WandaCKeesey

GRAVE STONE
By Wanda C. Keesey

Her friends call her Barky, but her full name is Bertha Granger Daily. She was named for her great, great, grandmother.

Barky knew the perfect place to read the treasured journal left by her ancestor, her namesake. She walked with purpose through the nineteenth century markers to the grave of Luther Granger. Her mother had often brought her there and told her the story of her missing ancestor.

Barky hoped she would find some clue to the mystery of Luther Granger's young wife, and her great, great, grandmother, in the yellowed pages.   She knew of no others who had read the book. To her aunts and uncles it was a valued heirloom and nothing more.

Bertha (nee Willard) Granger had not yet reached her twenty-fifth birthday when she disappeared at the turn of the century. Family stories assume that she found someone younger and more attractive than the man more than twice her age that her father had literally sold her to.

Barky didn't agree with the stories, although the family lore about Luther could lead one to believe them. But would Bertha have left her three children behind? Never trying to contact them or even writing to them.
From all reports, Luther was as ugly in appearance as his personality was harsh and grating. He was said to have hired all his sons out to neighboring farmer as soon as they were able to wield a pitchfork. In the case of the youngest, Barky's great grandfather, to a dairy-man at the age of five to milk cows. A week after their mother's disappearance, with their father's insistence, all three boys moved from their father's house to live with the farmers who paid them in room and board.

Luther Granger, August 1847 to May 1932. The marker was mounted on the left side of an elongated base. The top of the stone was embossed “Father”.

"Only by an act of God," Barky whispered. "Certainly not by anything he did other than sire offspring."
She lay her tote bag down, putting the thin book on top of it before spreading a beach towel on the empty side of the slab.

Retrieving the journal, Bertha sat on the towel. Swinging her legs up she rested her back against Luther’s marker.
“My Life, by Bertha Willard” was neatly printed on the cover page. What could be more appropriate she thought with a sad smile as she looked at the volume resting in her lap. She was sitting where Bertha’s marker should have been next to her husband’s, the father of her three boys. . . and my great, great grandfather, she thought.

I will be married tomorrow. It is not a union of my choosing but it pleases my father. Luther Granger is a land owner and by all accounts, honest.
Indeed, he has earned Papa's praise. "Mr. Granger does not indulge in spirits, gambling, nor sins of the flesh and he goes to church faithfully. I cannot provide a just dowry and you should be pleased with this union. You are getting on in years and not in a position to be choosing."
What Papa says is true.   In another year I will be destined to the life of a spinster.

The script was easy to read, even though it was faded. The entries weren’t dated but separations in time were designated with short gaps between the accounts. Barky knew that her great, great grandparents were married in August of 1892. The bride was seventeen and Luther was forty-five.

Mr. Granger is not pleased with me. I must become the wife he desires.   I will clean his house, launder his clothing, and make his meals.
The house is large with many floors to scrub and furnishings to polish. I rise at dawn and prepare Mr. Granger’s breakfast. When he retires to his study, I begin my chores. There are many. When supper is served and the kitchen is cleaned, Mr. Granger allows that I sit at the table as he tells me what I must do better. We pray together for hours. “Perhaps the Lord can somehow move you to be a better wife.” He tells me before going to bed leaving me to scrub the floors again if he’s found a scuff or crumb, or boil the sheets again if they are not white enough, or iron his shirts again if I did not properly starch them. As I work I pray that my husband has fallen asleep. But though I enter my humble room next to his as silently as is possible, he hears the door close, or the rustle of my dress as I change into my nightgown. He comes to my bed.   Even there I cannot please him. Mr. Granger uses me for his needs, but seems to find fault with my willingness to allow it. Before he returns to his room, he bids me to kneel naked next to my bed and pray aloud for my tarnished soul. If my words are not loud enough or not heart felt, he uses his razor strop across my naked back, rear and legs. My words are never loud enough and seldom heart felt, as he uses the strop often.

The darkening sky fit the mood of Bertha’s diary. Hum, Barky thought, the weather report didn’t predict rain. But the clouds gathered nonetheless. Perhaps the weather was a reflection of that long-ago Bertha’s tortured life. It’s no wonder she disappeared.   But if she ran away, why didn’t she take her children?   Barky thumbed the small book. "Just a few more entries then I’d better go," she said.

