Mudbound

  Also by HILLARY JORDAN

  When She Woke

  MUDBOUND

  A NOVEL BY

  HILLARY JORDAN

  Algonquin Books of Chapel Hill 2009

  To Mother, Gay and Nana, for the stories

  If I could do it, I’d do no writing at all here. It would be photographs; the rest would be fragments of cloth, bits of cotton, lumps of earth, records of speech, pieces of wood and iron, phials of odors, plates of food and of excrement. . . . A piece of the body torn out by the roots might be more to the point.

  —JAMES AGEE, Let Us Now Praise Famous Men

  CONTENTS

  I.

  Jamie

  Laura

  Jamie

  Ronsel

  Laura

  Henry

  Florence

  Laura

  Hap

  Laura

  Hap

  II.

  Laura

  Ronsel

  Florence

  Laura

  Henry

  Jamie

  III.

  Laura

  Florence

  Henry

  Laura

  Hap

  Ronsel

  Laura

  Jamie

  Ronsel

  Jamie

  Hap

  Florence

  Laura

  Jamie

  Laura

  Jamie

  Henry

  Laura

  Ronsel

  Acknowledgments

  Reader’s Guide

  About the Author

  About Algonquin

  I.

  JAMIE

  HENRY AND I DUG the hole seven feet deep. Any shallower and the corpse was liable to come rising up during the next big flood: Howdy boys! Remember me? The thought of it kept us digging even after the blisters on our palms had burst, re-formed and burst again. Every shovelful was an agony—the old man, getting in his last licks. Still, I was glad of the pain. It shoved away thought and memory.

  When the hole got too deep for our shovels to reach bottom, I climbed down into it and kept digging while Henry paced and watched the sky. The soil was so wet from all the rain it was like digging into raw meat. I scraped it off the blade by hand, cursing at the delay. This was the first break we’d had in the weather in three days and could be our last chance for some while to get the body in the ground.

  “Better hurry it up,” Henry said.

  I looked at the sky. The clouds overhead were the color of ash, but there was a vast black mass of them to the north, and it was headed our way. Fast.

  “We’re not gonna make it,” I said.

  “We will,” he said.

  That was Henry for you: absolutely certain that whatever he wanted to happen would happen. The body would get buried before the storm hit. The weather would dry out in time to resow the cotton. Next year would be a better year. His little brother would never betray him.

  I dug faster, wincing with every stroke. I knew I could stop at any time and Henry would take my place without a word of complaint—never mind he had nearly fifty years on his bones to my twenty-nine. Out of pride or stubbornness or both, I kept digging. By the time he said, “All right, my turn,” my muscles were on fire and I was wheezing like an engine full of old gas. When he pulled me up out of the hole, I gritted my teeth so I wouldn’t cry out. My body still ached in a dozen places from all the kicks and blows, but Henry didn’t know about that.

  Henry could never know about that.

  I knelt by the side of the hole and watched him dig. His face and hands were so caked with mud a passerby might have taken him for a Negro. No doubt I was just as filthy, but in my case the red hair would have given me away. My father’s hair, copper spun so fine women’s fingers itch to run through it. I’ve always hated it. It might as well be a pyre blazing on top of my head, shouting to the world that he’s in me. Shouting it to me every time I look in the mirror.

  Around four feet, Henry’s blade hit something hard.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “Piece of rock, I think.”

  But it wasn’t rock, it was bone—a human skull, missing a big chunk in back. “Damn,” Henry said, holding it up to the light.

  “What do we do now?”

  “I don’t know.”

  We both looked to the north. The black was growing, eating up the sky.

  “We can’t start over,” I said. “It could be days before the rain lets up again.”

  “I don’t like it,” Henry said. “It’s not right.”

  He kept digging anyway, using his hands, passing the bones up to me as he unearthed them: ribs, arms, pelvis. When he got to the lower legs, there was a clink of metal. He held up a tibia and I saw the crude, rusted iron shackle encircling the bone. A broken chain dangled from it.

