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devilment. Minus a generation that's 150." I put my pencil down real careful.
Shoulda been dead a long time ago. How old was Aunt Daid that they said that
about her a century and a half ago?
Next morning the whole world was fresh and clean. Last night's spell of rain
had washed the trees and the skies and settled the dust, I stretched in the
early morning cool and felt like life was a pretty good thing. Vacation before me
and nothing much to be done on the farm for a while.
Ma called breakfast and I followed my nose to the buttermilk pancakes and
sausages and coffee and outate Pa by a stack and a half of pancakes.
"Well, son, looks like you're finally a man," said Pa. "When you can outeat
your pa "
Ma scurried in from the other room. "Aunt Daid's sitting on the edge of her
bed," she said anxiously. "And I didn't get her up."
"Um," said Pa. "Begins to look that way doesn't it?"
"Think I'll go up to Honan's Lake," I said, tilting my chair back, only half
hearing what they were saying. "Feel like a coupla days fishing."
"Better hang around, son," said Pa. "We might be needing you in a day or
so."
"Oh?" I said, a little put out. "I had my mouth all set for Honan's Lake."
"Well, unset it for a spell," said Pa. "There's a whole summer ahead."
"But what for?" I asked. "What's cooking?"
Pa and Ma looked at each other and Ma crumpled the corner of her apron in
her hand. "We're going to need you," she said.
"How come?" I asked.
'To walk Aunt Daid," said Ma.
"To walk Aunt Daid?" I thumped my chair back on four legs. "But my gosh,
Ma, you always do for Aunt Daid."
"Not for this," said Ma, smoothing at the wrinkles in her apron. "Aunt Daid
won't walk this walk with a woman. It has to be you."
I took a good look at Aunt Daid that night at supper. I'd never really looked
at her before. She'd been around ever since I could remember. She was as
much a part of the house as the furniture.
Aunt Daid was just soso sized. If she'd been fleshed out, she'd be about Ma
for bigness. She had a wisp of hair twisted into a walnut-sized knob at the back
of her head. The ends of the hair sprayed out stiffly from the knob like a
worn-out brush. Her face looked like wrinkles had wrinkled on wrinkles and all
collapsed into the emptiness of no teeth and no meat on her skull bones. Her
tiny eyes, almost hidden under the crepe of her eyelids, were empty. They just
stared across the table through me and on out into nothingness while her lips
sucked open at the tap of the spoon Ma held, inhaled the soft stuff Ma had to
feed her on, and then shut, working silently until her skinny neck bobbed with
swallowing.
"Doesn't she ever say anything?" I finally asked.
Pa looked quick at Ma and then back down at his plate.
"Never heard a word out of her," said Ma.
"Doesn't she ever do anything?" I asked.
"Why sure," said Ma. "She shells peas real good when I get her started."
"Yeah." I felt my spine crinkle, remembering once when I was little. I sat on
the porch and passed the peapods to Aunt Daid. I was remembering how, after I
ran out of peas, her withered old hands had kept reaching and taking and
shelling and throwing away with nothing but emptiness in them.
"And she tears rug rags good. And she can pull weeds if nothing else is
growing where they are."
"Why " I started and stopped.
"Why do we keep her?" asked Ma. "She doesn't die. She's alive. What should
we do? She's no trouble. Not much, anyway."
"Put her in a home somewhere," I suggested.
"She's in a home now," said Ma, spooning up for Aunt Daid. And we don't
have to put out cash for her and no telling what'd happen to her."
"What is this walking business anyway? Walking where?"
"Down hollow," said Pa, cutting a quarter of a cherry pie. "Down to the oak "
he drew a deep breath and let it out "and back again."
"Why down there?" I asked. "Hollow's full of weeds and mosquitoes. Besides
it's it's "
"Spooky," said Ma, smiling at me.
"Well, yes, spooky," I said. "There's always a quiet down there when the
wind's blowing everywhere else, or else a wind when everything's still. Why
down there?"
"There's where she wants to walk," said Pa. "You walk her down there."
"Well." I stood up, "Let's get it over with. Come on, Aunt Daid."
"She ain't ready yet," said Ma. "She won't go till she's ready."
"Well, Pa, why can't you walk her then?" I asked. "You did it once "
"Once is enough," said Pa, his face shut and still. "It's your job this time. You
be here when you're needed. It's a family duty. Them fish will wait."
"Okay, okay," I said. "But at least tell me what the deal is. It sounds like a lot
of hogwash to me."
There wasn't much to tell. Aunt Daid was a family heirloom, like, but Pa
never heard exactly who she was to the family. She had always been like
this just as old and so dried up she wasn't even repulsive. I guess it's only
when there's enough juice for rotting that a body is repulsive and Aunt Daid
was years and years past that. That must be why the sight of her wet tongue
jarred me.
Seems like once in every twenty-thirty years, Aunt Daid gets an awful
craving to go walking. And always someone has to go with her. A man. She
won't go with a woman. And the man comes back changed.
"You can't help being changed," said Pa, "when your eyes look on things
your mind can't " Pa swallowed.
"Only time there was any real trouble with Aunt Daid," said Pa, "was when
the family came west. That was back in your great-great-grampa's time. They
left the old place and came out here in covered wagons and Aunt Daid didn't
even notice until time for her to walk again. Then she got violent. Great-grampa
tried to walk her down the road, but she dragged him all over the place,
coursing like a hunting dog that's lost the trail only with her eyes blind-like, all
through the dark. Great-grampa finally brought her back almost at sunrise. He
was pert nigh a broken man, what with cuts and bruises and scratches and
walking Aunt Daid. She'd finally settled on down hollow."
"What does she walk for?" I asked. "What goes on?" "You'll see, son," said Pa.
"Words wouldn't tell anything, but you'll see."
That evening Aunt Daid covered her face again with her hands. Later she
stood up by herself, teetering by her chair a minute, one withered old hand
pawing at the air, till Ma, with a look at Pa, set her down again.
All next day Aunt Daid was quiet, but come evening she got restless. She
went to the door three or four times, just waiting there like a puppy asking to
go out, but after my heart had started pounding and I had hurried to her and
opened the door, she just waved her face blindly at the darkness outside and
went back to her chair.
Next night was the same until along about ten o'clock, just as Ma was
thinking of putting Aunt Daid to bed. First thing we knew, Aunt Daid was by
the door again, her feet tramping up and down impatiently, her dry hands
whispering over the door.
"It's time," said Pa quiet-like, and I got all cold inside.
"But it's blacker'n pitch tonight," I protested. "It's as dark as the inside of a
cat. No moon."
Aunt Daid whimpered. I nearly dropped. It was the first sound I'd ever heard
from her.
"It's time," said Pa again, his face bleak. "Walk her, son. And, Paul bring
her back."
"Down hollow's bad enough by day," I said, watching, half sick, as Aunt Daid
spread her skinny arms out against the door, her face pushed up against it
hard, her saggy black dress looking like spilled ink dripped down, "but on a
moonless night "
"Walk her somewhere else, then," said Pa, his voice getting thin. "If you can.
But get going, son, and don't come back without her."
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