familiar, but at this time strangers. Her sisters were
thanking the guests and sharing stories. Her brothers-in-law—and her husband,
she presumed—were huddled together around the corner in the dining room, where
she could not see them, chatting about automobiles, employment, or whether or
not they would be having a hard winter. Her daughter Vivian was in the kitchen,
helping keep order in their delicate situation. Vivian’s husband Ed had already
taken their son Don home. The two ate, stayed for a few minutes, and then left.
Her son Dale, daughter-in-law Kathryn, and their daughter Connie had done the
same thing, but they had their own grief. Their little boy Sonny was gone only
a year, so their pain was fresh with the memory.
Leta’s niece June was also in the kitchen, back and forth as
the gathering necessitated, Her older niece Lucille had gone into a bedroom
some time ago. For the past three weeks, the young woman had been inconsolable.
She had too much regret to bear in front of company, almost too much to address
on her own.
Florence was sitting on the couch in front of her. Leta could
see the back of her sister-in-law’s head as it swayed with the conversations
she was having with the other mourners. Sometimes she became very still, and in
those moments, Leta felt as through they truly were sisters.
Leta’s brother Aaron, Florence’s husband, father of Lucille
and June, had been ill for months. Florence did her best to take care of him at
home by herself. There were times that the pain was so great that he screamed
throughout the night, and during the day, moaned in his sleep. Once in an
agonizing flailing, he inadvertently gave her a black eye, but she accepted it.
There was little else that she could do. Aaron was her husband.
The strain on Florence was relieved near the end of the summer
by the participation of her sisters-in-law in the care of their brother.
Nellie, Louise, and Leta created a rotation in which each spent three days during
a two-week period nursing their brother and helping Florence with whatever she
needed. They cleaned, they cooked, and they did the laundry—whatever she needed.
By the end of October, they all knew that Aaron had few days left to spend with
them. The doctor paid his last visit on November 20, informing them that he
would be gone within a week, and he died on November 25, 1949. Florence and
Leta were with him. He had been sleeping, and then his breathing changed. The
women instinctively went to opposite sides of the bed. He seemed to reach out a
hand to Florence, and she took it. Leta took his other hand. He gripped them
slightly and then eased back into the permanent sleep.
The women looked at each other, and in silent agreement, they
relaxed and simultaneously knelt beside the bed, folding their hands in prayer.
A few days later, after Aaron had been laid to rest, Leta sat
during the post-funeral gathering. It was late in the afternoon, turning dark
outside, and gradually the guests were leaving. Shortly after Vivian’s
departure, Leta left her place in the corner of the living room and assumed the
responsibilities that her daughter had been undertaking. Most of the food had
either been consumed or reorganized onto a few serving platters. The kitchen
was fairly spotless. Leta put on a pot of coffee. From experience, she knew
that Florence was in for a long night.
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