Sharyn McCrumb - The Ballad of Tom Dooley

I slipped away around the back of the house before she could catch sight of me, and I went back to weeding the garden. We never said a word to each other for the rest of the afternoon. Ann paced the yard like a caged bear, and I think I could have shouted at her and she’d not have heard me.

It was gathering dark when Tom Dula finally showed up, but, although James was sound asleep in his bed, Ann was yet awake, and I reckoned that all her trouble over the nail and string had been for naught, for Tom opened the cabin door and came in without a word to either of us. He sat down on a stool next to the empty hearth and stared into its blackness as if there were flames there that only he could see. Ann touched his arm a time or two, and he looked up at her, and tried to smile, but it weren’t no use, and an instant later he would fall back to gazing at nothing again.

“You must be tired,” I said to him. “You want me to fix you a bed?”

He barely glanced at me. “I can’t stay,” he said, talking more to Ann than to me. “I’m off home directly.”

Ann started to say something, but he had turned away again, so she got out her wooden comb and began to brush her black hair down over her shoulders. I couldn’t see any sense in holding off on my drinking now, for there would be no secret meetings between them tonight, so I reached under Ann’s bed for the jug she kept there, and took a long pull of whiskey to make me drowsy. Ann looked like she wanted to talk, but she could see that Tom was in no mood even to hear chatter, much less try to join in.

After a few more minutes of silence, broken only by the peaceful snores of James Melton, Tom got up and stumbled past us to the bed. He threw himself across it, like he was going to sleep, and he buried his face in the covers, but after a moment or two, I heard him bawling like a new-weaned calf.

I looked over at Ann, and she looked more scared than sorry, but she didn’t go near Tom. She blew out the candle, and we sat there for a minute or so in darkness, listening to Tom’s sobbing.

We had made a pallet of quilts on the floor in case Tom wanted to stay, and Ann crawled into it, and lay down like she meant to go to sleep, and as it was cold and dark now in the cabin, I crawled in after her, figuring I might as well sleep, too. I was hoping that the likker I’d drunk would ease me into oblivion, despite the snores and the weeping, but as I stretched out there, waiting for the darkness to drag me under, the pallet started to shake, and I realized that Ann was crying, too.

I figured something was bound to happen soon, for there was no use in the two of them laying there three feet apart in their separate miseries. I was glad neither of them expected me to comfort them, for I never could understand what made people cry. I know that some people weep when they cut a finger or get a bellyache, but pain never takes me that way. It just makes me angry that I cannot stop the hurt. Grief and regret are things people talk about, but I do not see the point in dwelling on things that are over and done with and cannot be changed. I wondered why Tom and Ann were weeping, and all I could figure was that they were afraid of what was going to happen to them. If they had turned to me for consolation, I would have told them what fools they were to waste time on tears. If they were afraid of what was coming, they’d be better off planning to fight back with clear heads, instead of bewailing their fate. But they didn’t ask me for anything, so I lay there trying to muffle the noise so I could sleep.

Presently, Ann’s shoulders stopped heaving, and she turned back the covers, and slid out, making straight for the door and slipping outside without a word to me or Tom. He heard her leave, though, for a moment later he had got up and followed her out. They were gone for a couple of minutes, and then Tom came back in alone and in the light from the open doorway, I could see him go straight past me and over to the head of Ann’s bedstead. He slid his hand underneath it and pulled out that knife I’d seen her hide there. He stuck it into his belt, and I saw that he meant to take it away with him.

“I’m bound for Tennessee, then,” he told her.

She shook her head, too stricken to speak, and after a moment she reached up and stroked his cheek with her hand.

It was a mild summer evening, and, after Ann had stolen out of the house, Tom caught up with her under the trees in the side yard. I knew she didn’t want her husband overhearing too much of their talk, for they reckoned that he knew nothing of what had happened to Laura, but also because they had private things to say to each other as lovers. I wondered why they bothered to be so secretive. I never saw any sign at all that James Melton cared one way or the other what they did.

I had a jug of whiskey I’d got from Wash Anderson two days before, and since I’d finished Ann’s, I took it out of the shed where I’d hid it, and I went around to the front of the house where some weed cedars grew close to the house, and I crawled up underneath one of them with my whiskey, close enough to hear most of what Tom and Ann were saying, and to get a glimpse of them through the cedar branches, but I reckon I could have stood right out in the open and waved my arms and they’d not have seen me, so intent were they on each other.

That is just what is wrong with them, I thought. They never see anything but each other. If James Melton was made a prisoner in his own house by his wife’s indifference; if Laura Foster became a plaything for one of them to make the other one jealous; and if Wilson Foster lost his daughter and half the community wasted many days in planting season hunting for her corpse-why, none of that made a bit of difference to Ann or Tom. Just as long as they had each other, the rest of the world could go hang.

But they wouldn’t have each other for long. I sat still under the cedar branches, and listened to the lovers’ farewell.

“I can’t lose you,” said Ann, and I think she’d have screamed it to the sky if she hadn’t been afraid of being overheard.

Tom held her for a while and then he pulled away, and said, “I’ll come back for you. Let me get away to Tennessee and get myself situated there, and along about Christmastime, I’ll slip back over the line and come back to fetch you. You can wait that long. And then I reckon we’ll be together for good.”

His voice broke as he said those last words, and then they didn’t say anything for a long while, but they just clung together like little children, crying like their hearts were breaking. Tom Dula crying . I never thought I’d see the day. He had lived through that god-awful war and seen all the horrors of a Yankee prison, and here he was sobbing like a child at the thought of leaving my vain and empty-headed cousin. I listened to her pleading with him not to leave her, and there in the darkness I was grinning like a possum, for if she had really wanted to spare him that journey, she could have. A dozen words to any upstanding man in the community would have seen Tom out of trouble-but of course such an act would have put Ann herself in peril, and whatever she thought she felt, I knew that she would not risk her own precious neck for anybody. Not she!

Even if Ann loved Tom more than she ever loved anybody else, she still wouldn’t bestir herself to keep him from harm. Or perhaps she thought that they were safe enough if they did nothing to provoke any more suspicion. I don’t suppose Tom would have let her sacrifice herself for him, anyhow. They wanted to be together, which required that both of them be free.

I took a silent pull on my jug of whiskey, and wished they’d have done with their touching farewells, for I was tired of listening to them.