oh, sisters, let's go down to the river

“You be careful of them mean ol' ghosts!”

Staring into the dark mouth of the stone well, Mary felt her sister's hands grab her shoulders as like to push her in, and whirled around with a shout, gripping her small metal pail in one hand and swinging it round in an attempt to scare Virgie away. But all Virgie did was whoop as she jumped back quick, and the pail missed her by a mile. She grabbed her stomach and laughed like she was fit to die afterward, her loose scraggly blond hair hanging in front of her sunburned face.

Mary pushed her frizzy black hair out of her eyes with a frown.

“You shut your mouth! There ain't nothin' down there!”

But now she couldn't help thinkin' there might be. She glanced down at her feet to remind herself what was real, watched the way her own faded cotton dress, greenish with tiny brownish purple flowers, swayed in the wind above her muddy legs and bare feet. They'd run down from the house on the dirt path behind the outhouse, just after sunrise, pushing through thick bushes and red briars in the low light until they hit the small field clearing where the well was at. She was moving so fast to keep up with tall, leggy Virgie there weren't time to be scared. All Mary'd had sense enough to do was keep hold of her pail and put an arm in front of her face to keep from getting too scratched up.

Now, standing in front of the well, watching the sun shine through the green-leafed maple trees and listening to the wind whistle through the stones, making the hanging rope bucket creak and move, Mary felt a hard lump in the middle of her belly, and clutched the handle of her pail until it bit into her hands. She had to go inside that big old well and clean it. Her eyes flicked over the outside stones. One side of the well was covered in moss. There were dead leaves crunched up and rotting around the edge, where it met the dirt. Least that'd clean up fine. She was more scared of going inside.

The well didn't have no roof, just two big wood posts set into the stone, and a long wooden box with a crank on one end stretched across 'em and nailed down tight. The bucket dangled a few feet from the middle of the box, where the rest of the rope was at. Mary put her hand to the bottom of one of the posts. A couple black ants crawled up quick through her fingers, but she didn't care about them. The grey stuff keeping the thick wood in place against the stones was hard and rough against her palm. Some of it came off in little crumbly bits as she poked her fingers around the edges.

“Hit's the mortar,” Virgie told her quiet-like, coming up to stand beside her. “Daddy reckons it'll need fixing in a couple years.”

“Oh,” Mary said, snatching back her hand like she was burned.

She was afraid to ask the questions on her mind – the ones that'd been on her mind ever since Flossie and Virgie told her the well'd be her main chore. When she was no more'n four or five – before Flossie was married, before Bonnie was underfoot, before Mama went to heaven – she'd watched her sisters walk back to the house after cleaning the well. She knew Virgie was always the one who went in, cause her face and arms and dress were smudged with black dirt and green slime, blond hair sticking to her sweaty forehead, knuckles and hands scrubbed raw from the lye.

Ain't it scary to be down there in the dark alone? Hanging on to that rope with nothing to help you? How's it s'posed to hold a body up?

She was brought out of her thinking when Virgie tapped her arm, maybe feeling how Mary was nervous, and said:

“Come on, Mary E, let's go!”

Like it was nothing, Virgie just crawled up onto the weathered stones. She brushed grit from her knees as she stood up, ran the crank a couple times, ducked under the box and grabbed the rope with the bucket attached. She yanked on the thick braid first to test its strength, then put one bare foot in the bucket and swung out over the edge like it was nothing, holding out a hand by her side to keep from smacking into the posts.

Lord God, Mary thought, mouth opening in horror.

“Course, you cain't move around the bottom like this,” Virgie said loudly. The bucket was spinning around a little as it swung back and forth, so Mary couldn't see her sister's face as she talked. “Hit's real narrow. But all you gotta do is get in there, scrub the stones 'n get out.”

“Are you crazy?” Mary blurted out. Virgie was too big to be doing that, squatting her long limbs down into a tiny ball just to keep her feet from falling out of the bucket, both hands wrapped around the rope. The box creaked and the posts swayed as she got to a stop. Mary was scared for her.

“Naw. It's all right,” Virgie answered, carefully leaning back, gripping the rope with her right hand and feeling around behind her for the ledge with the other. When she got her left hand around the lip of the stone, arm braced against the ledge, she pulled herself out of the bucket with a grunt, till she was half-laying, half-hanging off the outside edge, breathing hard and grinning. Her arms flopped out onto the mossy ground, and she did a somersault onto the dirt.

“You'll be fine,” she said, voice light, dusting her legs off, standing up, and looking at Mary as if this all proved it. A brown leaf stuck out of the top of her hair. Mary itched to pull it away. Flossie hated when their hair was all kempt up. “Ain't much water in there anyhow.”

“Virgie, I—” Mary began in a quavering voice, but her sister paid her no mind.

“Don't be such a scaredy cat.” There was no meanness in her voice, though she'd huffed out the words like she was losing patience fast. She held out a hand to Mary. “You're a lot smaller'n I am.”

Mary guessed that was true enough – if Virgie could swing all around that well like a wild thing, the bucket might hold her all right. Switch, Daddy used to call her, cause she was so skinny around the middle, with short, bony arms and legs.

She set her jaw and walked forward, taking her sister's hand, and made herself look over the edge again. Cold air drifted up from the still water, making her skin go all bumpy, and the bottom was so black she couldn't see more'n a couple feet past the hanging bucket. It smelled musty and damp, like going to the creek bed after weeks of rain. 

She was still scared.

“Hit's dark,” was all she said, staring from the well back to Virgie and trying to swallow the sudden lump in her throat. Virgie looked at her with narrowed eyes, like she knew what Mary was thinking, growled out a sigh, and said:

“Well, it ain't getting much lighter. Come on. I'll help ya.”

Mary climbed onto the ledge, still gripping her sister's hand. Virgie made sure she set her pail into the bigger wooden bucket – scrub brush and soap in her dress pocket – before helping her climb in. The bottom of the bucket was scarce two feet wide, but Mary was able to stand in it. She probably could sit down if she had to. And standing, her head didn't come anywhere near the box. Worst part was the shaking, feeling the rope move and creak every which way no matter how she stood. The posts swayed slightly under a big gust of wind, and Mary felt the sway in her bones, gripped the rope so hard her knuckles turned white.

“You gotta calm down,” Virgie told her matter-of-fact, like it was s'posed to be easy. “Let it carry you every which way. It's when you freeze up that the shakin's worse, and you get scared.”

“Virgie, I—can't clean nothin' like this.”

Mary felt like her tongue was numb. Her heart hammered in her chest, her dress swirled around her legs from the cold air rising, and she didn't like the way the metal pail clattered round the bottom of the bucket. She should of just put it over her shoulder instead.

“Well, you got to,” Virgie answered, voice sharp as the wind that bit into Mary's chapped hands. “I can't fit down there no more.”

Mary closed her eyes, forced herself to think about everybody at home. Bonnie who needed good water from a good clean well. Flossie who needed it to cook, and scrub, and for the washing up. Daddy who needed it for the still she wasn't s'posed to know about, for his work at night that made Flossie frown and shake her head. Her legs shook, and her hands hurt from holding onto the rope so tight. She forced herself to loosen her grip.

“Go on now,” she said in a rush, keeping her eyes squeezed shut and hoping her shaky voice was loud enough for her sister to hear.

She was nine years old, she weren't no baby. She could do it....