He pointed at Mr. Fowler’s truck and said, “What’s going on?”
I said, “We’re about to start planting. We ain’t never done it this late before.”
We walked over to the truck and looked at bags upon bags of seeds in the back along with a tray of seedlings about a week old.
Mr. Fowler came outside and said, “Git away from there.”
We backed up and he tilted his head like he was trying to figure out where Daniel had come from. Trent and Ross walked outside from the kitchen. They’d grabbed a leftover biscuit from our morning breakfast and my own stomach growled.
Remembering my manners, I said, “Mr. Fowler, this here’s my friend Daniel. He comes over sometimes, just to visit and such.”
Mr. Fowler didn’t hardly give Daniel a second look.
He said to no one in particular, “Ain’t no time for visiting when there’s work to do. He’s got to go.”
My mouth fell open. I looked at Daniel, who’d gone the shade of a strawberry. Without a word, he walked to his bike, hopped on it, and started down our drive.
I yelled, “Daniel, wait!”
Mama came out, took one look at my face, and then stared after Daniel, who was now out on Turtle Pond Road, his shirt flapping behind him like a flag in a stiff wind.
She said, “What’s going on?”
My eyes burned, and my entire body was hot.
I managed to say, “Mr. Fowler told him to leave.”
Mama turned to Mr. Fowler who had started unloading the truck, a question on her face. Mr. Fowler set the bag of seeds down carefully.
He gestured toward the back end. “Got more of this coming. Got to be planted and quick. Ain’t got no time for playing around. This is an investment here and everybody’s got to be on it and on it hard if it’s gonna work out. I asked him to leave, so we could get some work done. Can’t see as how that’s so bad.”
He didn’t tell it right. He hadn’t asked at all.
She said, “I suppose you’re right. I’m sure Sonny didn’t think about that.”
He made a dismissive motion with his hand. Quietly, we began to unload the truck while Mr. Fowler got to whistling like he was already over it.
Chapter 6
The whistling stopped soon as Mama went into the house to start on supper. As the minutes went on, silence filled the space between us and him, and I was sure he was peeved by my own attitude. After we unloaded everything, Mr. Fowler got to asking Ross and Trent about fertilizing and tillage, and what all did they know about soil compaction, sounding conversational at first—until they hesitated. He repeated the questions again. It was like a pop quiz at school, him firing questions at us, and then sort of glaring, waiting on an answer. Then he asked a real oddball question.
He asked Ross, “Son, you know what cotton is?”
Ross gave him a funny look, and I wasn’t sure if it was ’cause he’d called him “son” like Daddy used to or if it was the question itself.
Ross hesitated, and then he said, “It’s . . . a plant.”
Mr. Fowler’s mouth bent in what I supposed was a smile, but was as friendly appearing as a snarling dog. “No, what is it?”
Trent quickly piped up with a know-it-all look. “Fiber.”
“No,” Mr. Fowler snapped.
Ross and Trent glanced at one another. I wanted to sink into the background, and hoped he wouldn’t ask me. His demeanor said he wasn’t sure we were worthy of his time and investment. He walked stiff legged, reminding me of a peacock strutting about.
He said, “Nitrogen, oxygen, and carbon. That’s what makes up all plants and that’s why we don’t need fertilizer, and why we won’t be using it. Cotton plants don’t take it from the soil, they don’t need it.”
He squatted down and wiggled his finger underneath a little seedling in the crate.
Ross said, “We’ve always fertilized. That’s what Daddy did and our crops did all right.”
Mr. Fowler didn’t move for several seconds, then he raised his eyes and stared at Ross so long it became as uncomfortable as when Daddy decided one of us needed a whipping. He used to send us to wait for him in our room, and that was worse than the actual punishment. Mr. Fowler’s silence changed the air, like when a cold front comes through. Ross gestured with one hand, as if he wanted to plead his knowledge about what he’d just said.
Mr. Fowler made a huffing sound of aggravation and when he spoke, his words were slow and measured. “Son, don’t never correct me.”
