Marcus I: Tell me what happened to her

She sent for me in a letter, asking without explanation that I return home as soon as I was able. So I did. Taking the first bus out of New Britain, Connecticut, I headed to Virginia. We had never been particularly partial to one another, my sister and I, and I presumed during our time under the same roof that our neighbors often wondered who would first be murdered in their sleep. But putting the past behind me, I imagined any situation pressing enough to break a four-year silence was pressing enough for me to rush to her aid. I arrived in the darkness of the night, and from the bus station I hopped a taxi to Ferguson Trail, taking up my journey by foot from there. The scene was almost as I had remembered it. The moon sat alone in a cloudless sky, shining above the tops of the trees that bordered the gravel road, and the wind carried a distinct sweetness with it, as it had always done, moving towards the cross that marked the place of the church at the end of the path. But the two willows that I passed—either I had never noticed them there, or they were just planted, and planted wrong—were black, all black and possibly dying. With great difficulty the wind moved their limbs like fingers, inscribing a secret message or perhaps a warning in the dirt beneath them. What was written I couldn’t tell, but I was immensely curious as to what was hidden behind the greatness of their height. However, I consented with myself to save the venture until a more convenient time.

The old neighborhood remained as it had been before: old lumber, bed linens, and screen doors amateurishly pieced together, each home borrowing a small plot of land that placed it only a few feet from its neighbor. A few of them had porches, and Sarah’s was one of them. I could tell she had worked hard on the thing though the steps were splintering apart. Flowers had been planted close to the house; I believed they were white. Aunt Judith had intended to give the house to me when she died and leave me to push Sarah off on some poor fellow. I didn’t want the old heap, and I was more than happy to give it away. Seeing it again after four years, the new porch and white paint making it stand out so plainly against the other unpainted boxes, let me realize that I was still just as happy to have left it. And then Sarah walked out; the light inside backlit her figure through her dress. She was finally putting on a little weight. She wore a sweater, a short-sleeved one, over a flowery dress that stopped at her knees. No shoes—no surprise, she never liked them.

“You didn’t write back. I didn’t think you’d come,” she said.

“We’re family. I had to come. If only to make sure you were all right,” I said, taking her hand.

She watched my lips as I continued to talk, until finally she summoned the nerve to interrupt me.

“I don’t need these folks knowing my business. Let’s go in,” she said.

I followed her into the house, shutting the door behind me and locking it as I had to get accustomed to doing back home. It was much warmer inside, and the smell of sage was almost overpowering. She was much prettier than I remembered, but her cooking was still questionable. Aside from furniture and newly added wall treatments, the house didn’t look much different. A mirror hung across from the couch and chairs, and her dining room set separated the living room from the kitchen. All I could see of the bedroom as I passed into the kitchen was that there was a bed in it.

“You bought a bed,” I said just to spark conversation. She was busy taking a turkey out of the oven and didn’t reply. “Sarah?” I called, but again nothing. I considered that she might prefer keeping her means of acquiring all her new things a secret from me. It, of course, wasn’t as if we had ever been very open and communicative with each other. So, like the willows, I decided to leave that venture for a more suitable time.

The turkey was a polished mud brown, not the color I had seen it at banquets and such, but I hoped the inside would not be so bad off. Our bodies touched slightly as I stood behind watching her slice the turkey. A button on her sweater had come undone, and I could see that the neck of her dress curved low across her chest; her bosom swelled upward with each breath.

“Lovely bird,” I said. She didn’t face me, but she smiled.

“Get some plates for us. They’re over there,” she said, pointing to the cabinets.

We sat to the table and ate what she had prepared: stuffing and turkey, her favorite, not mine. I still wondered why she had asked me to come and stay with her. She seemed to need me so urgently in the letter, but I hadn’t seen any evidence of that urgency since I had walked through the door. The only message I could gather from her was that she was lonely. If that was the only reason, I had to admit that I was sorry to have spent money to come to satisfy her need for company. I patted my hand against the table to get her attention. She set her fork beside her plate and wiped her mouth with a cloth napkin.

“You’re wondering why I asked you to come,” she said, getting up from the table.

