C. Morgan - All the Living

When she moved, it was as though her body had lost any sense of its own animation. Her footfalls were heavy from the kitchen to the dining room. She picked up the receiver and held it to her ear. She dialed his home number. It rang six times, and she was stabbed with relief that he was not there, but then the line buzzed and she heard his voice.

Hello?

Hello, she said. And because he did not say anything further, she knew he recognized her voice. But when she went to speak, she could not find any words. Finally he said, What is it, Aloma?

I—

Are you calling because you left your books?

What? No, she said, her mind fumbled for his meaning. No. I hate to… I have to ask you a favor.

I don’t suspect I’m of a mind to do you any favors, Aloma, he said.

She swallowed that and nodded as if he were in the room with her. Yes, she said. Yes, but Orren—

Whatsoever you’re fixing to say won’t concern me, Bell said.

He only wants you to marry us, she said finally in a queasy rush. I’m so sorry—

Long silence followed by a sigh as he saw the whole of the thing, took the weight and measure of it.

I’m sorry, she added, further chastened by his quiet. He only wants you. He only — And then, choking on her own mortification, Aloma screwed up her face and with a hushed cry, said, Never mind, never mind, I’m sorry, and then let the receiver clatter back into its black hard cradle. Then she covered her ears with her hands to block out the rest of the conversation they didn’t have.

Not a minute later the phone rang. She jumped and snatched it up, her heart dreadful.

I will marry the two of you, he said.

She put one hand over her breast. Bell, I know you’re not happy—

No, I’m not happy, and frankly, I wish I’d not have to do it. But this ain’t about happiness — not mine, nor yours, nor Orren’s. If he wants me to do it, I will consent to it. She nodded her head without a word.

I’ll be at the church at two tomorrow, he said. Don’t make me wait.

She wore the prettiest dress she owned, which was old and tight in the bust now, a hand-me-down from a girl at school, but there was no time to find anything that fit well and the rest of her dresses were too plain. Orren wore a brown suit that had been his brother’s, a Sunday suit he’d found down in one of the closets in the new house. He didn’t know how to tie the tie and neither did she so he left it undone, silken on the bed. As he drove, she sat beside him with the wind blowing her hair so she was mussed and hot and able to busy herself with it to hide her growing trepidation. Then she gave up and closed her eyes for the rest of the drive, her lips pressed tight together, and Orren looked over at her as he drove and at one point he said, You got second thoughts now? And she just looked at him and shook her head, but she could not even pretend to smile and her stomach rolled in on itself like the nighttime leaf of a prayer plant.

The church door was open wide when they arrived and, at the sound of their truck pulling into the gravel of the drive, Bell stepped outside. He stood on the top step and seemed as though he did not notice them, but instead looked out toward the road where there was no passing traffic. He held a small black Bible in one hand, which he pressed to the belt buckle of his pants and his eyes squinted against the sun, but he did not bother to shade his face with his hand. When they left the truck, Aloma trailed behind, but when Bell turned his eyes their way, there was little to be read there. He looked at Orren, not at her. Aloma bowed her head.

Bell reached out and grasped Orren’s hand. Orren, he said, I wish Emma was here today. Your father and brother too.

Orren nodded his head.

Aloma, Bell said and there was a hint of chill in his greeting so that when he turned into the church abruptly, it gave Orren pause. He looked at Aloma and then at Bell’s retreating back and ran his hand through his hair once before he walked slowly down the aisle. Aloma tried to look at no one at all as she followed.

A man in grass-stained work pants and boots sat in the first pew and turned when he heard them enter. He rose, his black hair falling across his lined forehead, and as he stepped toward the aisle, bits of grass fell from his boots and the legs of his pants, scattering like tiny leaves around a tree.

This is my cousin Saunder, said Bell and he placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. He was here cutting the grass. He’ll make for a witness today.

Orren shook his hand and Bell stepped onto the first step of the landing and put his own head down for a moment while Aloma and Orren arranged themselves before him and waited. The man beside them smelled faintly of the outdoors. Aloma did not want to look at Bell, her eyes fought it, but she could look nowhere else, she stared up at him. Orren did the same. Then Bell raised his head and called them dearly beloved and he married Orren and Aloma. They had no rings to exchange, only a kiss. So they kissed and then Bell prayed and when he closed his prayer in his coarse voice, he said, Lord, we ask your blessings on these two for they’ve seen trouble and they have a ways to go yet. They’ve known suffering, but we are told that whosoever is still among us has his fair share of hope. Lord, help these two live moderate, help them not spend their love on foolishness, not palter away their savings. We ask that your grace be on them. Aloma felt Orren stir beside her then and she opened her eyes to find him staring at Bell and Bell was already looking at them with his own eyes open, so that as Bell finished his prayer they did not appear to be praying at all, but only listening as he said, And it’s also written for you to enjoy a simple life with the wife whom you love, for we know that all the days of this worried life, they are everlasting vanity, but they are our given portion, it’s written, they hold our labor under the sun, and know that whatsoever your hands find to do, do it with all your might, for in heaven there’s no labor at all, but also no wife and maybe no thought, but only the perfect everlasting. And they could not tell then if he was talking to God or Orren or only to himself and then he raised his hands and said, Amen.

When they signed their names to the paper, Aloma found a kind of relief, but it was a milder thing than she’d expected, it did not announce some great shift within her. Orren shook Bell’s hand again, as well as the hand of the man who had scattered the bits of grass beneath their feet and smelled of the outdoors. Then they walked down the aisle together toward the daylight beyond the church. But Bell said, Aloma, and they turned, Aloma taking one step toward him with her hand slightly raised as if to silence him, but he went no further. He only held her scores in his hand and said, You left these here. He did not smile and his eyes slashed into hers, but only briefly, before he said, Goodbye, and lifted his hand to them in a way that was easier than he felt and he turned so that he would not see them walk from the church. When she turned, Orren was standing solitary in the aisle, his brows drawn. Aloma grasped up his hand purposefully, the way a mother takes her son’s hand, and they walked out of the white church together. Then when she sat in the cab of the truck, she opened her scores and found the cash that Bell owed her tucked between two pages of a song.

Orren gripped the wheel with one hand, undid the first pearled buttons of his shirt. The wind from the window ruffled his hair at the crown where it was thinning. He flexed his wheel hand so the topography of his veins and tendons raised up, receded.

He seems like a good man, he said, looking not to either side.

Who — Bell? Aloma said.

Yeah. He nodded and they passed into silence, watching the road.