Maynard touched my foot at the word “penitentiary.”
“That’s all right, Mrs. Howard.” His voice seemed unnecessarily loud and cheerful against the thin anguish of her tones. “Tell me about the children. How were they killed?”
“They was run over, Doctor.”
No words can describe the deadness of her voice, as of a fierce pain burnt out for lack of fuel for further endurance.
“It was the poultry truck that goes by the farm every morning. Milly was too little to know not to git in the road, an’ Jacky run out to grab her back an’ he fell, Jacky did. ’Twasn’t nobody’s fault, Doctor. The man that drives the truck, he always waved at the children as he passed, and he most went crazy when it happened. An’ Milly was too little to know better; an’ Jackie done the best he could—only six years old.
“But afterwards me an’ Jim couldn’t sleep. At first we did, a night or two, ’cause we was all wore out with the funeral and such; but after the kinfolks was gone we couldn’t. We could see their faces—Milly’s and Jacky’s.
“Then, after a while, Jim got so’s he didn’t see ’em so bad, an’ he said he could ’a’ slept, only for me. He said I ought to be a-gittin’ over it some; an’ I reckon I should ’a’ been. I tried to, but it didn’t do no good. Mebby ’twas because they was just the two of ’em an’ both goin’ at once.
“Jim got right fretful at me. He said a man couldn’t work on a farm an’ not sleep. He was right, too. Jim always was sensible.
“One night after I had worritted him considerable, a-cryin’, I found out that I could put him to sleep by rubbin’ his forehead, slow an’ firm; an’ so I done it right along every night after that an’ he slept fine. I was glad, ’cause Jim was a hard worker an’ a good provider; an’ a man can’t work on a farm an’ not sleep.