I think it rains when you plant a good woman. Leastwise, that's what I told old Willie Harris the day we were digging Sallie Martin's grave.

      About daylight, the funeral home, Calamis and Sons from over in Vicksburg, had set up a big green canopy in a corner of the Piney Hills Cemetery. It'd been raining for two or three days, and when me and old Willie got there it started pouring down. But we bailed water while we dug and finally got the grave ready and everything set up under the canopy. Had some folding wooden chairs on one side of the grave for the next of kin. I wondered who was gonna sit in them.

      They had Sallie's funeral down at the Rose of Sharon Colored Baptist Church and she was white--leastwise, that's what I always thought. Old Willie was colored, so I figured he'd know. "Sallie was white," I told him. "Wasn't she?"

      He just shrugged his shoulders and didn't say nothing.

      Before long we saw the funeral procession coming down the gravel road through them piney woods and the rain. The hearse was in front, and behind it, splashing through the water, came Sallie's big black '59 Cadillac.

      "Here they come, Willie," I told him. "Ain't but two cars. Looks like we gonna be pall bearers, too."

      We left the canopy and walked through the rain to the edge of the cemetery. When the procession stopped, me and old Willie and them two solemn-faced funeral directors pulled Sallie's casket out of the hearse. The doors on Sallie's Cadillac opened and out came the preacher and a bunch of umbrellas and the next of kin: Sallie's girls in their funeral finery like angels dressed in black--fallen angels, that is.

      Some of Sallie's girls were colored and some were white, but they all had on red lipstick and painted faces and had glass diamonds hanging from their ears. They stood there with their high-heel shoes sunk in the mud, holding umbrellas with one hand and wiggling down tight dresses with the other hand. The air smelled like flowers, and there weren't none in the hearse.

      Sallie was a little-bitty old lady--she was a lady no matter what those good Christian women down at the Vicksburg First Baptist Church said--so the four of us didn't have any trouble toting her casket. It had gold handles, and that cedar wood shined like new money and the white cross of Jesus was in the middle, carved on top of the lid. And they'd painted two pink baby angels at Sallie's head and an open Bible at her feet. You could read the words, but I couldn't read, so I don't know what they said but figure I got an idea. But I do know what that colored preacher said.

      We held on to them gold handles, and he walked behind us and the girls walked behind him. He raised his hands in the air and pointed his Bible toward heaven where all that rain was coming from. Then he shouted over and over while water poured down his face: "Glory be! Glory be! The Lord sends down His rain!"

      "Amen!" old Willie said.

      "Praise the Lord!" them fancy girls yelled.

      "Hallelujah!" that preacher hollered. "Wash all our sins away!"

      Them two directors looked at each other and their faces weren't solemn no more. They started walking faster. Then, while that sin-washing rain poured down and old Willie said "Amen!" and that preacher shouted "Hallelujah!" and the fancy girls yelled "Praise the Lord!" and the directors walked even faster, the Lord sent down a wind to blow our sins away.

      That sin-blowing wind blew that sin-washing rain in our faces and blowed that canopy slap out of the cemetery. "Hallelujah!" the preacher shouted.

      Them directors was damned near running, their knuckles on them gold handles as white as their faces and their coat-tails flapping straight out. But me and old Willie kept up, and a New York-second later we set Sallie's casket on the rope straps across her grave.

      The chairs had turned over, so me and old Willie picked them up and held them while Sallie's girls sat down. Their umbrellas'd blowed out backwards, and them girls weren't painted and fancy no more. The rain'd washed their faces clean.

      "Hallelujah!" the preacher shouted, still holding his hands and his Bible up toward the Lord and the sin-washing rain.

      "Amen!" old Willie said.

      "Praise the Lord!" Sallie's girls yelled.

      One of them girls had big bosoms and red hair and skin as white as a Klansman's sheet. A crepe paper rose she'd wore in her hair had turned to mush, and a dark-red streak came from the mush, ran down her hair, and flowed between those bosoms like blood. When that redhead's dress had been dry you could have probably seen through it, but now it was wet and you could for sure, and you could see her underwear. I swear I didn't look. It was lace, black lace.

      Them two directors stood behind Sallie's girls, their black coat-tails flapping in the wind, the rain dripping and blowing sideways from their noses, their teeth clenched and their lips a gash across their faces.

      The preacher stood at Sallie's head, his head and his hands down now, praying, his fingers clasped together, holding his soaking-wet Bible. "The Lord gives . . ."

      "Amen!" old Willie said.

      "Praise the Lord!" Sallie's girls hollered.

      ". . . and the Lord takes away!"

      Me and old Willie stood at Sallie's feet. The preacher prayed, and I kept one eye on Sallie's grave and the slowly rising water. I kept the other eye on the crepe paper blood flowing between the bosoms. Every once in a while I would raise both eyes to them directors standing there swaying in the sin-blowing wind.

      Then the preacher raised his eyes, his hands, and that soaking-wet Bible toward heaven. The wind caught the pages, ripped them from that Book like cards from a deck and scattered them across the cemetery. They plastered against tombstones, words in ink pressed into words chiseled in stone. "Blessed be the name of the Lord!"

      That's about all I remember. But I do know the last thing that preacher said: "The Lord, He works in mysterious ways."