I took both our plates, followed her into the kitchen, and just held them, waiting for a reason. As if about to speak, she took a deep breath—but afterwards nothing. Again the same thing, she took a breath and then silence. I sat the plates down on the counter behind me and folded my arms, hoping that that would signal my growing annoyance. The selfish little trickster that I had known before seemed to be standing before me again. I wanted to just shake the words out of her, but I held my peace. Once more, she took a breath, and I took one with her. As I neared the brink of shouting at her to stop all that senseless breathing, she covered her face with her hands and began to cry. My anger quickly subsided in my surprise, and I felt a great deal of pity for her.

“Sarah, don’t cry,” I said, embracing her.

She wrapped her arms around my waist and cried the more, sinking to her knees. I knelt down with her, still holding her and trying to be some kind of comfort.

“Calm down and talk to me,” I said, but she paid me no mind.

Fearing that this crying could go on without end, I forced her to let go of me and held her by her chin so that I looked directly into her eyes.

“Talk to me,” I lightly commanded.

She turned her face from my hold and dried her eyes with the sleeve of her sweater. While she took a moment to catch her breath, I retrieved her napkin from the table and brought it to her.

“Blow your nose, kid.”

She laughed a little and accepted the napkin. I took a seat beside her on the floor and patiently waited for her to speak.

“I’m in trouble,” she said.

I didn’t want to openly speculate, but it seemed most obvious that her trouble was brought on, at least in part, by her new things.

“What kind of trouble?” I asked.

She hesitated and shook her head saying, “I can’t tell you all of it, but I need you to help me.”

“Why can’t you tell me all of it?”

“Will you help me?” she asked, looking at me with tears welling up in her eyes again.

I was unsure of what to answer her. Undeniably, she needed help of some kind, but I had helped her before and had always gotten into such a mess with people because of her many bad decisions.

“If you won’t help me,” she said, standing to her feet, “then you can leave.”

“Sarah . . . ” I inhaled deeply. “What do you need?”

“Just leave,” she said angrily. I pursued her as she walked quickly towards the door.

“I said I would help,” I told her, grabbing her arm and turning her to face me. “I’ll help you, all right? I’m here, aren’t I? I’ll help you.”

I got comfortable on the couch, and I lay down all night but I didn’t sleep. She wouldn’t tell me outright what she needed me for. Certainly, not for money, she could have asked for it in the letter instead of having me come all that way. If she needed protection, well, then from whom? What had she done? I hoped that she wasn’t stealing again. The moonlight slowly turned into sunlight as I continued my meditation.

It was morning. Having spent enough time on the couch and not getting any sleep, I decided that it was time to go wash up. Taking a quick look through the back door, I saw that the small yard was littered with tall bushes and that no attempt had been made to cut them down or trim them back. Vegetation grew against the back of the house and up the side of it. Further sights—a crude bath tented up with four dark sheets hanging like walls had been put back there too. Four posts had been pushed into the ground and the corners of each of the sheets had been fastened to the tops of each of the posts. I was impressed and a bit disgusted; it was not the kind of bathroom I had grown accustomed to using. It would have to do for the time, though. Realizing I was without a towel and soap, I went back to my luggage to retrieve them.

The morning hadn’t much started, and the heat of the day was already underway. I opened the door and stepped out, closing it behind me. Regrettably, not watching my feet, I stepped into a puddle of slick mud, nearly slipping down and breaking my neck had I not caught hold of the door handle. Thankfully, I got my balance. Unfortunately, I dropped my things in the mud. I lifted my feet one at a time to shake off what mud would fall, and gathering my things up, I tiptoed to the sheets, trying not to fall or slip again. Moving cautiously, I finally reached them. Parting one, I started to step in but quickly withdrew upon finding Sarah inside. Her bare back was facing me; luckily she hadn’t caught a glimpse of me. I knocked over a pail of sand in my haste to move out of sight. If she hadn’t seen me, she had definitely heard me.

Just then a door shut. I turned both ways towards the neighbors’ houses, looking to catch anyone who had come outside. An older man in a robe was squinting in my direction. He was either curious as to who I was or curious as to what Sarah was doing. Anxious to get her inside, I threw my things down and rushed into the sheets. Pulling them back, I stepped in, my eyes shut tight.

