The Forgiving Kind

by Donna Everhart

  “Come on!” he said.

  We ran up and down the rows, getting soaked, and the effort to stay quiet made it all that much harder not to laugh. Despite what had happened between us, for now we were only best friends once again, and I wished my time with Daniel would last forever.

  Chapter 20

  We understood what the drought did long before the cotton was picked. It was obvious by the small bolls. By Ross’s estimation, he thought if we got half a bale per acre for the dry land, we’d be lucky, whereas the irrigated fifty acres fared a little better, but not by much.

  Mama said, “I’m afraid there ain’t enough money to buy no new school shoes, least not right now. You’ll have to polish the ones you wore from last year real good till we see how things are after we sell some cotton.”

  She looked almost guilty over this, and her eyes turned a little misty.

  Like Elvis’s song, I said, “That’s all right, Mama,” but of course I was disappointed.

  First day of school I found myself looking at everyone’s feet. I was pretty sure we were the only ones without the squeak and shine of new leather. My toes felt pinched, but I’d said nothing to Mama. The two sixth grade rooms were located at the other end of the school, in a new section built off the old. In some ways I was glad to be back in a classroom, and that was simply ’cause the room was new, plus there was the excitement of being in a higher grade. It would wear off after the first week like it usually did. Our new teacher’s name was Miss Young, and that really said it all about her since she didn’t look old enough to be teaching. Lucky for her, Junior Odom and Lil Roy were in the other room. They would have done her in on the first day. Happy with them elsewhere, I was upset about the fact Daniel was too.

  Everybody knew classes were set up by how we did at the end of each year. As in what grades we’d made. Daniel and I had compared our report cards and we’d both made mostly As, aside from the B I’d made in math, and the one he’d made in English. Junior Odom and Lil Roy had laughed and laughed about how they made mostly Ds and Cs, and maybe even an F.

  I didn’t understand why he was put in that class with them, and not in mine. I thought about grumpy old Mrs. Baker from last year, and recollected moments where she’d ignored his raised hand. Where she’d given him less than an A even when he’d had all the answers right ’cause she’d point out something silly like his penmanship, or not putting the date at the top of his paper and take off points. Little things like that. We finally saw one another at lunchtime. He walked past the line to get food, and sat in a chair. Becky Hill and Laurie Ward joined us at our usual table, but placed themselves on my side. They spoke to me, but not him.

  I leaned into the table and said, “What did you do the rest of the summer?”

  He looked at me, and shrugged.

  “Did you watch any movies?”

  “No.”

  I sat back. I kept having the same thought maybe what had happened between us had something to do with the change in him, but I couldn’t be sure, ’cause every now and then there would be a tiny glimmer of the old Daniel. I was still mad at myself. I shouldn’t have ever called him that name, and I really, really shouldn’t have tried to kiss him, if that’s what it could even be called. I’d made him aware of me in a different way, a way he didn’t like.

  By mid-September, after we’d been in school about two weeks, out of nowhere, the weather changed. We went from hot and dry, to overcast, and then came an unexpected drop in temperatures and rain to boot. Everyone who had cotton in the fields, irrigated or not, couldn’t have been happy when the drought finally broke. The first day it showered, right after school, Ross immediately went out to see about the cotton bolls that had already opened. The rain had picked up at that point and came down in sheets. The wind was blowing it sideways, and when he came back in, he stood by the kitchen door, dripping and wetter than a fish.

  He told Mama, “There’s a lot of string out. It’s pretty bad.”

  She looked out toward the closest field and shook her head. “Swear to God, if it ain’t one thing it’s another.”

  Rain and cotton don’t mix. For the bolls that were already opened, the rain on the exposed fiber turned it into a stringy thread hanging off the plant, instead of sitting tight and puffy on the burr. Discoloration was common, and some of it would surely end up on the ground. When seeds within got wet, they could start growing so you’d have little roots inside. All this affected quality, and buyers wouldn’t offer the going price. Plus, putting heavy equipment into a wet field, like that fancy picker Mr. Fowler kept talking about, could end up stuck.