      "Amen," old Willie said.

      "Amen," I told him.

      "Praise the Lord," Sallie's girls said.

      "Thank God," the directors both said and headed for the hearse.

      The rain poured; the wind blowed; the hearse got stuck. The preacher, the girls, and me and old Willie pushed. It slung mud, got free, and went down that gravel road like a scalded dog. We watched it disappear through the piney woods and the rain.

      The preacher got behind the wheel of Sallie's Cadillac, and Sallie's girls piled in around him. They drove away. The last thing me and old Willie saw was the tail-lights sticking out like red eye-balls on the end of them black tail-fins. But the last thing we heard was that preacher. When the tail-lights blinked out, we heard him yell, "Blessed be the name of the Lord!"

      I shook my head at the way the Lord blesses the righteous and holy. Old Willie's head was shaking for the same reason, I'm sure. "Well," I told him, "let's plant Sallie Martin."

      Her grave was full of water. Rain poured down and wind howled, but me and old Willie bailed. It was hard to make headway, but we finally lowered the casket. It floated.

      "Got an idea," I told old Willie. "You stand on the casket. That'll weight it down. I'll throw dirt in."

      He shook his head, No, and he hadn't never done that before.

      "Okay," I told him. "I'll do it myself."

      I got down in the grave with Sallie Martin, put one foot on the cross on top of the casket, then the other one. It sank, slowly sliding into the mud. Old Willie started throwing dirt faster than I'd ever seen him work, and he was a hard worker. The dirt hit the water, turned in to mud, and rose to my knees. A big bubble of air erupted from the casket like Sallie had burped. Old Willie looked at me, a strange look in his eyes.

      "Bail some more water," I told him.

      He did, and the casket sank further into the mud. "Okay," I told him. "Help me out of here."

      He pulled and I climbed. My boots seemed like they was glued to that cross on top of the casket, but they finally came free and I joined old Willie at the edge of the grave. We both looked down, watching the mud covering Sallie Martin. It moved, rose up, then stopped. We throwed dirt--fast.

      Then up popped the casket, shiny no more, dripping mud. Old Willie's eyes got big as saucers; bet mine did too. "Got an idea," I told him. "Find me a broke tombstone."

      He shook his head, No.

      I found one but couldn't tote it, so I drug it to the edge of the grave. Old Willie wouldn't help. He just stood there with them big eyes and the rain washing over him and wind whipping his overalls. I stood on top of the cross and moved back and forth like I was dancing, and the casket slid back under the mud. Them baby angels disappeared from sight--forever, I hoped. I grabbed hold of the broke tombstone and pulled it in the grave with me and Sallie. It sunk, and I finally got it in place over that cross down under the mud. Old Willie started throwing dirt again--fast.

      I got out of the grave and helped, and we throwed dirt like no two grave diggers ever did before. That shovel handle rubbed blisters on both my hands. But we finally got Sallie Martin planted. We mounded mud on top of her grave and patted it smooth with our shovels. It was like the world's biggest pile of brown jelly. We'd pat and the whole thing would quiver. The wind'd blow and the whole thing would shake. Leastwise, I hoped it was the wind.

      Old Willie was breathing hard. Me too. "Let's get out of here," I told him.

      We gathered up the folding chairs and pitched them and our shovels in the back of my pickup. We left that canopy up in the top of a pine tree. Last I saw it, it looked like a big green flag with gold letters whipping back and forth. I'd asked one time, and old Willie'd said they spelled Calamis & Sons.

      We jumped inside the truck and slammed the doors. The wind shook the cab, and rain poured down the windows like somebody'd turned on a water hose. Old Willie breathed a sigh of relief. I looked at the glove-box. "Hand me that bottle," I told him.

      Old Willie wasn't a drinking man, but he stared at that whiskey when he handed it to me. I pulled the cork and turned up the bottle, one eye watching bubbles rise and the other eye watching that mound of mud through the rear-view mirror. It was still shaking.

      "Hand me that bottle," old Willie told me.

      I handed it to him, and he took a bigger gulp than I had. Then he wiped his lips on his shirt sleeve and handed the bottle back to me.

      That old Chevy had a weak battery, so I always parked on a hill because old Willie was getting too old to push. I mashed in on the clutch and stomped on the starting-pedal. Didn't a damned thing happen. Motor didn't start and the truck didn't roll down the hill. I looked at old Willie, and he looked at me and reached for the bottle.

      I handed it to him and told him, "You gonna have to push."

      He swigged at the whiskey. Then he told me, "No."

      I put the gears in neutral, opened my door, put one foot on the running-board and the other one on the ground and pushed. We started rolling. I jumped back inside, put the gears in second and popped the clutch. That old faithful six-banger started. We headed out of the cemetery, down the gravel road, splashing through the water.

      Old Willie handed me the bottle, and I raised it to my lips. Bubbles gurgled up through whiskey, and the mound of mud in the rear-view mirror shook until I lost sight of it through the piney woods and the rain.

      I handed the bottle to old Willie and asked him, "What you gonna do with your grave digging money?"

      He shrugged his shoulders and took a drink of whiskey. "Don't know," he told me.

      I thought about them sheet-white bosoms.

      Old Willie never was a carousing man, but he told me, "Wonder if they've got Sallie's place opened back up yet?"