Keturah and Lord Death

Gretta’s blush turned to paleness. “Three?” Her eyes narrowed. “Three? First five faulty stitches, and even now three! Come, children,” she said huffily. “Let’s go play.” And she led them into the yard.

“She is a fine woman, but a proud one,” Tailor said to the open door. “She told me not to wear orange.” He smiled.

“Tailor,” I said, “perhaps if you will humor her in the small things, you will hold sway in the bigger things. I know she would like to learn from you.”

“Keturah, you have become wise,” he said.

“Keturah!” Gretta called from the yard.

I bade him good day and went into the yard to see Gretta and to endure her chastisements.

“What of our plan, Keturah?” she asked angrily. “Why did you tell him?”

“Because, Gretta, I told you—he is not my one true love.”

“Of course you don’t love him. Who could love a man who wears orange hose? I told him about the weeds in his garden, and today I see they are still there, and bigger, too.” She sighed. “He is an insufferable man,” she said. “But you must forgive him, and then I am sure you will love him.”

“Gretta,” I said, “I have observed that you treat a man as an old garment to be taken apart and stitched again. Perhaps you could think of him as good cloth, rich fabric that wants only to be embroidered upon. And perhaps, if you will do that, you will see that you love Tailor yourself.”

“What? I? Love Tailor?” She laughed aloud and then turned toward the door where Tailor still stood, gazing at her. She swallowed her laughter and returned his gaze.

Jane, the oldest of Tailor’s children, said, “Do you, Gretta? If it is true, we would like to ask for your hand in marriage.”

“What?”

“Papa says the clothes you secretly made us must be saved for his wedding day, and so we ask you if you can’t please hurry up and marry him.”

“You have made clothes for the children, Gretta?” I asked.

“Well, I couldn’t let them run about in rags when all the other children had new clothes, could I?” she said.

The littlest one tugged on Gretta’s skirt. “But will you marry us?”

She gathered them into her arms. “I love you dearly, but it is God’s own truth that I don’t love your papa.”

The ragged children looked at one another in calm surprise. The eldest girl spoke up. “Papa says you do.”

“He—he said that?” Gretta asked.

“Yes,” said the lad. “But before Mama died, she made him promise that he would never remarry unless he found somebody who loved us even more than him. And then all of us had a dream last night. Mama came to us. Death allowed her to, she said. And she told us that Papa would never ask you on his own, and so we must ask you to marry us.”

Gretta put her hands on either side of her face.

“Yes. And Papa believed us, and said we must do as our mama said,” the boy continued.

The youngest one unplugged her thumb. “Papa said making clothes is nothing. He said if you had to care for us day and night, soon you wouldn’t like us at all. Is that true, Gretta?”

She shook her head slowly at first, and then firmly. “Of course it is not true. If I cared for you a year and a day I would only love you more. It is your papa I would love less.”

“So you do love him!” Jane said.

“No!”

“But you just said …”

“I …” Gretta spoke with great uncertainty. “I do not love your papa, Jane. I love you, but not him. Not at all. No, no. And I never have. And I never will. And I never could. Impossible.”

The children looked at one another again. “Poor Papa,” the lad said at last.

They examined their dirty feet closely. “Yes, poor Papa,” said the youngest.

“Poor? But why?” Gretta asked, touching their sad faces.

“Because he loves you.”

“He—” Gretta took her apron hem and dabbed at her temples. “He what?”

“Papa loves you with a dying and infernal love,” the youngest girl said.

“Undying,” the eldest corrected. “And eternal.”

Tailor, who could hear all, stood quietly in the doorway still, his eyes only upon Gretta and a small smile on his face.

“That cannot be,” Gretta said. She had flushed into a flaming red.

“We know,” the eldest girl said. “We have known him all our lives.”

I could not exactly read Gretta’s face. It might have been disbelief there in her eyes, or perhaps an inordinate surprise in the lines of her forehead. It might have been the countenance of one who had seen an angel on the way. She deliberately avoided looking at Tailor.

I kissed Gretta on the cheek. “I am so happy,” I said.

Gretta pulled me into her embrace, then let me go.

“Come, Beatrice,” I said. “I have an errand with you.” I took her arm and led her away, down toward the church. Once I glanced back to see Tailor bow Gretta into his home, the children following as chaperones.

As we walked I thought upon the dream that all of Tailor’s children had had. Surely Lord Death had arranged their mother’s visitation. Could it be he had done it for me—because he knew I loved Gretta?

I was still marveling over these events when we arrived at the church. Choirmaster seemed to be waiting for us. But it was soon clear that it was Bill he was awaiting, and impatiently, too.