Free The Mercy Seat by Rilla Askew

children were hard asleep, Thomas snoring his tiny soft snores beside me, and I was afraid to move, afraid to breathe nearly, and I didn’t know why. I had my legs pulled up and folded in front of me like always, because I was ever more afraid of losing my legs from the knees down than of losing my hair. So I was awake, hugging my knees and breathing lightly, and afterwhile the dogs settled down completely, and it was quiet. I heard my name. Papa spoke it.
    â€œTake Matt then!” he said. “Take Matt and the baby!” He was whispering loud, though you could tell he was trying not to, his voice scraping harsh through the papery wood and blankets of the lean-to.
    â€œHow, John?” Mama’s voice was so thin. Thin like the bones in her arms. “How can I? You know I can’t.”
    â€œI can’t, Demaris. I can’t. I can’t go back, you know that, but you won’t ever hear it. All right then, take the wagon, take Matt and Lyda, go back. We won’t wait for any damn crop. I’ll take the others on.”
    â€œIn what?”
    It was quiet just a heartbeat, and then I heard Papa say, “I’ll hire out from Misely.” Quiet a little longer, and then Papa’s voice coming softer, without the harsh scrape in it. “I don’t know what else to do. What do you want me to do?”
    â€œTake me home.”
    A rough sound, a disgust sound from Papa.
    â€œTake me home, John.”
    â€œAre you deaf, woman? Are you stupid?”
    â€œTake me home to my family, John. I want to go home.” Mama’s voice came low and steady and relentless, like she really couldn’t hear him, or like she had only those words crowding her mind, no room left in it for hearing. “We’ve come far enough, we do not need to go farther. Take me home.”
    â€œI ain’t! I done all I could, woman.”
    â€œWhat? What have you done but tear me from my family to bury me in these mountains? I cannot breathe, John, I can’t stand up straight.”
    â€œâ€”stopped here for you to get to feeling better—”
    â€œâ€”cannot breathe, you are choking—”
    â€œâ€”put us in a crop—”
    â€œâ€”me, this dark is choking me—”
    â€œTake ’em and go back! Go on back if you think you’re just going to die for your mama. I mean it. Mattie can drive them mules. Y’all go on back.”
    I thought I heard that old sound then, the sound like Sudie’s pups crying beneath the porch steps, but I could not be sure, and my heart was squeezing so tight with that thought then, me going home to Kentucky with Mama, and Papa kept on, but softer a little. Only a little.
    â€œI got to go on. I got to. If you got to go back awhile yet, you could. I believe Mattie could drive ’em.”
    â€œNot a while, not while, John.”
    â€œI’ll just go on and get settled. When I get us a house built, I can send word. It won’t take more than a few months maybe. Y’all can come by train. Won’t no law be looking for you on a train, you can come easy on the train, ride it right into the Territory, I heard that, somebody said it at Booneville, they’re laying tracks plumb across the Territory. Or else . . . y’all could . . . you could just come on with me now.”
    It was quiet a real long time, and when she spoke again, I heard it, the ferociousness in Mama’s voice, like the look upon her in the days since she’d got up from her tree stump, like how she would work and destroy everything in fury, the sound thin still, seeping out of her like a leak in an earth dam. “They’re little savages already, John! I do not intend to raise my children amongst a bunch of heathen.”
    â€œAin’t only heathen in Eye Tee.”
    â€œI guess you count your brother.”
    â€œHush up about Fay.” Papa’s voice scratching deep in his throat, him holding it, holding it.