The Regrets of Cyrus Dodd Read online

  Ruth knew. She saw it coming. That first day she begged me to give the pig to Virgil and be done with it. But I didn’t take her words to heart any more than I did the words of Pastor Ames.

  The morning I buried Matthew I kept remembering how she’d begged me not to let this happen, and I felt a shame bigger than anything I’ve ever known.

  I’ll make it up to her, I told myself. But how do you make up for something like this? There’s no going back. Even if I took every one of those damn pigs and offered them to Virgil, he’d want more. I hurt his pride, and injured pride never heals.

  I can’t change the past. What’s done is done. I can look back and feel sorry about it, but I can’t change it. That’s what I’ve gotta live with.

  The one thing I won’t do is let Ruth pay for my mistakes. I promised I’d take care of her, and by God I mean to keep that promise.

  If I have to work night and day to pull a living out of this land, then so be it. That’s what I’ll do.

  The Dodd Family

  In the hills of West Virginia, a feud is not easily forgotten. Regardless of how well intentioned a man is, once hatred settles in his heart it remains there forever. It is the type of thing handed down from father to son as part of a bitter heritage. With the passing of time no one remembers how the feud began, but that is no longer of consequence. The hatred is there, and that’s all that matters.

  After the loss of Matthew, Cyrus developed just such a hatred for Virgil Jackson. It dug in deeper than the roots of an oak tree and day by day became more firmly entrenched in every ounce of his being. With every hardship he suffered the hatred grew stronger, until eventually it became so powerful not even his prayers could overcome it. On days when he and Ruth walked hand in hand up the hill and knelt beside the elderberry bush to say a few words for Matthew, his thoughts often strayed and went in search of some new thing for which he could blame Virgil.

  With two cows dead and no more than a handful of potatoes and turnips in the root cellar, he had to butcher one of the pigs to make it through the winter. Three others he sold at market. With the money he bought oil for the lamps, buckets of coal, sugar, flour and molasses. He also bought a bag of horehound candy for Ruth then set the remainder aside to buy seed for an early spring planting.

  * * *

  In the first days of February, while the ground was still frozen and the trees had not yet formed buds, Cyrus began digging irrigation trenches. They ran from the creek and extended out almost 100 yards. He planned to plow early and plant the entire stretch of land running alongside the creek.

  For as long as he could remember the creek had provided a decent supply of water. Not bountiful like the brook, but ample enough. On the far side of the ridge the earth slanted upward and irrigation was impossible; there he would plant alfalfa to provide hay for the animals.

  By the middle of March he began plowing. He left the house before the sun crossed the horizon and remained in the field until the sky was dark. In the middle of the day Ruth fixed his dinner and carried it out to him. He stopped long enough to gobble down the food, but as soon as he’d swallowed the last bite he returned to plowing.

  As the earth opened up beneath the blade of the plow, he walked through the furrows lifting away stones and carrying them off. When the ground was soft and ready to be seeded he scattered the alfalfa seeds by hand, avoiding spots where the limestone bedrock was hardened.

  He could no longer use the back meadow where he’d once planted corn. Corn was a cash crop easily sold at market, but it needed sun and plenty of water. The land along the creek lay in the shadow of a mountain. There he would have to plant hardier crops, ones that could do with less water and possibly withstand a frost.

  The potatoes, turnips and collard greens he set closest to the creek. Farther inland where the irrigation ditches barely dampened the ground, he planted row after row of bush beans. The beans he could easily sell at market.

  In April there was an unexpected deluge of rain. Day after day it soaked the ground, and the creek rose to a level never before seen. After two weeks of steady downpour the water crested and overflowed the bank.

  The land beside the creek flooded and remained underwater for eight days.

  Almost all of the collard greens were lost, along with a good portion of the potatoes. Only the turnips and alfalfa survived. Cyrus held out hope for the bush beans because those were further from the creek, but when they finally came up they were sparse and mostly without pods. He pulled several plants from the ground and found the roots rotted.

