The Red Flannel Rag

standing on the porch. She was afraid she had “marked” him, so she told me to get a bucket

of dirt and cover the puddle. I never forgot how it felt to look at pieces of Joyce lying on the

ground as I covered them with dirt. I felt as if I was burying her. I was ten years old. Many

hours passed before Eugene returned from the hospital to tell us that Joyce had lived, but

that she was in very serious condition.

Joyce developed gangrene in her toes, so her foot had to be removed. The hospital

gave the foot to her husband to bring home and bury. When he came home with the foot in

a brown paper bag, he asked me to go with him to bury it. We walked down to the edge of

the pasture, and he dug a hole. Before he put the foot in its’ grave, he told me he wanted to

look at it. I said ok ay. So he took it out of the wrapping, and we stood and looked at Joyce’s

foot for a while before we buried it. I remember feeling important because the grownups

seemed to depend on my strength, but I also felt some anger because they made little effort

to protect my young feelings during those emotional times.

Joyce was in a lot of pain after her foot was removed. Aunt Goldie told Joyce’s

husband to go dig the foot up and change the position in which he and I had buried it. He

followed Aunt Goldie’s instructions. She said, “If the foot is buried settin’ up like she is

walking, then turn it over so it is like Joyce is layin’ down like she is now.” I was told that

the pain eased after the foot was reburied.

For six weeks Joyce drifted between life and death. The church had special prayer

meetings, and the whole community went to pray for her. I kept a prayer in my head for her

day after day. Christmas came and went, and Joyce’s life kept hanging in the balance. I

had a lot of time to ponder what had happened to Joyce and me the day before the shooting

accident.

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