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Circa 1922 I STAID the night for shelter at a farm | |
Behind the mountain, with a mother and son, | |
Two old-believers. They did all the talking. | |
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The Mother Folks think a witch who has familiar spirits | |
She could call up to pass a winter evening, | 5 |
But won’t, should be burned at the stake or something. | |
Summoning spirits isn’t “Button, button, | |
Who’s got the button,” you’re to understand. | |
The Son Mother can make a common table rear | |
And kick with two legs like an army mule. | 10 |
The Mother And when I’ve done it, what good have I done? | |
Rather than tip a table for you, let me | |
Tell you what Ralle the Sioux Control once told me. | |
He said the dead had souls, but when I asked him | |
How that could be—I thought the dead were souls, | 15 |
He broke my trance. Don’t that make you suspicious | |
That there’s something the dead are keeping back? | |
Yes, there’s something the dead are keeping back. | |
The Son You wouldn’t want to tell him what we have | |
Up attic, mother? | 20 |
The Mother Bones—a skeleton. | |
The Son But the headboard of mother’s bed is pushed | |
Against the attic door: the door is nailed. | |
It’s harmless. Mother hears it in the night | |
Halting perplexed behind the barrier | 25 |
Of door and headboard. Where it wants to get | |
Is back into the cellar where it came from. | |
The Mother We’ll never let them, will we, son? We’ll never! | |
The Son It left the cellar forty years ago | |
And carried itself like a pile of dishes | 30 |
Up one flight from the cellar to the kitchen, | |
Another from the kitchen to the bedroom, | |
Another from the bedroom to the attic, | |
Right past both father and mother, and neither stopped it. | |
Father had gone upstairs; mother was downstairs. | 35 |
I was a baby: I don’t know where I was. | |
The Mother The only fault my husband found with me— | |
I went to sleep before I went to bed, | |
Especially in winter when the bed | |
Might just as well be ice and the clothes snow. | 40 |
The night the bones came up the cellar-stairs | |
Toffile had gone to bed alone and left me, | |
But left an open door to cool the room off | |
So as to sort of turn me out of it. | |
I was just coming to myself enough | 45 |
To wonder where the cold was coming from, | |
When I heard Toffile upstairs in the bedroom | |
And thought I heard him downstairs in the cellar. | |
The board we had laid down to walk dry-shod on | |
When there was water in the cellar in spring | 50 |
Struck the hard cellar bottom. And then someone | |
Began the stairs, two footsteps for each step, | |
The way a man with one leg and a crutch, | |
Or little child, comes up. It wasn’t Toffile: | |
It wasn’t anyone who could be there. | 55 |
The bulkhead double-doors were double-locked | |
And swollen tight and buried under snow. | |
The cellar windows were banked up with sawdust | |
And swollen tight and buried under snow. | |
It was the bones. I knew them—and good reason. | 60 |
My first impulse was to get to the knob | |
And hold the door. But the bones didn’t try | |
The door; they halted helpless on the landing, | |
Waiting for things to happen in their favor. | |
The faintest restless rustling ran all through them. | 65 |
I never could have done the thing I did | |
If the wish hadn’t been too strong in me | |
To see how they were mounted for this walk. | |
I had a vision of them put together | |
Not like a man, but like a chandelier. | 70 |
So suddenly I flung the door wide on him. | |
A moment he stood balancing with emotion, | |
And all but lost himself. (A tongue of fire | |
Flashed out and licked along his upper teeth. | |
Smoke rolled inside the sockets of his eyes.) | 75 |
Then he came at me with one hand outstretched, | |
The way he did in life once; but this time | |
I struck the hand off brittle on the floor, | |
And fell back from him on the floor myself. | |
The finger-pieces slid in all directions. | 80 |
(Where did I see one of those pieces lately? | |
Hand me my button-box—it must be there.) | |
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I sat up on the floor and shouted, “Toffile, | |
It’s coming up to you.” It had its choice | |
Of the door to the cellar or the hall. | 85 |
It took the hall door for the novelty, | |
And set off briskly for so slow a thing, | |
Still going every which way in the joints, though, | |
So that it looked like lightning or a scribble, | |
From the slap I had just now given its hand. | 90 |
I listened till it almost climbed the stairs | |
From the hall to the only finished bedroom, | |
Before I got up to do anything; | |
Then ran and shouted, “Shut the bedroom door, | |
Toffile, for my sake!” “Company,” he said, | 95 |
“Don’t make me get up; I’m too warm in bed.” | |
So lying forward weakly on the handrail | |
I pushed myself upstairs, and in the light | |
(The kitchen had been dark) I had to own | |
I could see nothing. “Toffile, I don’t see it. | 100 |
It’s with us in the room, though. It’s the bones.” | |
“What bones?” “The cellar bones—out of the grave.” | |
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That made him throw his bare legs out of bed | |
And sit up by me and take hold of me. | |
I wanted to put out the light and see | 105 |
If I could see it, or else mow the room, | |
With our arms at the level of our knees, | |
And bring the chalk-pile down. “I’ll tell you what— | |
It’s looking for another door to try. | |
The uncommonly deep snow has made him think | 110 |
Of his old song, The Wild Colonial Boy, | |
He always used to sing along the tote-road. | |
He’s after an open door to get out-doors. | |
Let’s trap him with an open door up attic.” | |
Toffile agreed to that, and sure enough, | 115 |
Almost the moment he was given an opening, | |
The steps began to climb the attic stairs. | |
I heard them. Toffile didn’t seem to hear them. | |
“Quick!” I slammed to the door and held the knob. | |
“Toffile, get nails.” I made him nail the door shut, | 120 |
And push the headboard of the bed against it. | |
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Then we asked was there anything | |
Up attic that we’d ever want again. | |
The attic was less to us than the cellar. | |
If the bones liked the attic, let them like it, | 125 |
Let them stay in the attic. When they sometimes | |
Come down the stairs at night and stand perplexed | |
Behind the door and headboard of the bed, | |
Brushing their chalky skull with chalky fingers, | |
With sounds like the dry rattling of a shutter, | 130 |
That’s what I sit up in the dark to say— | |
To no one any more since Toffile died. | |
Let them stay in the attic since they went there. | |
I promised Toffile to be cruel to them | |
For helping them be cruel once to him. | 135 |
The Son We think they had a grave down in the cellar. | |
The Mother We know they had a grave down in the cellar. | |
The Son We never could find out whose bones they were. | |
The Mother Yes, we could too, son. Tell the truth for once. | |
They were a man’s his father killed for me. | 140 |
I mean a man he killed instead of me. | |
The least I could do was help dig their grave. | |
We were about it one night in the cellar. | |
Son knows the story: but ’twas not for him | |
To tell the truth, suppose the time had come. | 145 |
Son looks surprised to see me end a lie | |
We’d kept up all these years between ourselves | |
So as to have it ready for outsiders. | |
But tonight I don’t care enough to lie— | |
I don’t remember why I ever cared. | 150 |
Toffile, if he were here, I don’t believe | |
Could tell you why he ever cared himself…. | |
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She hadn’t found the finger-bone she wanted | |
Among the buttons poured out in her lap. | |
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I verified the name next morning: Toffile. | 155 |
The rural letter-box said Toffile Barre. | |
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