  Given a second year without a harvest to sell, Cyrus’s hatred of Virgil grew stronger. Such an amount of rain would have also flooded a cornfield had there been one, but still Cyrus blamed Virgil. In his mind even the smallest piece of misfortune could be linked to Jackson.

  Day after day his anger swelled, and in time it became something Cyrus could no longer contain. If he so much as stubbed a toe he’d holler, “Damn that Virgil Jackson!” and segue into a tirade over the unfairness of such a situation.

  Weary of listening to these rants, Ruth suggested they sell the farm and start over someplace else.

  “Absolutely not!” Cyrus bellowed. “This is my home! I’ll never leave it!”

  Feeling the weight of his bitterness, Ruth blinked back the tears.

  “I thought this was our home,” she said sadly.

  He turned away without an answer.

  * * *

  That October Cyrus sold two more of the pigs. He counted the money carefully, making sure he’d have enough left over for seed. Come next spring, he planned to plant a portion of both fields. He’d put corn in the back meadow and bush beans along the river. This, he believed, would assure him of having a crop to sell whether it rained or not. He set the seed money aside and cut back on the supplies he bought. There was oil for the lamps and coal for the stove but less sugar and no fabric for sewing.

  On the third Saturday of the month Cyrus stopped in at the feed store. Virgil Jackson was standing with two other men. When he spotted Cyrus, he lowered his voice and said something that caused the other men to chuckle.

  Seeing this struck a match to the fuse in Cyrus’s heart. With his mouth set in a rigid line and his eyebrows pinched together, he started toward the back of the store. Virgil took two steps forward from where he was, stood with his shoulders squared and blocked the center of the aisle.

  Given the expression on both faces, you could see trouble coming.

  Cyrus moved forward even though he could have turned and cut across the fertilizer aisle. When he got to where Virgil was standing he lowered his shoulder and pushed through without a word of apology.

  “Watch yourself!” Virgil hollered. His voice was loud enough for those in the front of the store to turn and look.

  “Me?” Cyrus yelled. “You’re the one!”

  Virgil started toward Cyrus with a balled-up fist and swung. He had twenty pounds on Cyrus and a quality of meanness that magnified his strength, but Cyrus had the pent-up anger and frustration of nearly two years and all of it went into the single punch that flew at Virgil’s face.

  Virgil staggered back and banged into a shelf of harnesses. He stood there looking dazed for a few seconds then shook it off and came at Cyrus. All hell broke loose then, and a tub of nails spilled out onto the floor. Slipping and sliding on the loose nails the men grappled with one another, landing a blow here and there.

  Carson Chalmers, owner of the store, heard the commotion and came running.

  “Back off, Virgil!” he yelled. Then he hooked his arms around Cyrus’s torso and pulled him back.

  At that point Cyrus seemed to be the aggressor with his fists still in the air even though Carson had hold of him. He shot Virgil a menacing glare.

  “I came here to buy seed,” he said. “I wasn’t looking for no fight, but if that’s what you want then that’s what you’re gonna get!”

  Virgil gave him a squint-eyed grin.

  “I got no need
to fight you,” he said with a cruel laugh. “You’re already good as dead. All I gotta do is wait for you to die on that patch of dried-up bottomland.”

  Cyrus broke free of Carson’s grip and came at Virgil again. This time he hit him square in the mouth, and a tooth came flying out.

  “Now you got something to remember me by!”

  Cyrus turned and stomped out the door knowing any hope of reconciliation was now truly and forever dead.

  * * *

  The winter that year was bitter cold. Ice crusted to the insides of windowpanes, and Ruth kept the stove going both day and night. The snow began in late November, and by then she knew she was expecting a second baby. This time she planned to be more careful. There would be no long walks or strenuous work. She was determined this baby would be born healthy.

