Cutler 05 - Darkest Hour

great, great pain. My mother . . . my mother has passed away. The birth of the baby and her weakened condition were too much," I mouthed, feeling like Papa was a ventriloquist and I was his dummy. Mrs. Clark's mouth dropped open and then she embraced me quickly.
    "You poor dear." She looked at baby Charlotte.
    "You poor, poor darlings," she said. "On the heels of such happiness to be struck with so much sorrow."
    I had just met this nice lady and I hardly knew a thing about her, but her arms were comforting me and her shoulder was soft. I buried my face in it and I cried my heart out. My sobbing woke baby Charlotte. Quickly, I wiped my face and watched as Mrs. Clark lifted her out of the crib.
    "Do you want to hold her?" she asked.
    "Oh yes," I said. "Very much."
    I took her in my arms and rocked her gently, kissing her tiny cheek and forehead. In moments her wails ended and she was asleep again.
    "You did that so well," Mrs. Clark said. "Someday you'll make a wonderful mother, I'm sure."
    Unable to say another word, I handed baby Charlotte back to Mrs. Clark and then fled from the nursery, my heart so shattered it skipped as many beats as it made.
     
    That afternoon, the morticians arrived and prepared Mamma. Papa at least permitted me to select the dress she was to be buried in, saying I would know better than Emily what dress Mamma would want herself. I chose something happy, something very pretty, one that truly made her feel like the mistress of a grand Southern plantation, a gown of white satin that had embroidered trim along the hem of the skirt. Emily complained of course, claiming the dress was too festive for a burial dress.
    But I knew we would have mourners visiting the open casket to pay their last respects and I knew that Mamma wouldn't want to look morbid and dreary.
    "The grave," Emily declared in her characteristic prophetic manner, "is one place you can't take your vanity." But I wouldn't yield.
    "Mamma suffered enough when she was alive in this house," I said firmly. "It's the least we can do for her now."
    "Ridiculous," Emily muttered, but Papa must have told her to avoid conflict and acrimony during the mourning period. There were too many visitors and too much gossip about us being whispered in the corners and behind doors as it was. She simply turned on her heels and left me with the morticians. I laid out Mamma's wardrobe for them, even including her shoes and her favorite bracelets and necklace. I asked them to brush her hair and I gave them her scented powder.
    The casket was placed in Mamma's reading room where she had spent so much of her time. Emily and the minister set up the candles and draped the floor beneath the casket in a black cloth. She and the minister stood just inside the door and greeted people who came to pay their final respects.
    But Emily really surprised me during those days of mourning. For one thing, she never left the room except to go to the bathroom and for another, she began a strict fast, taking only water to her lips. She spent endless hours on her knees praying beside Mamma's casket and was even there praying late into the night. I knew because I came down when I couldn't sleep, and I found her there, her head bowed, the candles flickering in the otherwise darkened room.
    She didn't even look up when I entered and approached the casket. I stood by it, looking down at Mamma's wan face, imagining a slight, soft smile on her lips. I liked to believe her soul was pleased and liked what I had done for her. How she looked in the presence of others, especially other women, was so important to her.
    The funeral was one of the biggest in our community. Even the Thompsons came, finding it in their hearts to forgive the Booths enough for the death of Niles to mourn alongside us at the service and grave site. Papa dressed himself in his finest dark suit and Emily wore her nicest dark dress. I wore a dark dress, too, but I also wore the charm bracelet Mamma had given me on my birthday two years ago. Charles and Vera put on their best Sunday clothes and dressed little Luther in his one pair of slacks and his one nice shirt. He looked so confused and serious holding on to his mother's hand. Death is the most confusing thing to a child, who wakes each day to think that everything he does and sees has immortality, especially his parents and the parents of other young people.
    But I didn't really look at the mourners very much that day. When the minister began his service, my