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I needed to be strong for my children. In the breeze of the early morning wind, I sat on the porch, rocking my youngest, Romey. Her baby hair was so soft and dark against the white of the chair. I slowly smoothed it down as we rocked, soothing her to sleep and myself to quiet regret. It was the rocking and the contrast of her hair that reminded me of my crumbling life, my crumbling worlds. My heart ached for J.D. as much as it did the day I lost my Papa to a senseless killing. At least Papa was doing his job as a constable. I didn’t know what my J.D. was doing. I am not sure I even wanted to know. The house would be full of people soon. Constable McGill would be bringing my husband home to be buried.
I lifted my eyes up, my vision blurred through tears, and saw three men coming up on horseback. One pulled a wagon. I carried Romey inside to her bed. Harry sat with Minnie and Bessie at the table.
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“What is it, Mama?” Harry asked, his eyelids puffy and swollen from crying most of the night.
“It is the constable. They are bringing your Papa home to be buried,” I said, softly. Bessie started to cry again. Minnie sobbed in her hands.
Harry jumped up and started shouting at them. “I have heard enough crying from all of us! Papa wouldn’t want us to cry like this. Shush now, and go back to your bedroom until all these men leave.”
I was shocked by his strength. I should have scolded him for bossing and yelling at the girls, but I needed to let all my children do what they must to get through this day of tragedy and mourning. If Harry needed to be the man, I was going to let him. He had seen far too much heartache than any little boy should have to endure. There was no one else we could turn to but ourselves. We were on our own.
Constable McGill tapped at the door. Harry let him in. “Where would you like us to put Mr. McSwain?” he asked. “Where did that beautiful coffin come from?” I asked.
“Well, Charley bought it for your husband, ma’am. I can leave it right here on the porch if you like,” he offered.
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I did not know what to say. I couldn’t refuse it. J.D. was already inside. “That will be just fine, Constable,” I replied. “I appreciate you bringing him to me. Has Mr. Edwards been arrested?” “Well, Ma’am, he was questioned last night, but I had to let him go on back to his place after I took his statement. He seemed to be pretty shook up. There were no witnesses, and he claims it was self-defense.”
“What? But I told you, J.D. could not even cut up our beef for a meal with his left hand! Besides, J.D. was a gentle man,” I argued. “I am pretty sure it was Edwards who was at fault. He has been in trouble with the law a lot,” the Constable replied, taking a few steps back toward the door.
“Well, go arrest him, then. Go put that awful murderer in jail, please!” I cried.
“Mrs. McSwain, it is with great sadness I tell you that my deputy has informed me Edwards is no longer at his place. When he was sent there this morning to fetch him, he reported Edward’s horse missing, too. I am so sorry.” He motioned for his men to place the coffin on the porch.
“This better not be the end of this Mr. McGill. I want my husband’s murderer brought to justice! Do you understand me?” I responded, shaking my head in disbelief.
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“I promise we will keep looking for him. Since it seems to have been a dispute between them, as was shared by some with them that evening, I assure you that I will let you know when we find him, Mrs. McSwain.” After laying the coffin on our porch, the men left.
I felt just full up with visitors and lawmen and had been ready for them to leave. They were useless to me, and it was obvious they had no desire to help a widowed Indian woman. It was the story of our times. I knew deep in my soul that nothing was going to be done about J.D.’s murder or the man who killed him. It was like these McSwain boys were doomed. I was over the top with so much anger and sadness.
Mama, Belle, Charley, and their kids arrived right after lunch. Charley brought a preacher along to do the service for the burial, and a crew of his hired hands carted J.D. away to a new cemetery in Tishomingo.
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The day went by slowly and painfully. My nerves were coiled up tight as a bedspring. I moved from place to place, keeping my four children close. I watched Mama, who looked after me with such love and such concern. I felt weak inside, weaker than I had ever known myself to be. I am not sure what I really remember about the rest of that day, nor the few weeks that followed. My spirit kept me moving or just plodding along, but my pain silenced my true feelings, and no one saw the deep hurt that lay inside my heart.
This is an excerpt from Where Birds Land by Mary Ruth Barnes. Published with permission.
Author Bio:
Mary Ruth Barnes has received numerous awards for her art and writing on the state and national level. Barnes recently published her first novel Little Bird with the Chickasaw Press about her great-great-Grandmother’s journey in Indian Territory. The book won two 2022 Ippy awards, receiving gold for the cover design and silver for best Midwest regional fiction.
Barnes has had many short stories and watercolors featured in several issues of the journal of Chickasaw History and Culture, Ishtunowa. She was also honored as a Chickasaw Artist in the July 2015 issue of the Distinctly Oklahoma magazine. Her story of inspiration leading to painting and drawing was featured in a book by Allison Fields, Chickasaw Artisans.
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