Sarah Goodman had forgotten where she was and where she was going but she continued walking, following the straight and narrow row of plowed dirt, heading west toward the sunset.
There was a little grit in her teeth and earthy staleness in her mouth from the mushroom she had eaten just moments ago. She spat. The saliva hung from her lip briefly, then landed on her dusty black shoe. The moisture darkened as it turned to mud. She clicked her heels together and chuckled.
For a moment she felt as if she were flying. Perhaps she was, like a sparrow with fluttering wings. She giggled. She laughed. She reached down and stroked her finger across the buckle or her shoe. It glistened at her touch. She giggled some more, looked up, then spun around and curtsied.
"Why yes good sir," she said, "you may have this dance."
She stood still, her feet together, one hand raising her skirt and the other stretched out like a goose neck. Music filled the air as she hummed and stepped rhythmically up and down the row. She spun again but this time tripped over the berm, landing hard on her hands, bits of dirt cutting into her palms. But she felt no pain.
"Oh, Charles." She rose and dusted herself. "you and your two left feet."
"Don't you mean John," a voice sounded from somewhere, maybe in her head.
The music stopped and so did she. She looked around, straightened out her dress, and rubbed her long braided ponytail.
"Charles, is that you?" Her eyes darted back and forth. "Charles?"
Out of the corner of her eye she thought she saw a black object, flying overhead and became instantly afraid. She raced across the rows, stumbling over the berms, kicking dirt and rocks until she came to a fence. She breathed heavily as she crawled through the wooden rungs. Nearby stood the remains of an old oak tree that had died and decayed, but Sarah saw something else. She smiled and waved, the image of her hand leaving a trace like a ghost image of where the hand had been. She slowed the wave and giggled at the sight of her hand blurred across her view.
"Are you going to tell him?" The voice came again.
Panic overtook her. She whaled and scratched at her face. "Please Charles. No longer torment my soul." She walked towards the rotted tree trunk that stood the height of a man. "Oh Charles." Sarah wrapped her arms around the flaking bark. "Had you not left me I wouldn't have strayed so far."
The tree didn't answer.
"It's your fault that I've sinned." She turned her back to the trunk.
"Is that what you will tell your child?" The voice said.
Sarah turned and slapped the tree with fierceness. She scratched and screamed.
"It is what I will tell all of my children," she yelled. "What would you have me say to them? That I am a whore?" She spat at the bark.
The tree didn't answer.
Sarah sat down, burying her head into her arms and cried.
"Why'd you leave me?" She asked. "Why did God take you away?"
An image shot through her mind, one she had tried long to forget. His eyes were open, but there was no stare; there was no gaze. What once was there was gone. Then another image replaced her husband's eyes. She saw her hands. Those hands that held Charles' head to her bosom the day of the accident. She thought the moisture to be perspiration from his scalp. When she stood she saw her hands, stained crimson red.
Sarah let out a shriek, forcing the images from her mind. Too long had Charles' taunted her, chided her—haunted her. That had to end. He was gone and life had continued without him. That was how God wanted it to be or he would not have taken him away. But what did God's will matter now. She had gone and made a mockery of her life—of Charles' memory.
Her thoughts left her. She stood confused. She spun around, or perhaps it was just her mind spinning.
In the distance she heard the school bell chime again and again. Each time, the sounds flew toward her attached to a javelin of lighting. She dodged their aim, racing toward their berth.
Laughter spilled into the town square, taunting her and mocking her.
"Silence ye infernal lambs," she screamed. "Curse you devils."
She felt a touch on her arm and flipped it away.
"Mother," a child said.
Her face shook with rage. Saliva flung from her mouth as she screeched. "You will not take this bastard inside of me." She grabbed her abdomen and in a hushed voice whispered. "You mustn't worry child. No harm will befall you."
"Mother, you pushed me." The sound pulled at her, beckoning her. She looked at the ground and saw James, her youngest in the dirt, tears in his eyes.
"Oh dear, I'm sorry." She helped the toddler to his feet.
Sarah stood in front of the schoolhouse, children had gathered nearby, and Mrs. Peters stood yards away, her hand over her mouth.
Sarah looked down at her dress, soiled and tattered. She brushed small bits of tree bark from her blouse and pushed a few loose strands of hair behind her ears.
"My dear Mrs. Goodman," Mrs. Peters said. "You are not well."
"Quite fine," Sarah replied, though truthfully she felt ill. Her chest thumped heavily and she struggled to slow her breathing, perspiration forming on her forehead.
Sarah searched the group of children for her four boys and one daughter.
"Oh, I found you something to eat," she told James, pulling from a dress pocket part of a large mushroom.
"Mrs. Goodman, those may be poisonous." Mrs. Peters often meddled in others' business. "Do not eat it James, 'twill make you sick."
"Thanks mum, but I'm not hungry," James said. "Mrs. Peters brought us loaves and cheese."
"Well thank you ma'am, for your goodness." She smiled and curtsied to the schoolmistress hoping that her sarcasm was not lost on the gesture. As she turned to walk away she mumbled, "I shall return the kindness to your husband John."