“Sarah, go inside,” I said.

Hearing no answer, I commanded her to get dressed and go inside again.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“You shouldn’t be bathing outside. Get dressed and go in.”

“Open your eyes, Marcus.”

Opening one eye at a time and slowly, I found myself standing in front of a fully clothed Sarah, in a yellow sweater and white dress this time. Her arms were crossed.

“That was fast,” I said.

She shook her head and smiled, then reached for the bucket of water, pulled up the back sheet, and dumped the water out.

“Put your clothes over there,” she said pointing to a stool, “and there’s a wash cloth and some soap.”

“I’ve got my own,” I said, picking my things up again.

“Stay here; I’ll go get you some hot water.”

I felt a little silly and nervous as I washed up, peeking through the cracks between the sheets to see just how much anyone looking in might catch. I had gone from bathing in a porcelain tub to bathing out of a bucket. I wondered how long I’d end up staying.

I went back inside after I was done, carefully avoiding the puddles of mud. A plate of white grits and eggs had been left for me, with a note that read:

I thought about it last night. You always said for me to fix things on my own. I’ve gone to try again. If I can, I’ll find some money to send you back home. I’ll be back soon.
Sarah

“Do you know Sarah Furrows?” I shouted to her.

“No, sir,” she replied back, waving away flies and continuing her task.

“You don’t?” I asked to be sure.

“I know her,” she said.

“You do?” I asked. Maybe I misheard her. “Where is she then?”

“Who, darling?” she asked, laughing.

I had obviously heard her fine, and I wasn’t finding a second of it funny.

“Sarah, Sarah Furrows!” I was then shouting at her, becoming increasingly aggravated by her jesting.

In perfect timing, a young fellow approached me and gave my pant leg a tug.

“Old Jewels don’t know Sarah. She don’t know nothing but splitting beans. I’m Mookey,” he said.

He was a scraggly little boy with a healthy bit of head lice. I stepped away slightly.

“Mookey,” I said to myself, pondering the oddity of such a name, “you’ve seen her?”

“She go to the field today,” he replied pointing down the road that had led me into the neighborhood.

“What field? Where?”

“That one over there,” he said, still pointing.

“Okay then,” I said, not having the vaguest clue where the field was. “Do you know how to get there?”

“I don’t leave.”

“You don’t leave,” I muttered quietly.

With that, the boy ran off, and I went back inside to fetch my shoes. How would I find the field? With no name and no directions except to leave the neighborhood, I would be all day searching and still wouldn’t find her. On the other hand, she said she would be back, and I had no reason to suspect that she wouldn’t, but then again, she said she was in trouble. And what if she was in trouble and needed me now? I sighed heavily.

Locking the door behind me and hoping she had a key, I began my search. I retraced my path out of the neighborhood and back onto Ferguson Trail. My legs burned with fatigue as I walked, looking for a sign, any sign, to lead me in a sure direction. I had journeyed through the entire afternoon and evening. I had asked as many as I had passed along the way, a few as I approached their homes, and some that stopped me as I attempted to inquire within stores and stations, but no one knew her or where to find her.  Finally, I gave up and turned back. Again, in the darkness of the night I walked the trail to Sarah’s. The wind picked up and rain began to fall, and I considered it just another good bit of fortune on this trip to Virginia. On Ferguson a second time, I realized that I had yet to make a journey out of the black willows—but again, another day.

Getting back to Sarah’s home, I was surprised twisting the knob that the door opened. There weren’t any lights on and not a sound. I jumped as the door was pulled shut behind me. I supposed it was the wind.

“Sarah,” I called.

Not an echo, no reply, I heard just the wind and rain outside. I searched through the house being somewhat accustomed to her not answering me right away.

“Sarah, are you in here?” I called again. The bedroom door slammed shut. “Sarah?”

I headed for the bedroom, one hand before me, the other out to the side, feeling for the wall. At last, I reached her door and with a little force pushed it open. My hand still on the knob, I surveyed the room. It was empty. The bed sheets were in disarray. The curtains were raised to the ceiling by the incoming wind and rain. I left my place at the door to shut the window. Taking a deep breath and with my palms on the sill, I tried to calm my nerves and think of what to do next. Then it came to me—not a thought—a sound, of someone knocking into furniture.

