The Rebel Wife by Taylor M Polites Page A

family, and the hundred Negroes who have come to bury Eli. We move in a strange and grand procession to put this body in the ground, to bury with it all that he means to each of us. To forget him and the past. Not like Weems said. We all want to forget. We want to bury this body and forget him.
    The procession moves slowly down Greene Street under the oaks and elms. The air is so still, nothing moves except the shuffling feet. The old brick homes watch us as we pass. They were all so fine once. Now many seem like ghost houses with gaping mouths and blank eyes. Their wrought-iron gates are rusted, and weeds climb their walls as if to swallow them whole. The boxwoods grow unkempt and wild. The lawns are more thistle and dandelion than grass. They grow tall in front of the houses as if to hide them for shame.
    The New Cemetery spreads out behind a low stone wall, mostly wide lawns and young trees. Graves are scattered sparsely, except for the small field of white-painted crosses commemorating the men of Albion dead from the war. Eli will lie in a spot of green lawn shaded by young oaks where a red-earth hole has been opened. There is a plot for me next to him. From the brick-walled entrance, I can clearly see it. The black box in front of me will be lowered into it, and he will become one among the legion of dead who haunt this town.
    Behind us, at first as a low hum, there is singing. The harmony begins to rise into a full song. The Negroes are singing. The men behind me pause in their steps, twisting their feet in the dirt, turning to look. I can tell which footsteps are Buck’s. He is a few feet behind me. I can hear the crunch of Judge’s shoes, too, just behind me. And Mike’s stumbling tread. He hangs against Buck as they walk. All of those feet pressing me. Henry’s hand is damp from the heat. This relentless heat and those footsteps. Purposeful steps like marching soldiers. The singing grows louder. Murmurs wash over the crowd of mourners, but I look ahead, my eyes on the hearse and coffin, on Simon’s black hand holding the reins of the black horse. The voices rise as more of the Negroes begin to sing to the rhythm of this funeral march. The strangeness of it. The disturbing strangeness of it.
    Lord, I can’t stay here by myself
    By myself
    My mother has gone and left me here
    My father has gone and left me here
    I’m going to weep like a willow
    And mourn like a dove
    O Lord, I cannot stay here by myself
     

Six
     
    THE MORNINGS HAVE BECOME strands of quiet moments that grow into afternoons and afternoons into days. It feels like Judge will never come. This heat won’t relent. Perspiration beads Henry’s forehead and makes his blond hair stick to his temples. The servants move slowly. No work can be done at midday. The town seems asleep from noon to four, and even outside of those hours, few riders pass under the windows.
    Late each afternoon, a bank of clouds rolls in, dark and ominous, and yet the rain does not come. The nights are sweltering and restless.
    The street is empty. I half expect a caller. Someone must come eventually. I am more a prisoner of this house than I was before Eli died. I could at least go out before, but now mourning keeps me here alone. Where can I go anyway?
    Away, but for the money. I could leave Albion and this prison and these ghosts and go away. When will I hear from Judge? How can Eli have done this?
    Simon is working in the front yard. He is always toiling in the garden. He seems so calm. He pushes the lawn mower, a whirring contraption that has a canister filled with spiraling blades that move inside each other in a dizzying whirl. Back and forth, it whines with each push, back and forth across the grass from the fence to the boxwoods. The grass is lush. Simon will hand-carry water each day from the pump, little by little, until it rains.
    The garden used to be mine, but Simon took it from me. He was right to take it from me. After that first year with Eli, all I could