The color left Ross’s face as he realized he’d offended Mr. Fowler in some way.
“No, sir.”
“Been learning about this a lot longer than you. Know what I’m talking about.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Your daddy, he done all right. Could a done a lot better, if’n you ask me.”
We looked at each other, dumbfounded. What gave him the right to judge how Daddy ran things? Mr. Fowler went to the front of his truck and reached inside. He lit one of his Camels before he went back to remove the seedling. He held it aloft, turning it this way and that.
He pointed at it. “See them two little leaves? Them are called cotyledons.”
We were quiet, not really knowing what else to do other than listen while he gave us a lesson in what we already knew.
He said, “Say it. Co-ta-lee-dons.”
We repeated the word as prompted, our voices low with uncertainty. We didn’t dare explain Daddy had already taught us all this, or that he’d been asked to teach down to the Agri-Extension once, but turned it down to farm. The back screen door banged shut and I sighed with relief. Mama was coming, and she wasn’t smiling. When she got close, I caught a whiff of whatever she was cooking, and my stomach rumbled.
She crossed her arms and looked from us to the truck to Mr. Fowler. “Y’all about to start?”
Mr. Fowler’s voice was soft. “Oh, sure, sure. Just thought I’d tell them a bit about cotton. Thought it might be a good idea so they know what they’re working in, what they’re planting.”
Mama said, “Lloyd’s taught them all they could ever know and then some.”
She gave a rather pointed look at the sun, holding her hand to her forehead.
Mr. Fowler offered Mama a nice, friendly smile and said, “Right, how about that. Okay, well, come on, then. Let’s get to it!”
Mama said, “Supper will be in a couple hours. Mr. Fowler, you’re welcome to eat with us.”
He said, “Might do that.”
She walked away, and it was only when the back screen door slammed again, he turned to us and said, “We’ll start in them fields near my property.” He pointed to Trent. “Go get the tractor and bring it over here.”
I noticed a sharp movement from Ross and admired his ability to keep his mouth shut. Trent didn’t waste a second. He ran to the shelter at the side of the barn and it didn’t take him no time to bring it around to where we waited. He idled it down, and Ross lifted the tops to the planters on the back and dumped seeds in.
Mr. Fowler gave Trent a thumbs-up. “Boy snapped to it. Good job, son.”
Trent grinned while I bit my tongue, wanting to remind him he was disrespecting Daddy. After Ross filled the planter, Mr. Fowler motioned at Trent to get going, and he took off down the tractor path.
Mr. Fowler turned to Ross and said, “You ride the tailgate, make sure none of that stuff dumps out. Set them seedlings over there. We’ll plant’em later.” Then he motioned toward me and said, “You ride up front.”
I’d have rather rode with Ross, but I said not a word and got in on the passenger side. I hung my arm out the open window, remembering how Daddy would slap the side of his door when he wanted the boys to hurry it up.
Mr. Fowler slid into the seat and looked over at me, but I stared at my lap, hiding my chewed up nails by curling my fingers against my pant leg.
After he started the truck and began to pull around so he could go down the path alongside the field, he said, “You miss your daddy
?”
I swallowed hard, and both my eyes and nose unexpectedly wanted to run. I looked out the window so he wouldn’t see. I thought about something, anything I might say, to change the subject. I cleared my throat, and began to recite every single thing I could think of about cotton, mostly to let him know we weren’t ignorant like he seemed to think.
“Daddy said a single cotton plant has about a hundred bolls. The small buds that grow first, those are called squares. The fringe on them? Those are called bracts. And, a boll is considered a fruit ’cause it has seeds. One acre of land can produce a bale of cotton, and a bale of cotton weighs about four hundred and eighty pounds. We usually get about two and a half bales per acre.”
I could have said more, but I clamped my mouth shut. Mr. Fowler had his wrist hung over the rim of the steering wheel and his other hand rubbed his chin. He kept his eyes straight ahead.
After a minute or so, he said, “Manners, and real smart. How about that.”
