Read Online Prayers for Sale by Sandra Dallas - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sandra Dallas
Tags: United States, Fiction, Suspense, Historical, Travel, Contemporary Women, Colorado, Cultural Heritage, Female friendship, 1929-, Depressions, West, Older women, Mountain
Ads: Link
because she knew that Billy would want her to keep on living.
The war had been difficult enough, what with men gone and shortages and the home guard riding in and taking what it wanted. But things only got worse once the fighting was over and done with. Men came through the woods then, desperate men who stole Ila Mae’s corn and ate it green, took clothes off the line, or came up to the door, demanding a handout. Some of the soldiers were starved and anxious to get on home, and she didn’t mind sharing what she had withthem, thinking maybe some woman somewhere had divided her supper with Billy. But other men frightened her. Their eyes glittered, and she saw madness in them. More than one looked at her in such a hungry way that Ila Mae rushed into the house, latched the door, and took down the shotgun. She always carried a knife in the pocket of her apron, and she knew she could use it, especially if Abram or any of his fellows came around. Abram himself had left out after the town turned against him, disappeared someplace, but Ila Mae didn’t know but what he might sneak back, so she still carried the knife.
Ila Mae thought she would live on that farm forever, alone, for what choice had she? Where could she go? She didn’t know anyplace but Tennessee. Most of the boys she’d grown up with had gone to war and hadn’t come back. Two or three of the men in town came around and looked her up and so forth, talking sweet, saying they’d always admired her and that she needed a man to protect her. But Ila Mae knew that she needed protection from them, for it was the $500 that Barton Fletcher had been forced to pay her that they were after. She didn’t fancy a fortune hunter who’d expect her to cook and clean, plow and plant and harvest for him, while he loafed in town, spending her money.
So that first winter after the war, she made the harvest by herself and filled her root cellar with vegetables and her pie safe with bags of dried apples and wild cherries. And she chopped enough wood to see her through the winter. Sometimes she gathered for quiltings with the other war widows, but not often, because they all were that close to starvation to spend time on fancywork. Those who made quilts didn’tuse good fabric but cut up worn blankets and Confederate uniforms and pieced tack quilts. There wasn’t time for real quilting.
Ila Mae survived the winter, but with spring came a sadness so great that sometimes she wasn’t able to get out of bed in the mornings. She saw the endless years stretching out ahead of her, the days all the same, herself alone. When she heard birdsong, Ila Mae remembered Billy singing as he went about his work, and when she saw dogwood flowers looking as if they were floating in the dark woods, she remembered the blessed morning Sarah was born.
The weight of what she had lost pressed on her heart. She couldn’t stand to know she’d never have a boy put his arms around her and tell her she was as pretty as a May morning or hold her hand as they walked across their fields in the moonlight. There’d be no baby to play under the quilt frame, no boys she would teach to read, no daughter whose hair she’d braid with wild daisies.
As the weather grew warm, Ila Mae went often to the place where Sarah was buried. She sat by the little grave as the sun made its way from one half of the sky to the other, not caring that there was planting or hoeing to be done. She paid a man two of her dollars to carve the baby’s name on a tombstone and place it at the head of Sarah’s grave. She’d have paid for a marker for Billy, too, but she never knew where he was buried.
When she wasn’t in the fields or the family cemetery, Ila Mae walked—across the fields, through the woods, along the Buttermilk Road, wherever her feet took her. She was in the biggest kind of grief. Other women had it worse, themwith no land and no money, along with no man. But because they were hers, Ila Mae’s troubles seemed hardest
The war had been difficult enough, what with men gone and shortages and the home guard riding in and taking what it wanted. But things only got worse once the fighting was over and done with. Men came through the woods then, desperate men who stole Ila Mae’s corn and ate it green, took clothes off the line, or came up to the door, demanding a handout. Some of the soldiers were starved and anxious to get on home, and she didn’t mind sharing what she had withthem, thinking maybe some woman somewhere had divided her supper with Billy. But other men frightened her. Their eyes glittered, and she saw madness in them. More than one looked at her in such a hungry way that Ila Mae rushed into the house, latched the door, and took down the shotgun. She always carried a knife in the pocket of her apron, and she knew she could use it, especially if Abram or any of his fellows came around. Abram himself had left out after the town turned against him, disappeared someplace, but Ila Mae didn’t know but what he might sneak back, so she still carried the knife.
Ila Mae thought she would live on that farm forever, alone, for what choice had she? Where could she go? She didn’t know anyplace but Tennessee. Most of the boys she’d grown up with had gone to war and hadn’t come back. Two or three of the men in town came around and looked her up and so forth, talking sweet, saying they’d always admired her and that she needed a man to protect her. But Ila Mae knew that she needed protection from them, for it was the $500 that Barton Fletcher had been forced to pay her that they were after. She didn’t fancy a fortune hunter who’d expect her to cook and clean, plow and plant and harvest for him, while he loafed in town, spending her money.
So that first winter after the war, she made the harvest by herself and filled her root cellar with vegetables and her pie safe with bags of dried apples and wild cherries. And she chopped enough wood to see her through the winter. Sometimes she gathered for quiltings with the other war widows, but not often, because they all were that close to starvation to spend time on fancywork. Those who made quilts didn’tuse good fabric but cut up worn blankets and Confederate uniforms and pieced tack quilts. There wasn’t time for real quilting.
Ila Mae survived the winter, but with spring came a sadness so great that sometimes she wasn’t able to get out of bed in the mornings. She saw the endless years stretching out ahead of her, the days all the same, herself alone. When she heard birdsong, Ila Mae remembered Billy singing as he went about his work, and when she saw dogwood flowers looking as if they were floating in the dark woods, she remembered the blessed morning Sarah was born.
The weight of what she had lost pressed on her heart. She couldn’t stand to know she’d never have a boy put his arms around her and tell her she was as pretty as a May morning or hold her hand as they walked across their fields in the moonlight. There’d be no baby to play under the quilt frame, no boys she would teach to read, no daughter whose hair she’d braid with wild daisies.
As the weather grew warm, Ila Mae went often to the place where Sarah was buried. She sat by the little grave as the sun made its way from one half of the sky to the other, not caring that there was planting or hoeing to be done. She paid a man two of her dollars to carve the baby’s name on a tombstone and place it at the head of Sarah’s grave. She’d have paid for a marker for Billy, too, but she never knew where he was buried.
When she wasn’t in the fields or the family cemetery, Ila Mae walked—across the fields, through the woods, along the Buttermilk Road, wherever her feet took her. She was in the biggest kind of grief. Other women had it worse, themwith no land and no money, along with no man. But because they were hers, Ila Mae’s troubles seemed hardest
Similar Books