He beat me today because the boys ran from the dinner table without being excused. We prayed that I would be able to teach my children manners.
With three active boys under foot and another child on the way, it is harder to get the chores done and the beatings and sleepless nights are taking their toll. Perhaps the Lord will see fit to give me final rest.
I am ill. Mr. Granger used the strop till I bled last night. The bleeding is not from cuts but from inside. I fear for my child.

Barky turned the page.   It was blank. Quickly she fanned the rest of the small book, there were no other entries. Did Bertha die in childbirth? Why wouldn't Luther get help? Of course if he went to a doctor or midwife, they would see that he beat his wife. He wouldn't want his name tarnished. He wanted the truth to be hidden. Is that what happened? Barky could only guess. But she was sure that Bertha didn't leave her children willingly.
Barky closed the book and looked again at the plain cover. If Luther Granger had known of its existence he would have destroyed the diary. A cloud blocked the remaining light, as the first drops of cold rain fell onto Barky's hand.

Quickly she reached for her bag. The tote was just out of reach. Bertha started to swing her legs. . .but they wouldn’t move.

With a nervous laugh she looked at what might be holding her. Surely its just. . .but all she saw was her sandals resting on--no--.in the concrete base? Puzzled she tried to rise--but she could only lean forward a few inches.
Pulling at the corner of the beach towel, Bertha saw that her body, too, had begun to sink into the base.

“This can’t be. What’s going on here? It’s a trick of some kind--that’s what it is.” She looked around but didn’t see anyone. “Okay, you out there. Your trick is very funny. . .now come here and get me out of this.” She shouted. When the stones remained silent, Bertha started to shake. “Come on. This isn’t funny.”

"My cell phone," she thought, "if I stretch maybe I can snag the corner of my bag." Leaning as far as she could, Barky reached for her tote-- her hands wouldn't move. Cold sweat and tears mixed with the rain as she saw that both her hands were now embedded in the base.   Sobbing she shouted into the growing wind. “Help me. You’ve had your fun.”

With a tremor that shook her inside and out, Barky saw that she was still sinking. As the gray concrete rose encompassing her, she felt only the cold of the weathered base and the icy grip of fear. She screamed. . .and screamed until she voice gave out and she could no longer make a sound, then she sat with her mouth wide open emitting only a weak whimper and dripping saliva.

Only the wind and thunder answered her cries.

She couldn't wipe the tears from her eyes or blow her dripping nose. Barky tried to think of a reason, some sane reason for what was happening to her. "I'm not a bad person. I try to do what's right." Her mouth tried to form the words but emitted only incoherent sounds.

Lightening streaked across the darkened sky. She twisted and pulled at her body. It was no use. The stone was at her waist. She stopped struggling. Pressure waves creep up her body. Each exploding in her head, sending shooting stars to her eyes and throbs of pain to her ears. She was being encompassed in cement, hard, cold cement.

Her strained voice whispered the grace she remembered saying as a child at the dinner table when Gramma came to visit, the nighttime blessing her mother listened to her recite every night before turning off the light, the bits and pieces of scripture remembered from those long ago Sunday school classes. . .when had she stopped going to church, saying her prayers. . .was that it?

“S-T-O-P, p-l-e-a-s-e. I’ll do anything,” she begged. The words came out scratchy and shrill.   Her tears were lost in the pelting rain, but not the fear. She gagged as bile rose in her throat. “Luther help me.” She begged weakly. “Do for me what you couldn’t do for your Bertha.”

The base embraced her chest. Barky pulled in short tight breaths, mixed with tears, and rain, through her open mouth. She stretched the skin of her neck as far as she could. She could clearly see inside her tote. The opening was just below eye level. Her phone had spilled out onto the ground. It was inches from her, but she was helpless to reach it. She was sinking and no one would be coming to rescue her, least of all, Luther Granger. The cold base crept up her stretched neck.

Her eyes frantically searched the trees for help, but she knew there wasn’t anyone.   Did Bertha Wallace Granger die alone, in pain as she fought to keep her child? Or did Luther pray for her sins by her bed as she suffered.
Bertha watched as the base swallowed her, it was pressing on her chin. . . How will I breath. . . , she thought, her lips tightly closed to keep the cement out of her mouth, her nostrils flared as she fought for life.

. . .her lips

. . .her nose

She took one last breath and held it.

. . .her eyes.

She was amazed that she found the cool cement comforting as it covered her eyes and gently tugged at her hair.   As she struggled to take just one more breath, Barky thought she could hear a man’s voice laughing as he said, “Welcome home, Bertha.”