I was getting used to Mr. Fowler’s habit of making comments as if I wasn’t sitting right there. If he was surprised by what I knew, he didn’t let on, but he sure didn’t try to tell me anything more about cotton. We rode the rest of the way without talking.
Planting time was something I usually enjoyed, but Mr. Fowler had given me a reason to dread it in this case. I was tensed up, like something was about to happen, like he would find fault just in the way I was sitting in his truck, and maybe point out the clumps of dried dirt in the floorboard that had come off my boots.
His truck rolled and bumped over the ruts along the tractor path, and he stopped at one point where the path came to a T and hollered out the window, “Which way?”
Ross shouted back, “Go right!”
We finally made it to the field that was set off to the far east of our land, what Daddy had called the “top corner.” I was out of the truck before Mr. Fowler got it in park. Ross and I didn’t do like usual, moving off to do our own thing, and when Trent came up alongside the truck, Mr. Fowler motioned at him to kill the tractor’s engine. He looked at how the field had been listed and prepared for planting, what seemed like a really long time ago when we’d done it.
He said, “This here’s what we’re gonna do,” and he went to the back of the truck, dropped a bag of seeds by the tire, and walked over to the tractor.
“Gonna show you how we’re gonna plant, so it gets done right.”
He motioned at Trent to get off, and he climbed on, started it up, then he angled it so the planter fit directly over the rows, all the while shouting out to us that the seeds would be dropped about every foot or so.
Ross mumbled, “Geez. We already know this.”
I said, “Yeah.”
Trent said, “He’s the one spent the money, reckon he just wants to be sure.”
Mr. Fowler stopped after he’d gone about halfway down the field.
He left the tractor idling and came back toward us.
He said, “Like that. Ross, you and your sister ride with me over to them other fields.”
Ross stomped over to the truck, his straw hat setting low on his head but it didn’t cover his downturned mouth. He wasn’t none too happy. Trent shot us both a smug look as he took off on the tractor. Mr. Fowler drove us to several more spots, and Ross would jump off and drop a bag of seeds for refilling the planter. We ended up in the bottom left field when Mr. Fowler finally cut the engine on the truck.
He said, “Get them hoes out and work on them weeds there.”
It was like Mr. Fowler was just giving us something to do. He pulled out a Camel, and got to smoking, sitting inside the cab of the truck. Daddy would’ve been right alongside us doing what we did ’cause it was necessary to have as many hands as possible. Like I said before, what I’d seen of Mr. Fowler was he liked to point and direct. The only sound was the distant hum of the tractor as it went along. There was none of the usual good-natured bantering like when we’d worked with Daddy.
Mr. Fowler would shout every so often. “Got to keep at it. Can’t be dillydallying. Still got a long ways to go.”
I used a tremendous amount of strength, pounding at the earth with the hoe. Mr. Fowler was concentrating on me and how I was working.
He called out, “Why you doing it like that?”
I stopped and stood motionless, uncertain what he meant.
He strode over to me and said, “I reckon I got to show you.”
He snapped his fingers, and I handed the hoe to him. He stepped into a thicket of weeds, chopped and slung them off to the side, making the area look like a hog had run around in circles, disturbing the uniform look I’d been giving it.
“Like that.”
“That’s not how we were taught.”
Mr. Fowler’s voice went low. “That so?”
He bent down and stared right straight into my eyes.
“How about you just do it the way you been shown.”
I whispered, “I was.”
“That right? Well, what I was taught was do as I was told.”
“Yes, sir. That’s what I was doing.”
He said, “Maybe you ought to remember who bought this seed. Ain’t doing this for fun, like you got you a pretty little garden to play in. You’re here on account of me. I spent my money so y’all could have something this year. You got that?”
“Yes, sir.”
I allowed a sideways look at Ross as I went back to work.
He whispered, “Jackass,” and winked.