  When she stepped outside to gather kindling, Ruth wrapped herself in a wooly scarf and thick plaid coat. At suppertime she ate every scrap of food on her plate hoping the baby would grow fat and well nourished. She rested every afternoon and sat in the rocker cradling her stomach, feeling for the different parts of the child—a foot, an arm, an elbow perhaps. Often she would sit perfectly still, hoping to feel even the slightest hiccup of movement.

  Since there was no cloth for sewing, she gathered things too tattered or worn for wear and clipped squares of fabric from the spots that were still usable. Those squares she kept in a basket along with her needles and thread. When she sat for her afternoon rest, she placed the basket beside her and worked on stitching the squares together. A piece of green wool got stitched alongside the plaid of a worn shirt and beside that the yellow of a woolen scarf.

  “I’m making a quilt for the baby,” she told Cyrus.

  “This one will be born in summer,” he said, laughing. “Summer babies don’t need a quilt.”

  “Come next winter he will,” Ruth replied and kept on sewing.

  With this baby it wasn’t just rhubarb pie she was craving, but anything sweet—a spoonful of honey or even a few grains of sugar.

  “Oh, what I wouldn’t give for a peppermint stick,” she’d say and picture the round jar sitting on the counter of the dry goods store.

  In January the snow turned to rain, and a downpour that came and went for ten days soaked the ground. When it stopped at long last, a bone-chilling cold settled over the land and covered everything with a sheet of ice. No matter how many socks and sweaters Ruth heaped on, she could not get warm. She moved a chair so close to the coal stove that it singed the hem of her skirt, and still she shivered.

  With most of the wood they’d stored soaked through and coated with ice, they had to dig into the small supply of coal to keep from freezing. By the middle of February, they were down to half a bucket.

  “I don’t like leaving you here alone,” Cyrus said, “but I’ve got to get more coal.”

  He reluctantly shook three coins from the jar where he kept the money set aside for seed. Coal was cheaper at the mining camp. For a few dimes they’d let a man scoop all the waste he could carry.

  That afternoon Cyrus bundled himself in layers of shirts, a wool scarf and a knit cap.

  “I’ll be back in a few hours,” he told Ruth and kissed her goodbye. Then he started for the mountain with two burlap bags to be filled.

  He’d been gone for three hours, possibly four, when Ruth heard the sound. It was a small thin wail, like the cry of a child. She peered from the front window, saw nothing, then looked out the back. The scene was the same as the front: a barren landscape of ice-crusted branches. The cry continued.

  Ruth listened for a few minutes then pulled on her plaid jacket, grabbed the shotgun and went to investigate. She was only a few yards from the house when she spotted the small fox caught beneath a fallen branch.

  She grinned. “You’re certainly making a lot of noise for such a little fellow.”

  With Ruth standing there the crying stopped. She bent and tried to lift the branch. Covered with ice, it was twice its normal weight and she couldn’t budge it. She wedged the butt of the shotgun beneath the narrow end of the branch and pulled back. It took five tries before she could raise the branch enough for the fox to pull his leg loose and scamper off.

  As soon as the animal was loose, she pulled the shotgun from beneath the tree and started for the house. She was almost to the door when her foot hit a patch of ice and slid out from beneath her.

  She reached out as if to grab hold of something, but there was nothing. For a fraction of a second she seemed suspended in air and then she went down hard, slamming her back into the ground. She made one feeble attempt to lift her head then passed out.

  Traveling up the mountain the burlap bags were empty and Cyrus could move quickly, leaping across a fallen tree or scuttling along an outcropping of rock. Coming back, it was a different story. Both bags were heavy with coal, and several times he had to stop for a brief rest. Back and forth the trip took almost five hours, and it was near dark when he turned at the clearing.

  When Cyrus saw the house with no lamp lit, he quickened his step. Halfway down the road he saw Ruth lying in the front yard. Dropping both bags, he took off running.

  “Ruth!” he screamed. “Ruth!”

  Her eyes were closed, her face milk white and her skin icy. He knelt beside her, slid his hands beneath her body and lifted her into his arms. Carrying her to the bedroom, he gently placed her on the bed. As he pulled the boots from her feet he spotted the blood on her legs.