“Sarah,” I called, turning and hurrying out of the room.

It was so dark in the house. She was just a figure running out the back door. I chased after her and grabbed her before she got into the bath. She screamed for me to let her go as if she didn’t know who I was.

“It’s me,” I shouted.

She fought and struggled, and we both fell to the ground. She hit me twice in the mouth, swinging her arms and punching, scratching, fighting in every direction. “Jesus, Sarah. It’s me. Stop it!”

I pinned her down in the mud and held her wrists tight, sitting on her and holding her legs down as best I could manage.

“Get off me! Let go,” she screamed repeatedly.

I couldn’t let go though; she would have run away. She was all but naked, just having on underwear, her sweater and dress both gone.

“Calm down!” I shouted, but she ignored me.

Finally, I had had enough. The rain was falling, and I wasn’t going to hold her down in the mud all night. I grabbed her up and wrapped my arms around her, pinning her arms to her body; I took her inside.

I sat with her against the wall in the bedroom in that position, my arms wrapped around her until she was too exhausted to struggle anymore, so exhausted she fell asleep. I eased my hold after I was convinced she was really sleeping, but I didn’t leave her. I was afraid that if I let her go completely and fell asleep myself, I would wake up and she wouldn’t be there. For a second night I found no rest.

She was her usual self by morning though; as if nothing had happened, she wished me a good morning as she came in from her bath. She couldn’t hide the marks on her face, of our struggle and of another she had gone through on her own. I questioned her, but she refused to tell me what had happened to her, what she had gotten into, where she had been. Just a couple of questions and she was up in arms. Never mind her silence, I would find out for myself.

She made us breakfast: pancakes with jam, scrambled eggs, and she even squeezed us some orange juice. She didn’t speak to me at the table. She barely acknowledged me as I made her promise not to leave the house. Her silence wasn’t strange, nor was her focusing down on her plate to keep from looking at me, but it was then that I realized I had seen her like that before—four years ago—and I had walked out. This problem, whatever it was, had been going on a long time. Maybe I owed her a bit of help.

Late in the afternoon, I left the neighborhood once again, giving instructions and a large stick to Mookey, who by chance came by. I told him to guard Sarah’s house while I was gone, and to cement him to the task, I also promised him a half dollar upon my return. He happily agreed to stay.

Walking at a much slower pace than I had at other times, I felt something like a lion tracking its prey. Everything that came close excited my attention: the yellow leaves that floated down to the ground, the birds that flew up and scattered as I drew near, and the sweetness in the air that grew more pungent as I closed in on those same willows. I parted the hanging branches and entered. With every step I seemed to move more and more slowly. I understood then why the wind struggled to move them. They all worked as one, pulling me in one direction as I fought to go in another. My feet worked into a tangle of them as they covered my face. Pulling them down two and three at a time, I began to gain ground and see some hope of getting out. Knowing that the limbs would not give hold of my foot, I towed them with me, exerting as much force as was in me to take a single step. That whole time, a time that in my mind could have been an hour, not a single gust of fresh air was able to touch me through those branches. But when I finally felt a hint of it, when I had pulled down all that kept it away, I fought the harder to get out. Falling to my hands and knees, I made it. I wiped the feeling of those miserable leaves off my face, tore the knot of the limp branches from my feet, and made a shot at standing. Though tired from my struggle, I pressed on, following a gravel path uphill to a tall, locked, wrought-iron gate. Looking to the left and right of it I could see the fence went on quite a ways, possibly around the entire property.

“No point in coming just to look,” I said to myself, walking off into the woods that bordered the path. I kept far enough from the gate as not to be seen, passing behind trees and shrubs. It was much easier through the woods than through the willows, so I decided that for my trip back I would take the woods back down to Ferguson. Not many minutes passed before I noticed someone working on the grounds not far away. I sized him up before speaking, and figuring that I could fight him if need be or outrun him if that failed, I called to him.

