And now, the VOA Special English program American Stories. Our storytoday is called Singing Woman. It was written by Ada Jack Carver in1927. She won an O. Henry Award for the story. Singing Woman is aboutan old professional mourner in the southern state of Louisiana. Shelives on Albertville, a community of French-speaking people of mixedrace. They are part black, part white. Now, here is Mary Tillotsonwith the story.
Little by little, Albertville was changing and the old ways weredisappearing. People did not even die as they used to in any brideswith time to receive the sacrament and be pardoned for their sins.
They died just anywhere, everywhere killed by trains or the growingnumber of automobiles that raced by on the big new roads. No wonderedthe buryings were often poor, hurried affairs without even a singingwoman.
Oriate and her close friend, dead old Josie * were the only singingwomen left on Albertville. There was a time when a singing woman wasas necessary as a priest. No one who amounted to anything would beburied without a professional mourner. Nowadays, people seemed to havelost the fear, the dignity of death. They did not care how they diedor were born. They just came into and went out of the world, any oldway. All these troubled Oriate. She sat in her corner and mumbled andgrumbled to God about it. "Look liking nothing in right," Numbly usedto be. It had been nearly 10 years now since Oriate had wailed for afuneral. Her friend Josephine had had the last one. That was 6 yearsago when Madam Mary died. That made 98 for Josephine and 99 forherself. She was one funeral ahead of her friend. How proud Oriate wasof her record. She, Oriate, had sung for more buryings than anysinging woman in the parish. Of course, old Josephine was a mightyclose second.
Oriate kept a record of her own and Josephine's funerals in a littleblack book locked up in a safe place. On one page was her own nameOriate; and underneath it 99 crosses in neat little rows of five. Onthe opposite page, was Josephine's name and beneath it 98 crosses inneat little rows of five. Well, they had served death long andloyally, she and Josephine. There was a time when as a special treat,Oriate would take out her funeral book and named the crosses. This onewas Maradio barred, and this one she * her daughter. Here was all waywho died at time of Coloracam in 1860.
Sometimes, Oriate wondered sadly if she would ever wail again. Therewas, on Albertville, only one-person left who, if he died, would wanta wailing woman. This was Tony Fildbear, the only show on Albertville,older than Oriate. Tony and Oriate and Josephine had been young folkstogether. Now, it became a sort of game between the two women whowould get Tony when he died. "If I get Tony," Oriate would say, "me, Ihave two more crosses than you, I will have a hundred." And Josephinesitting back in her chair would laugh, "minority if I get him we'll beeven at them, my friend." Tony himself and all old men were pleasedwith the fast they made over him, sometimes he would joke with themwhen he met them in a church.
"Well, well, old and *, I’m yet, Oriate love both you girls, justwait me, I'll show you." Sometimes, when the weather was fine and thesun not too hot or too bright, Oriate would take her stick and hobbledown to Josephine's house to talk of old times. What grand living anddying they're used to be back in steamboat days.
It was like remembering a wedding festival or a muddy grave to lookback to the yellow fever scare of 1890. "A funeral everyday andsometimes two."She and Josephine had had their hands for shocks. The land was toohealthy now what was training the swarm in such. The people would getinto a pity out waiting death like that. Good thing after all that theautomobiles bumped some of them off, Outstate would never quit theearth.
Sometimes, Oriate and Josephine would make wild little jokes, slappingat the flights with fear untiring fans. I've seen Tony last week atthe church. He was looking weak, may know?" And both would laugh.
He aimed her too long, but old Tony who for almost 20 years has hadone foot in the grave look like he meant to hang on to the earth forever and ever, Amen. He has always been like that, a lover of life andliving. Hey, Lord, what a lad old Tony used to be. What a way with thegirls."It was on a terribly hot August day, but Tony Fildbear had a stroke.
Oriate's grandson came in and told her about it. Oriate was excited,"So, Tony was sick?" "Very low." She got down some coffee and got herstick and was off to Josphine's house. She was so heavy with news, shecould hardly breathe. "Ah, well, poor old Tony was dying. Which onewould he want to sing for him, herself or old Josephine?" A week wentby and another, and it began to look as if old Tony did not mean todie after all. It was just like Tony to keep death waiting to playwith death like that.
Every night, Oriate got out her funeral book, 99 crosses for herself,a record any singing woman might be proud of. If only she could getone more to complete her final five if only she could get Tony. Howshe would crow over Josephine then, "Me, I got one hundred crosses,one hundred funerals I've sung for."Then, one night in late September, Tony died and his son came to askOriate to the funeral. "Papa, he told us to get you, the funeral istomorrow at 10." In the morning, when Oriate awakened, she found thatsomething terrible had happened to her voice. It was gone. She couldnot speak too much excitement and she let herself get wet outside. Hergrandchildren put warm things on her throat and gave her a Rome toddy.
But it did no good. Her throat hurt when she opened mouth. She soundedlike a frog. She had to stay in bed.
In the evening, the family returned from the burying, but they saidnothing about the funeral and how nice Josphine's song and carried on.
When Oriate thought no one was looking, she took out her funeral bookfrom under her pillow and made a cross mark under Josephine's name.
Now, they were even, each had 99 crosses. Her old hands shook, and onetear rolled out of her one eye.
The next day, Oriate awoke. She heard much excitement around thehouse. She sat up against her pillow. Her grandchildren crowded aroundher bed and told her that Josephine had gotten sick in the night, andpassed away early this morning. "How do you feel, granny, if Josephinerolled away. Josephine asked for you in the night to come in singingfor her funeral." "Well, Lord you, love you." All day, the childrenmade preparations to take Oriate to Josephine's funeral. They said,"You stay in bed and rest many so your voice will be good tomorrow."The next morning, they came in to help her when she was dressed andready to go. They brought her the funeral book, "Now, let me look,mark it down one hundred funerals. You've sung for more burying thananyone in the parish." But Oriate brushed them away. "Don'tinterfere," she cackled, "you wait till I come home from Josephine'sburial."She was unsteady on her feet as they started it out. She was solittle, so little and thin. In her mourning veil, she looked like alittle black bride. She hobbled painfully, slowly along the road.
There was not much strength left than her. A loneliness passed overher, a loneliness and heartache. "Josie," she called, "Josie, I'mcoming."She reached the turn of the road where the willows grew and had tostop. She could go no further. She became dizzy, weaker, sick withfear. She turned her face toward Josephine's house and whispered,"Josie." Everything around her seemed less clear. A darkness took holdof her, "Josie, Josie. I believe my friend that after all. You and mewill quit even."You have heard the story called Singing Woman. It was written by AdaJack Carver. It was edited and adapted for Special English by HeraldBerman. Your narrator was Mary Tilloston. Listen again next week atthe same time for another Special English program of American Stories.
This is Shirley Griffith. |