  Ross said, “Maybe it’ll stop soon.”

  It rained the rest of that day, and the next, and the next. We gathered around the windows and anxiously stared at the fields. Mr. Fowler made a casual comment to Mama but the implications behind it were enormous from my viewpoint.

  “Maybe we’ll have a better season next year.”

  It about made me sick to my stomach as I tried to rationalize what he meant. That night I picked at my food and Mama threatened the castor oil.

  I blamed it on missing Daniel. “When you gonna let Daniel come over again?”

  Mama said, “There’s too much going on until we get this cotton up. When we’re done, then we’ll see.”

  It wasn’t the answer I wanted, but it was better than nothing. I picked up my fork and tried to force myself to eat a few bites.

  Mr. Fowler said, “I ain’t missed his smart mouth.”

  I put my fork back down and Mr. Fowler pointed at my plate.

  He said, “Better not waste this good meal your mama’s fixed.”

  Like he was my daddy or something. Mama looked at me with such a pitiful expression, I sighed and ate another bite. She smiled with approval, and I figured I’d rather make her happy than spite him.

  He leaned toward me, pointed at a window where the rain spattered and sounded like hundreds of fingers tapping. “Hey, reckon you can find water now?”

  His explosion of laughter was so startling even Mama jumped.

  Trent joined in until Mama said, “Stop it, the both of you.”

  Mr. Fowler’s laugh petered out, and he said, “Damnation, can’t nobody take a joke around here?”

  Mama looked irritated, and then he leaned closer to her and whispered, “Vi?”

  She stared at him, genuinely curious. “What?”

  He winked, then tried to grab her hand, only she yanked it away. He grabbed for it again, and she sort of slapped at him, then she laughed. I shot a look at Ross. He watched their playfulness, and he didn’t like it any more than I did. Smiling, Mr. Fowler went back to eating, and when he put a bite in his mouth, he looked over at Trent and winked, and Trent grinned like they were in cahoots together.

  The weather was so markedly different it was hard to believe we’d been running about barefoot, and in shorts and T-shirts only a few weeks before. At the end of class one day, I gave Miss Young the usual note excusing me the six weeks during the seasonal harvest as I’d done with every teacher ever since I started school.

  She gave me some homework and said, “We’ll miss you. Come back soon as you can.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  I went down the long hall, the waxed tiles shined to a gloss by the janitor, Mr. Green, and out the front doors to where Ross and Trent waited in the truck. We drove home, and once we were on Turtle Pond Road, I stared at fields nowhere near as filled with fluffy white cotton as we were used to seeing. The drought first, and then the rain had done a real good job. Even though the harvest would be lacking, it would still take about three to four weeks to be sure we’d got it all. I was anxious to get going. I wanted to know the end result. I wasn’t feeling very optimistic as my eyes scanned the beaten-down plants and the pitiful strung out clumps desperately clinging to burrs. Ross stopped along Turtle Pond Road several times to get out and check the fields.

  When we got to the house, Mama was at the stove, and he told her what he’d
seen. “For them parts we couldn’t irrigate, the plants are in pretty bad shape. Some’s big, but not as big as they could be. I’m telling you, you ask me, we should a fertilized, and they would a took hold better. They’d have handled the stress from the drought better.”

  “Says who?”

  Like a ghost conjured up out of nowhere, Mr. Fowler appeared on the porch, peering through the screen door.

  Ross said, “My daddy, that’s who.”

  Mama was stirring a pot of homemade soup and she gave him a warning look. “Ross.”

  He persisted and said, “Daddy always said fertilizing was a good thing. I reckon he ought to have known. He studied it. Had a degree in it.” Ross pointed at Mr. Fowler and said, “I told him we should.”

  Mr. Fowler had stepped inside, and was kicking his boots off.

  He said, “Nobody never said not to fertilize.”

  Ross’s entire body drew up, and his voice rose in disbelief. “You said that very thing when we hauled them seeds out to the field that day. You said cotton didn’t need it ’cause it was made of nitrogen and all, and didn’t take it from the soil.”

  “Son, you calling me a liar?”

  “Don’t call me son.”