  “Jesus Christ,” Henry said. “This is a slave’s grave.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  He picked up the broken skull. “See here? He was shot in the head. Must’ve been a runaway.” Henry shook his head. “That settles it.”

  “Settles what?”

  “We can’t bury our father in a nigger’s grave,” Henry said. “There’s nothing he’d have hated more. Now help me out of here.” He extended one grimy hand.

  “It could have been an escaped convict,” I said. “A white man.” It could have been, but I was betting it wasn’t. Henry hesitated, and I said, “The penitentiary’s what, just six or seven miles from here?”

  “More like ten,” he said. But he let his hand fall to his side.

  “Come on,” I said, holding out my own hand. “Take a break. I’ll dig awhile.” When he reached up and clasped it, I had to stop myself from smiling. Henry was right: there was nothing our father would have hated more.

  HENRY WAS BACK to digging again when I saw Laura coming toward us, picking her way across the drowned fields with a bucket in each hand. I fished in my pocket for my handkerchief and used it to wipe some of the mud off my face. Vanity—that’s another thing I got from my father.

  “Laura’s coming,” I said.

  “Pull me up,” Henry said.

  I grabbed his hands and pulled, grunting with the effort, dragging him over the lip of the grave. He struggled to his knees, breathing harshly. He bent his head and his hat came off, revealing a wide swath of pink skin on top. The sight of it gave me a sharp, unexpected pang. He’s getting old, I thought. I won’t always have him.

  He looked up, searching for Laura. When his eyes found her they lit with emotions so private I was embarrassed to see them: longing, hope, a tinge of worry. “I’d better keep at it,” I said, turning away and picking up the shovel. I half jumped, half slid down into the hole. It was deep enough now that I couldn’t see out. just as well.

  “How’s it coming?” I heard Laura say. As always, her voice coursed through me like cold, clear water. It was a voice that belonged rightfully to some ethereal creature, a siren or an angel, not to a middle-aged Mississippi farmwife.

  “We’re almost finished,” said Henry. “Another foot or so will see it done.”

  “I’ve brought food and water,” she said.

  “Water!” Henry let out a bitter laugh. “That’s just what we need, is more water.” I heard the scrape of the dipper against the pail and the sound of him swallowing, then Laura’s head appeared over the side of the hole. She handed the dipper down to me.

  “Here,” she said, “have a drink.”

  I gulped it down, wishing it were whiskey instead. I’d run out three days ago, just before the bridge flooded, cutting us off from town. I reckoned the river had gone down enough by now that I could have gotten across—if I hadn’t been stuck in that damned hole.

  I thanked h
er and handed the dipper back up to her, but Laura wasn’t looking at me. Her eyes were fixed on the other side of the grave, where we’d laid the bones.

  “Good Lord, are those human?” she said.

  “It couldn’t be helped,” Henry said. “We were already four feet down when we found them.”

  I saw her lips twitch as her eyes took in the shackles and chains. She covered her mouth with her hand, then turned to Henry. “Make sure you move them so the children don’t see,” she said.

  WHEN THE TOP of the grave was more than a foot over my head, I stopped digging. “Come take a look,” I called out. “I think this is plenty deep.”

  Henry’s face appeared above me, upside down. He nodded. “Yep. That should do it.” I handed him the shovel, but when he tried to pull me up, it was no use. I was too far down, and our hands and the walls of the hole were too slick.

  “I’ll fetch the ladder,” he said.

  “Hurry.”

  I waited in the hole. Around me was mud, stinking and oozing. Overhead a rectangle of darkening gray. I stood with my neck bent back, listening for the returning squelch of Henry’s boots, wondering what was taking him so goddamn long. If something happened to him and Laura, I thought, no one would know I was here. I clutched the edge of the hole and tried to pull myself up, but my fingers just slid through the mud.