“Hello there.”

Engaged in his labor, he didn’t answer and I supposed he hadn’t heard me, but as I was about to call again, he brushed the dust off his hands and rose from his kneeling position in the dirt.

“If you’re looking for work, you’ll need to get Mrs. Claire to let you in at the gate.”

“Yes, I know,” I lied, “but I was wondering if you knew a Sarah Furrows. I heard she worked in the field.”

He scratched his ear as he tried to recall who I was talking about. “Sarah Furrows?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“No, not here, don’t no women work in the fields. She may work in the house. A pretty black something, is she?”

“With a sweater.”

“Right, I seen her. Don’t think she’ll be coming back here though. Way I heard it, there was a fight yesterday. Her causing a fuss with the master’s wife, or the other way around.  I hadn’t the full story. The husband, McDaniel, he was there, in it with them two women.”

“A fight?” I asked surprised.

“Oh, yes. You know two women can’t be staying under one roof,” he chuckled. “I best be getting back,” he said, turning around to look at the house, “Good-bye.”

“Thank you, sir,” I said.

“It’s June,” he replied, as he waved and walked back to his former place in the dirt.

It was as simple as that, but then again, it wasn’t. I wasn’t satisfied. I had a feeling that there was more to Sarah and her trouble than a fight with some wife. I needed to get inside that house and find out just what had been going on. Today was a start, and as I embarked on my journey back home, I wondered what I would do about Sarah while I went to work.

The sun was just beginning to set as I arrived back home. I hardly expected the little boy to be still there upon my return, and he wasn’t. No matter, I was relieved to see lights on in the house as I walked up the stairs to the porch. I tried the door knob, but it wouldn’t turn.

“Sarah, it’s me,” I said, knocking. As usual, there was no answer.

I walked around the side of the house, having a time trying to fit for my shoulders. The houses were right up against one another. Making it through, I didn’t find her in the bath, and the back door was locked as well. I went back to the front of the house and looked for anyone who might be outside. There was no one but Jewels.

Knowing it would turn out to be a complete waste of my time, but looking for a miracle, I asked her, “Have you seen Sarah?”

“Sarah’s there,” she yelled back, laughing and rocking in her chair.

“Where?” I asked, getting closer. “Point to Sarah.”

“There,” she said, pointing to the church and grinning.

Just as I was about to try the church, Sarah came out of the house.

“Come on in. I didn’t hear you knock,” she said, holding the door open for me.

“Who takes care of that old thing?” I asked, glaring back at Jewels.

“Don’t give Jewels a second thought. She’s far from right upstairs, but it’s not her fault.”

I nodded, walking in and taking a seat at the table. The food had already been prepared and put on plates.

“What’s this?” I asked, tilting a bottle on the table to read the label.

“That’s wine,” she said, taking it from me.

I felt disheartened by her carefree attitude and this expensive beverage I knew she hadn’t purchased. She uncorked it and poured herself a glass. I placed my hand over my glass before she could pour for me.

“You don’t want any?” she asked.

“No,” I said. “Look, I’m not going to ask you where you’re getting all these things from. If you wanted me to know, you’d tell me. But I did say that I’d help you, and aside from all that I need to be working while I’m staying here. I’ve already got an idea of where, and I might be starting as soon as tomorrow.”

“You don’t need to work. I’ve got money.”

“And where are you getting it from?” I asked, knowing she wouldn’t say.

“I work for it,” she said defensively.

“Not anymore.”

Angered by my audacity, by my order, and my forbidding that she should continue to bring trouble to herself as she had done in the past, she threw the bottle to the floor, breaking it and covering the floor in red wine and glass. It was more shock than my own anger at her actions that made me grab her. I pulled her in close and spoke with all seriousness, demanding that she listen.

“You told me to come. I came. You asked for help. I’m here. Grow up. Your way doesn’t work.”

She was still upset after I told her that. I thought that she would leave just to spite me, but she didn’t. I let her go and we cleaned up the wine together. We ate silently, and afterwards she went to her bedroom, no goodnights exchanged. I hoped that things would set off in a new and better direction in the morning. I closed my eyes and slept soundly for the first time in two days.