Heaven (Casteel 1)

asked Grandpa, coming back from the river where he'd gone to avoid knowing what men never wanted to know--only fitting for men to disappear until birthing was over. The way of the men of the hills, to flee from women's screams of suffering, and pretend

to themselves they never suffered at all.

I looked up, my face streaked with tears, not

knowing how to tell him. "Grandpa . . ."

His faded blue eyes widened as he stared at

Grandma. "Annie . . . yer all right, ain't ya? Git up,

Annie . . . why don't ya git up?" And of course he had

to know when her eyes were staring backward into her

head. He stumbled forward, all his agility fleeing as if

his life had flown the moment he knew his better half

was dead.

On his knees he took Granny from my arms and

cuddled her against his heart. "Oh, Annie, Annie," he

sobbed, "been so long since I said I loved ya . . . kin

ya hear me, Annie, kin ya? Meant t'do betta by ya.

Had me t'best intentions. Neva knew it'd turn out this

way . . . Annie."

It was awful to see his suffering, his terrible

grief to lose a good and faithful wife who'd been with

him since he was fourteen years old. How strange to

know I'd never see him and Grandma cuddled up

together on their bed pallet, with her long white hair

spread out to pillow his face.

It took both Torn and me to pry Granny's body

from Grandpa's arms, and all the time Sarah just lay

on her back, tears gone now as she stared blankly at a

wall.

We all cried at the funeral, even Fanny, all but

Sarah, who stood frozen as stiff and empty-eyed as

any cigar-store Indian.