  God, no. Not again.

  “Ruth, honey, talk to me,” he pleaded frantically. “Please, talk to me!”

  She was alive, but just barely. Cyrus lifted her head onto a pillow and covered her with quilts. Afraid to leave her side for more than a moment, he hurriedly stoked the fire, threw more coal on it and returned to the bedroom. He took her small hands in his and rubbed vigorously until the stiffened fingers began to relax.

  After a long while Ruth’s eyelids fluttered open.

  “Thank God,” Cyrus said, breathing a sigh of relief. “Thank God you’re okay.”

  “What happened?” Ruth asked.

  “You were outside, lying on the ground,” Cyrus said. “Why?”

  “Outside?” she repeated with a look of confusion. She remembered nothing beyond the time Cyrus kissed her goodbye and went for coal, and even that was only a distant memory.

  The baby came the next day, stillborn, the same as the first. This one was also a boy, smaller than Matthew but fully formed and with the umbilical cord trailing after him, not wrapped around his tiny throat. After Cyrus cut the cord and carried the baby to the other room, he told Ruth the boy was not breathing.

  “I know,” she said, sobbing. “I’ve known since my labor began. I prayed God would take me instead of our baby…”

  Her voice trailed off for a few moments. Then she added, “But His will was not so.”

  Cyrus gave a mournful sigh then lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed it.

  “Take such a thought from your heart,” he said tenderly. “In time we’ll have other babies, babies who are born healthy.”

  He searched his mind for something more to say, something to take away her pain, but he could find nothing. There were no words to ease such a pain. He knew because the ache in his heart was as great as hers.

  Cyrus held her in his arms for a long while. Once her sobs subsided he wiped the blood from her legs, pulled a clean woolen nightgown over her head and covered her with two quilts. Again he gave her a glass of whiskey and stroked her forehead gently.

  “Rest,” he said and sat beside her until she finally found sleep.

  That night he cleaned the baby and wrapped the boy in the quilt Ruth had been working on. He was certain it was what she would have wanted. The quilt was only partially finished but big enough to wrap the tiny infant.

  The next day while Ruth slept he built a second pine box, smaller than the first, and buried this baby alongside his brother.

  In the days and weeks that followed, Ruth
seldom got out of bed. Her eyes turned colorless, and her body became thin as a stick. On the rare occasion when she walked through the house, he could almost hear the rattling of her bones.

  “You’ve got to eat,” he told her. “Rebuild your strength and get back to living.”

  “Why?” she answered flatly and turned back to bed.

  At first Cyrus held out hope she would return to being herself once the icy cold days of winter were gone. In early March when the weather turned unseasonably warm and green buds appeared on the trees, there was still no change.

  Seeing her in such a state was more than Cyrus could stand. He took the money he’d set aside for seed, went into town and brought back three lengths of flowered muslin, a sack of sugar and five peppermint sticks.

  “Look,” he said. “I’ve gotten you fabric for new dresses and candy. Peppermint; your favorite.”

  “I’ve no need of dresses,” she replied solemnly, “and I no longer have a taste for candy.” She gave a mournful sigh and turned her face to the wall.

  “Please, Ruth,” he said. “I’ll do anything to make you well again. Just tell me what it is I have to do.”

  Ruth turned back to him and saw the love on his face. She stretched her arm across and tucked her hand into the palm of his.

  “It’s not you,” she said. “It’s this place.”

  “You mean the farm, don’t you?” he asked sadly.

  She gave a barely perceptible nod. “Yes. With no water on the land it will stay this way forever. Nothing will grow here, not even a child.”

  “But, Ruth—”

  She lifted her finger to his mouth.

  “You asked and I told you,” she said. “I will never leave you, Cyrus, but if we are ever to find happiness we have to leave here and make a new life for ourselves.”

  A look of sadness crossed Cyrus’s face, and he gave a huge shuddering sigh.

  The Jackson Family