Carrie watched him go and then turned to Mariah, whom she had once owned, a
gift to her from her father. She was a gift, whatever the meaning and
implications of that word. Mariah had been her tether to the earth when things
had spun away, when Carrie wasn't sure if there remained a real and true life for
her, and then when she wasn't sure if she wanted that life even if it existed.
Things had been different once. She couldn't believe that she had ever been so .
. . what? Weak? No, that wasn't it. She'd never been weak. She'd been
buffeted and knocked down, like grass bent to the ground by the wind preceding a
thunderstorm. She'd been slow to get up. But she did get up, eventually. There
had been no choice. She was not afraid of much, and she especially wasn't afraid
of God. Not anymore, not for a long time.
"Mariah, what do you see?"
A mockingbird chased a hawk across the width of the cemetery, diving and
chattering at the black shadow until it was banished from whatever bit of
territory the smaller bird claimed for its own.
"I see a mockingbird. And some of them yellow birds. Finches. Big old
bird with claws
Mariah looked past her mistress, across the field of tall grass.
424 Killed at Franklin/Mississippi
"You know that isn't what I mean."
Carrie could see the markers and the grass, and the iron fence ringing the
graveyard. She could turn and see the back of her house and remember the beards
on the dead generals laid out on the porch below and the keening of the wounded
on the balcony above. She could see just fine. But there was more to seeing than
that, she thought. It was either a failure of imagination or a slight by the
Lord Himself, but in any case she could not see the things Mariah could see.
Mariah could tell her about things that gave her comfort, and Carrie cared not a
whit about how she came upon the knowledge.
She pointed at a grave marker in the Tennessee section. MJM, it
read. In places, twigs leaned against the stones. She made a mental note to tell
the yard boy about them.
"What about him? That one."
"Miss Carrie, please, ma'am. This ain't right."
Carrie stared hard at the seam of her dress, where the new thread of her
latest mending stood out like a long dark cord against the faded black of her
ankle-length dress. She hadn't known how to sew before the war, and she still
wasn't very good at it. They would have to dye the whole thing soon.
"I would like to know about that man."
Mariah wasn't sure that what she saw in her mind was real, just the product
of a fevered imagination, or maybe the work of the devil himself making her play
games with the white woman whom she loved in a way she could not describe.
Fragments of light and sound came to her when she let her mind drift, and the
words Carrie craved formed on Mariah's lips unbidden. It was a thoughtless
exercise, a pastime to while away an afternoon. The thing she did know,
the only thing she knew for sure, was that Carrie believed. Mariah
could feel that on her.
"I don't know what to say, ma'am."
"Yes, you do. Don't play. We're too old for that. Tell me what you see
when you stare into the earth right there. Don't hold back. I know when you're
Mariah closed her eyes and went silent, hoping Carrie would forget her little
obsession and keep walking. But Carrie stayed put, so Mariah began to speak.
"There a man and a boy. It sunny. They ain't working, so maybe they just
home from church."
A Man Called Intrepid author dies aged 89(Dec 03 2013) William Stevenson, a journalist and author who drew on his close ties with intelligence sources to write two best-selling books in the 1970s, A Man Called...