Keturah and Lord Death

“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 ca

“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.

“Where is he? Where is your cousin, Keturah? Today is the last day to practice!”

“Sir, I have somewhat to say to you concerning Bill, but it can only be said in privacy. Surely the other boys wish to go watch the preparations for the fair.”

“Keturah—no!” Beatrice said.

After hesitating a moment, Choirmaster said, “I fear only a little what you could say, for I am happy today—not only for the tale I heard of you, Keturah, but in a personal matter as well. Singers, you are dismissed. But rest your voices!” They scattered like a flock of gulls, and soon we three were alone in the church.

“Choirmaster,” I began, “it is not her fault—it was my idea—but we have a confession to make.”

Beatrice held up her hand to stop me. “No, Keturah, you shall not take the blame for this. Haven’t I longed every day of my remembered life to sing in his choir?” She turned to Choirmaster. “Sir,” she said, “I am your Bill. I have been coming in disguise.”

“Surely not!” he said with great surprise.

“But it is true,” she replied.

“I ca

And so Beatrice opened her mouth, and from it came music—oh, music that could break the heart of a dead man. When she stopped, Choirmaster said nothing for a long moment.

“Did you think I didn’t know?” he said at last. “Would

I not recognize the voice I have loved since the first time I heard you sing in the congregation?”

Beatrice opened her mouth as if she would sing again, but no sound came out. Choirmaster smiled so broadly he was almost handsome. Then he became somber again. “But you must say not a word, or my choir—my choir would be nothing without you.”

He took her hand and slowly, gently, folded it in his own as if it were a small bird.

“I’ve had the strangest dream, Beatrice,” he said.

“Tell it to me, Choirmaster,” Beatrice said in a softer voice. Neither of them seemed to remember that I was there.

“First I must explain something. I thought, after my mother died, that I would abandon my music. But I did not. No, I loved it all the more, and I did not abandon it. Because of him—Death. Because I saw him come for her, and I saw that, after all, she was just a girl, weak and mortal. When I glimpsed—only glimpsed, mind you—his black cape, I saw that all her life she’d sought strength against the day when he must come, and that only then did she realize that there is no strength on that day. Submission is all there is. So I played... to submit my heart every day so that it would not be the struggle it was for her.” He sighed. “Now I will tell you the dream.”

He paused for a moment and then began, “The one who came for her—he appeared to me last night. A tall man, dressed in black, at my bedside, great and terrible. Choirmaster, he said, I am Lord Death. Your mother would speak with you.”

Beatrice put her other hand to her mouth.

“When he called her name, her spirit came scurrying, as if she had been called away from some pressing task. In her hand was her little gold whip.