I couldn’t even wink back. Knowing Mr. Fowler was watching, I promptly lost my natural rhythm. I was clumsy and less efficient, like a truck with a flat tire, bumping along, turning this way and that. When it grew dark, Mr. Fowler gave a high-pitched whistle just as the sun dipped out of sight, waving down Trent, who’d worked his way to the end of a row. I envied Trent not having to be part of these up close interactions.
Mr. Fowler stood with his arms on his hips like he was mad, and as we made our way toward him, Ross mumbled, “I ain’t never seen nobody so contrary.”
Mr. Fowler’s whistle cut in again and he waved at us emphatically, as if he had somewhere to go.
He said, “Y’all lollygagging like it’s a Sunday afternoon.”
Ignoring him, I hopped onto the tailgate.
He gave me a look, and I felt I ought to explain. “I’m hot. I can cool off better back here.”
“Young ladies ought to ride in the cab,” he said.
The things he said. This young lady could work a field, but ought to ride inside a truck? He climbed in the cab, and maybe it was me, but when he got going back down the path, I was sure he drove a little faster, turned the steering wheel a little harder, and did nothing to avoid the ruts along the way.
Ross said, “Sumbitch didn’t drive like this coming out here.”
Trent laughed like he thought it was hilarious, and hollered, “Faster!”
I held on tight thinking we shouldn’t never want to make Mr. Fowler mad.
Chapter 7
Mama sat on the back porch waiting for us, and even in the twilight it was obvious how much she’d changed since Daddy died; we all had, really, in our own little ways. There was a milky whiteness to her face, and her eyes were sunken and had dark rings around them. Her cheekbones rose higher and sharper, and she’d become all edges and angles, layered in sad quietness. She wore one of her old day dresses saved for kitchen work, and it hung loose on her frame as she got up from the chair to come down the steps, walking slower than usual, as if she was no longer sure of where she was going, or had no real purpose. She met us in the yard by the clothesline, arms folded across her middle.
She said, “I thought I was going to have to come get y’all.”
Ross’s agitation showed as he rubbed at his scalp, over and over, stroking across the brushy flatness of his crew cut.
He was about to speak when Mr. Fowler said, “Let them do what they could, long as they could.” Then he said, “Girls ought to be in the house, learnin
g how to cook, wash clothes, and sew. Ain’t no call for her to be in the field like some nigga gal.”
Mama frowned. “Mr. Fowler! We do not talk that way around here! Besides, Sonny’s always worked around the farm. She doesn’t much care for inside work. Her daddy didn’t see nothing wrong in her learning what them boys know.”
Mr. Fowler hesitated, then with an emphatic tone, he said, “Telling like I see it, is all.”
My brothers and I were sweaty, tired, and hungry, and our clothes were dirty like we’d been rolling on the ground instead of standing above it.What Mr. Fowler said shocked and aggravated me, but Ross nudged me with his elbow, warning me to keep quiet, while Mr. Fowler, to my relief, appeared put out, and started for his truck.
Mama, apparently having a split second of doubt, called out, “Won’t you stay for supper?”
He hesitated, and I prayed he’d go on, but instead, he said, “Might as well.”
My insides tightened.
Mama said, “Well, y’all come on into the house, then, and get washed up.”
She pointed Mr. Fowler to the bathroom down the hall and said, “You kids clean up in the kitchen.”
Of course as soon as we were alone with her, she asked, “Tell me, how did it go?” and all of us started at once.
She said, “Sh! One at a time.”
I said, “All he did was stand around smoking and calling out orders.”
Mama’s eyes tightened but she didn’t speak. After the usual shoving, Ross and Trent moved away from the kitchen sink, and I was able to wash my hands and face, then we settled into our usual places, and waited. And waited. The food was on the table and I kept eyeing the bowl of steaming mashed potatoes. Mama had fried pork chops, made gravy, and there was a big bowl of stewed okra we’d put up from last year, and the inevitable bowl of English peas, dazzling green and shiny with butter. I wanted bad to get me a big ole biscuit, but I satisfied myself temporarily by leaning in to catch the smell coming off the bowls, pungent and rich.
The Forgiving Kind Page 7