  Then I felt the first drops of rain hit my face. “Henry!” I yelled.

  The rain was falling lightly now, but before long it would be a downpour. The water would start filling up the hole. I’d feel it creeping up my legs to my thighs. To my chest. To my neck. “Henry! Laura!”

  I threw myself at the walls of the grave like a maddened bear in a pit. Part of me was outside myself, shaking my head at my own foolishness, but the man was powerless to help the bear. It wasn’t the confinement; I’d spent hundreds of hours in cockpits with no problem at all. It was the water. During the war I’d avoided flying over the open ocean whenever I could, even if it meant facing flak from the ground. It was how I won all those medals for bravery: from being so scared of that vast, hungry blue that I drove straight into the thick of German antiaircraft fire.

  I was yelling so hard I didn’t hear Henry until he was standing right over me. “I’m here, Jamie! I’m here!” he shouted.

  He lowered the ladder into the hole and I scrambled up it. He tried to take hold of my arm, but I waved him off. I bent over, my hands on my knees, trying to slow the tripping of my heart.

  “You all right?” he asked.

  I didn’t look at him, but I didn’t have to. I knew his forehead would be puckered and his mouth pursed—his “my brother, the lunatic” look.

  “I thought maybe you’d decided to leave me down there,” I said, with a forced laugh.

  “Why would I do that?”

  “I’m just kidding, Henry.” I went and took up the ladder, tucking it under one arm. “Come on, let’s get this over with.”

  We hurried across the fields, stopping at the pump to wash the mud off our hands and faces, then headed to the barn to get the coffin. It was a sorry-looking thing, made of mismatched scrap wood, but it was the best we’d been able to do with the materials we had. Henry frowned as he picked up one end. “I wish to hell we’d been able to get to town,” he said.

  “Me too,” I said, thinking of the whiskey.

  We carried the coffin up onto the porch. When we went past the open window Laura called out, “You’ll want hot coffee and a change of clothes before we bury him.”

  “No,” said Henry. “There’s no time. Storm’s coming.”

  We took the coffin into the lean-to and set it on the rough plank floor. Henry lifted the sheet to look at our father’s face one last time. Pappy’s expression was tranquil. There was nothing to show that his death was anything other than the natural, timely passing of an old man.

  I lifted the feet and Henry took the head. “Gently now,” he said.

  “Right,” I said, “we wouldn’t want to hurt him.”

  “That’s not the point,” Henry snapped.

  “Sorry, brother. I’m just tired.”

  With ludicrous care, we lowered the corpse into the coffin. Henry reached for the lid. “I’ll finish up here,” he said. “You go make sure Laura and the girls are ready.”

  “All right.”

  As I walked into the house I heard the hammer strike the first nail, a sweet and final sound. It made the children jump.

  “What’s that banging, Mama?” asked Amanda Leigh.

  “That’s your daddy, nailing Pappy’s coffin shut,” Laura said.

  “Will it make him mad?” Bella’s voice was a scared whisper.

  Laura shot me a quick, fierce glance. “No, darling,” she said. “Pappy’s dead. He can’t get mad at anyone ever again. Now, let’s get you into your coats and boots. It’s time to lay your grandfather to rest.”

  I was glad Henry wasn’t there to hear the satisfaction in her voice.

  LAURA

  WHEN I THINK of the farm, I think of mud. Limning my husband’s fingernails and encrusting the children’s knees and hair. Sucking at my feet like a greedy newborn on the breast. Marching in boot-shaped patches across the plank floors of the house. There was no defeating it. The mud coated everything. I dreamed in brown.

  When it rained, as it often did, the yard turned into a thick gumbo, with the house floating in it like a soggy cracker. When the rains came hard, the river rose and swallowed the bridge that was the only way across. The world was on the other side of that bridge, the world of light bulbs and paved roads and shirts that stayed white. When the river rose, the world was lost to us and we to it.

