The Mercy Seat by Rilla Askew Page B

Sudie’s pups, only soft, softer than footfalls, so soft none but Grandma Billie could hear it.
    Inside me it was thick dark, like when we started, no light in the nightsky, no moonlight, no stars. There was nothing but sound to surround me, and the sound more permanent and real than any vision, because Grandma Billie’s ears were my ears, her darkness my dark, because I lived Grandma Billie, I lived Mama, and so I knew in that moment I would never see my Grandma Billie again.
    I was shaking. The blood dripped, and I could smell it, and my poor papa—I can see now, I could not then, I hated him because I was in Mama—my poor papa, he couldn’t help it. He just went on.
    â€œLiked to killed me, that’s what,” he told Mama, like she’d ever even asked him. “Got between her and them cubs, well, that is something you don’t want to do—” Grinning around at the man Misely. “Two of ’em, fat as little butterballs. I’d been seeing sign back in them roughs a week or so, but now, that is the last thing I had on my mind. Ol’ Dan here jumped her out—” Kicking out at him, grinning. “I never seen anything like it. She’s up a little hackberry, just a-slinging that head around, looking, trying to spot me—I was slipping around to get a good hold to shoot from, all at once, now, here she come down out of that tree slick as grease after me. I didn’t have any idea them cubs were back there. I tell you what, I was wishing for something outside of that muzzle loader—” Nodding at the man Misely, turning the grin upon Mama. “I’s thinking one of Fay’s howdahs would’ve been just about right.” Lifting the great mangled head higher, showing it. “Never even took the time to field dress her, just took her head off and come on back. Look here, got her right in under the chin, and her charging. Just placed my shot, hit her one time and she rolled . . .”
    And on and on, telling it, kicking the dogs away, the blood dripping slow and plopping, though you could not hear it, only smell it, going plop, and after a while, plop, in round drops in the dirt. Mama just looking at his face, but she didn’t see him. Mama couldn’t see him. Oh, Papa. Poor Papa. Finally he saw it. He saw she wasn’t seeing, but he never did understand. He just got quiet, and because he did they all did, except the babies and the meat-hungry hound dogs. Papa kicked Ringo, and Ringo yelped once, and then even the hound dogs shut up.
    â€œDemaris. It’s a lot of meat. We can salt it.” Kicked Ringo again, snapping, “Back, now, you so-and-so,” and Ringo just slinking there, not doing nothing. “Salt it and dry it, woman.” Talking gruff, talking man’s ways, and his talk just a lie he couldn’t know or believe, because Papa’s eyes were baffled. Because his head was tucked under. Because what he was doing was begging my mama, and her blind to him, her not able in any way to see my father. “That carcass’ll see us along the whole rest of the way,” he told her, and held the mangled head up like the emblem of bear meat, like the very manifestation of glory, so that it all changed in me, my heart breaking for Papa. I would have fought the whole world then, that she-bear, fought anything, to stop how it hurt to see my Papa be a fool.
    Thomas was by me then, trying to make me make a lap, pushing my legs together, trying to climb on me, and crying. Not loud now but forcing it, faking it, his little lying whimper, and I opened my arms for him and made a lap for him. I couldn’t even feel him on me. I just took him to make him hush up. I could hear Papa, only barely, because he was talking soft to Mama. But I could see Papa. I could feel him. I couldn’t feel Mama.
    Do you see? I could never hold them all at once together. Some people can do that. Some mothers can do that. It was