  “Ross! Please.” Mama was near about wringing her hands, and I’d never seen her do that before.

  Ross relaxed, and he said, “Sorry, Mama, but what he just said’s a lie.”

  Mr. Fowler said, “That’s right disrespectful.”

  I spoke up. “He did say that. I heard him.”

  Mr. Fowler went real still. Mama stared at us and then at Mr. Fowler. She was caught between us and him, and I could see it. Like Ross, I relaxed. She would side with us, it was two against one. I was sure of it.

  Mr. Fowler said, “You misconstrued my meaning all those months ago.”

  Mama said, “Maybe you just misunderstood him.”

  Ross said, “I don’t see how. He went through a long explanation about it.”

  Mr. Fowler insisted. “Y’all are taking what I said out of turn.”

  Trent came in at that moment and said, “What’s to eat?”

  Mr. Fowler sat down heavy in a chair and Ross looked anything but happy. Mama turned back to the stove, and once her back was turned, Mr. Fowler got to staring at Ross, and he didn’t look away. Ross returned the look. It was like one of those staring contests Daniel and I would do, waiting for the other to blink. Mama busily ladled up bowls of homemade vegetable soup, ignorant of the confrontation behind her. They kept it up until she set the soup down in front of us. She put a platter of biscuits on the table and poured glasses of sweet tea. Finally, she sat, but instead of eating, she lit a cigarette and looked thoughtful.

  She blew smoke toward the ceiling and surprised us all when she circled back around with a question to Mr. Fowler. “Did you say not to fertilize?”

  Mr. Fowler stopped spreading butter on a biscuit dwarfed by his hand.

  He gave her an incredulous look that changed to aggravated. “I thought this was settled.” He pointed at Ross with his butter knife and said, “Somebody’s trying to stir it up, you ask me.”

  Ross said, “It’s a yes or no question.”

  Mr. Fowler set the butter knife down carefully. He rose from the table, went over to the peg by the door, got his hat, and slapped it on his head. He jammed his feet into his boots.

  Mama said, “Frank. Come on, sit down. Eat.”

  He opened the door and said, “I ain’t getting a sense of appreciation for what I’ve done around here. These kids don’t seem grateful at all.”

  Mama stood up. “Yes, they are. I know they are.” She looked at us sitting in silence around the table and said, “Aren’t you? Children?”

  What was there to do but say yes?

  Trent who’d been slurping on his soup and watching it unfold like it was a TV show, said, “Yes, ma’am.”

  I said, “Yes, ma’am,” too.

  Ross didn’t. Mama stared at him intently.

  “Ross?”

  “I appreciate it. But I don’t appreciate him changing the story on what he said.”

  Mr. Fowler threw a hand up.

  He said, “Like I said. No appreciation, no respect for that matter, not for nothing done around here.”

  He slammed out the door, and a few seconds later we heard the truck start and the engine rev a time or two. The smell of exhaust drifted in through the back door as he drove down the drive.

  Mama turned on Ross. “You shouldn’t have argued with him, Ross.”

  “But, he’s lying! We all heard him.”

  I nodded in agreement while Trent went wide-eyed and innocent looking.

  He said, “Honest, I don’t remember.”

  Ross said, “Yes you do. Don’t be sticking up for him.”

  Just as angry, Trent said, “I ain’t. But I ain’t stupid enough to bite the hand of the person who’s feeding you. That’s what Daddy always said.”

  Trent was right. Daddy had said that.

  Mama said, “I declare, ain’t there enough to worry about without all this bickering?”

  We finished eating in silence. When we were done, Mama went and picked up the phone and asked Eunice to connect her to Mr. Fowler’s number. She waited, then hung up. We washed the dishes, and then she tried again. She didn’t have to say who she was trying to call. He must’ve answered finally ’cause she stayed in the hallway with the door shut. Still, I could hear her apology, like she’d done something wrong. After a minute or so, she came back into the kitchen and gestured at Ross, holding the phone out. He got up and went toward her like his feet were lead weights.

  He took the phone, scrubbing his hand over his head as he said, “Hello?” and then listened. He tipped his head back to stare at the ceiling.