  One day slid into the next. My hands did what was necessary: pumping, churning, scouring, scraping. And cooking, always cooking. Snapping beans and the necks of chickens. Kneading dough, shucking corn and digging the eyes out of potatoes. No sooner was breakfast over and the mess cleaned up than it was time to start on dinner. After dinner came supper, then breakfast again the next morning.

  Get up at first light. Go to the outhouse. Do your business, shivering in the winter, sweating in the summer, breathing through your mouth year-round. Steal the eggs from under the hens. Haul in wood from the pile and light the stove. Make the biscuits, slice the bacon and fry it up with the eggs and grits. Rouse your daughters from their bed, brush their teeth, guide arms into sleeves and feet into socks and boots. Take your youngest out to the porch and hold her up so she can clang the bell that will summon your husband from the fields and wake his hateful father in the lean-to next door. Feed them all and yourself. Scrub the iron skillet, the children’s faces, the mud off the floors day after day while the old man sits and watches. He is always on you: “You better stir them greens, gal. You better sweep that floor now. Better teach them brats some manners. Wash them clothes. Feed them chickens. Fetch me my cane.” His voice, clotted from smoking. His sly pale eyes with their hard black centers, on you.

  He scared the children, especially my youngest, who was a little chubby.

  “Come here, little piglet,” he’d say to her.

  She peered at him from behind my legs. At his long yellow teeth. At his bony yellow fingers with their thick curved nails like pieces of ancient horn.

  “Come here and sit on my lap.”

  He had no interest in holding her or any other child, he just liked knowing she was afraid of him. When she wouldn’t come, he told her she was too fat to sit on his lap anyway, she might break his bones. She started to cry, and I imagined that old man in his coffin. Pictured the lid closing on his face, the box being lowered into the hole. Heard the dirt striking the wood.

  “Pappy,” I said, smiling sweetly at him, “how about a nice cup of coffee?”

  BUT I MUST START at the beginning, if I can find it. Beginnings are elusive things. Just when you think you have hold of one, you look back and see another, earlier beginning, and an earlier one before that. Even if you start with “Chapter One: I Am Born,” you still
have the problem of antecedents, of cause and effect. Why is young David fatherless? Because, Dickens tells us, his father died of a delicate constitution. Yes, but where did this mortal delicacy come from? Dickens doesn’t say, so we’re left to speculate. A congenital defect, perhaps, inherited from his mother, whose own mother had married beneath her to spite her cruel father, who’d been beaten as a child by a nursemaid who was forced into service when her faithless husband abandoned her for a woman he chanced to meet when his carriage wheel broke in front of the milliner’s where she’d gone to have her hat trimmed. If we begin there, young David is fatherless because his great-great-grandfather’s nursemaid’s husband’s future mistress’s hat needed adornment.

  By the same logic, my father-in-law was murdered because I was born plain rather than pretty. That’s one possible beginning. There are others: Because Henry saved Jamie from drowning in the Great Mississippi Flood of 1927. Because Pappy sold the land that should have been Henry’s. Because Jamie flew too many bombing missions in the war. Because a Negro named Ronsel Jackson shone too brightly. Because a man neglected his wife, and a father betrayed his son, and a mother exacted vengeance. I suppose the beginning depends on who’s telling the story. No doubt the others would start somewhere different, but they’d still wind up at the same place in the end.

  It’s tempting to believe that what happened on the farm was inevitable; that in fact all the events of our lives are as predetermined as the moves in a game of tic-tac-toe: Start in the middle square and no one wins. Start in one of the corners and the game is yours. And if you don’t start, if you let the other person start? You lose, simple as that.

  The truth isn’t so simple. Death may be inevitable, but love is not. Love, you have to choose.

  I’ll begin with that. With love.

  THERE’S A LOT of talk in the Bible about cleaving. Men and women cleaving unto God. Husbands cleaving to wives. Bones cleaving to skin. Cleaving, we are to understand, is a good thing. The righteous cleave; the wicked do not.