  After another few seconds, he said, “Yes, sir,” and handed the phone back to Mama. “He wants to talk to you.”

  Mama took the phone and said, “Yes?”

  Her face went beet red. “Oh! Why, that’s real nice. Okay, see you tomorrow, then.”

  I leaned over to Ross. “What did he say to you?”

  He muttered, “A lot of what he’d already said here. That I was ungrateful and disrespectful. I wanted to tell him he was a liar and an ass, but . . .”

  Mama sat down at the table and lit another cigarette. While she smoked, lost in her own thoughts, I finished cleaning up. Ross went back outside, and disappeared into the barn, while Trent went to watch TV.

  She looked tired, and after the scene with Mr. Fowler, I didn’t want to bring up something else, only I was curious, and I wanted to get her mind off of him.

  “Mama?”

  “Hm?”

  “Aunt Ruth said her and Daddy were engaged first.”

  “That’s true.”

  “Didn’t it make you feel funny to marry him afterward?”

  “No, not really.”

  “Why not?”

  “’Cause your daddy could take the most awkward of situations, and make it right.”

  That wasn’t at all like Mr. Fowler. He did just the opposite. Couldn’t she see that?

  She said, “He told her we wanted to date before we actually started.”

  “Was she mad about y’all getting married?”

  “Oh, no. She was my one and only bridesmaid.”

  Without thinking, I brought it right back to the topic I was trying to avoid. “Daniel thinks Mr. Fowler’s got intentions.”

  Mama gazed at me through the bluish cigarette smoke, and if she thought my comment was surprising, her expression and response remained bland.

  She stubbed out her cigarette. “One thing’s for sure, I’ll always love your daddy.”

  Like what she’d said about Mr. Fowler being generous, it was the sort of declaration that made me uneasy.

  Chapter 21

  Mama was quiet the next day and it also didn’t go unnoticed Mr. Fowler didn’t show up first thing either. I tried to figure out the reasons, but couldn’t come up wi
th anything. She cooked supper earlier than usual, and set covered dishes on the back of the stove to stay warm. Then she told us in a don’t ask me any questions way, he was taking her out for supper, and it all made sense from the night before while she’d been on the phone with him, plus the heightened color to her face after she’d hung up.

  When she went to take a bath, I was finally able to hiss at Ross, “I can’t hardly believe it!”

  He paced the kitchen floor, mumbling the same thing I’d thought. “It ain’t been but five months.”

  Trent said, “Geez, it’s only supper.”

  She stepped out of her room a little later wearing a dress that, although old, had been Daddy’s favorite. It had pink flowers on a white background, and was made with material he’d bought her one Christmas. She held a sweater over her arm for the chilly night. Her refusal to meet our eyes confirmed her guilt. I wanted her to feel that way. She patted her hair, which I noticed she wore pulled up in a twist, then checked her lipstick in the mirror of her compact. She smelled of that Youth Dew. Maybe she’d worn his favorite dress and that perfume to remind herself she was still Mrs. Lloyd Creech. She snapped the compact shut when his headlights hit the kitchen window.

  Mr. Fowler appeared at the back door, dressed like he’d been when Aunt Ruth was here. He looked as if he was all hepped up over this thing that looked and smelled a lot like a date. I was furious. My arms crossed, I glared at him as he held the back screen door open for her, and I continued to send several less than friendly looks his way as he greeted Mama.

  “Vi, you look mighty nice.”

  “Thank you,” said Mama.

  He pretty much ignored us while I noted every single thing he did. His hand on her elbow. How he opened the door on the passenger side, and waited for her to sit, then pull her legs in. It was a car I’d never seen, and as shiny as a new quarter. They took off without a wave or a toot of the horn. The three of us watched from the kitchen window until the car disappeared around the curve on Turtle Pond Road.

  Ross said, “I will be damned.”

  I could barely eat supper. Afterward, I washed the dishes and while Ross and Trent watched TV, I watched the time. Seven o’clock, then eight o’clock came. I placed a collect call to Aunt Ruth.