by Jan Watson
Melancholy swept over him. Man, he wanted a house like that. Maybe he and an older Lilly Gray playing checkers in one window and in another, Copper rocking a newborn. He couldn’t help but smile. But then his mind took a turn, and in the middle window was Remy laughing at him.
Resentment as bitter as a green persimmon replaced melancholy. He’d better walk awhile. At home when pure anger overtook him, he’d just go climb a mountain. The effort never ceased to serve. Here, the gently rolling land didn’t seem to satisfy in the same way. Maybe he needed to walk harder, farther.
It never got really dark here in town, John noticed as he went from the glare of one gas lamp to another. He missed sitting on his porch, where the only light after the sun went down was that of flitting fireflies putting on their show. He missed a lot of things, truth be told. Could he really acclimate to living in all this hustle and bustle? That remained to be seen.
It was a pleasant night for walking once his anger gave way to common sense. He’d never been one to hold a grudge. He might as well get over being riled at Remy, but that judge . . . well, that was a different story. John couldn’t figure why the man would use his power to humiliate just because he could.
With no thought to where he was going, John strolled down a familiar street and stopped in front of a familiar house. This was where Andy brought him to meet Copper’s friends, once her servants, Reuben and Searcy. Too bad it was so late; he’d like to talk to them again.
“Who’s there?” a melodious voice called. “Step closer.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” John replied. “I didn’t mean to disturb.”
“Ain’t no disturbance, child. Searcy be out here watering her flowers. It just too hot earlier.”
John doffed his hat. “They’re mighty pretty.”
“Reuben,” Searcy said toward the open door, “Miz Copper’s friend be here.” She set her watering can down. “Be right back.”
A moment later she was shaking her head when she came out of the small bungalow. “He’s sound asleep.”
“I’ll be going,” John said, sorry he’d interrupted the lady’s evening.
Searcy walked closer and cocked her head, studying him in the shimmering gas light. “You be troubled. Sometimes talking helps.”
John told the whole story right there in Searcy and Reuben’s front yard. There was something about Copper’s old friend that invited confidence, something nonjudgmental and wise. They stood several feet apart, him yakking like a gossipy woman, her listening without comment. John felt as if he’d lanced a boil—poison poured forth.
“What you gonna do now?” Searcy asked when he was finished.
“I thought to stay here—in Lexington, I mean. Get a job; keep busy. Try and forget.”
Searcy folded her arms, her elbows resting in her hands, and shook her head. “Why you be wanting to forget Miz Copper?”
“Truth is, I can’t live with that kind of hurt.”
“Humph,” Searcy said, working over her flowers in the near dark, deadheading marigolds by feel, her gaze fixed on John. “Anything worth having is worth losing. Don’t never get to keep nothing forever.” The sweet, spicy smell of marigolds bathed the night air. “We all just traveling through this old valley,” Searcy said as she gathered stems. “This ain’t our resting place.”
John felt like a boy at his mother’s knee. “It’s like I’ve lost my way.”
Searcy handed him a bunch of flowers. “Take these here to Miz Mary Martha. And read your Bible. It will set your feet on the narrow path again.”
Serenity as comforting as the fragrance of marigolds settled over John as he made his way back. Searcy was right. When had he stepped off the straight and narrow road onto the twisted path of his own desire? He was ready to give it all to God. He hurried on, picking up his pace. He couldn’t wait to get hold of his Bible. The only direction he needed could be found there. It seemed so easy now.
He’d write that letter after church tomorrow, and come Monday he’d see about the job at the livery. And, he’d noticed, the old washhouse behind Mrs. Archesson’s needed repair. That was something he could do to help her out. Perhaps she’d let him rent it; he could see bringing Faithful there.
He walked with purpose, his bitterness and anger culled like the heads of dead flowers, pitched away so new life could form. Lexington’s city streets would be home for a couple of years; he figured it would take that long for his sore heart to heal. Then he’d head back to Troublesome.
The first Sunday in September was a glory hallelujah day. People lined the creek banks, their bodies gathering up the last of summer’s heat. Men hunkered down to wait, and women stood or sat, flapping pasteboard fans against the still air. Children leaned into their mothers or stood between their fathers’ legs, waiting and watching, warned to be quiet.
The branches of an ancient sycamore overarched the deep baptismal pool. The dark water, as yet undisturbed, reflected the sycamore’s large-leafed, mottled limbs and the puffy white clouds chasing endlessly across the sky. Yesterday Elder Foster and Dylan had scythed scrub willows and invasive false honeysuckle from the banks in preparation. Dimmert and Ezra had fashioned rough-hewn benches but obviously not enough. Who would have expected such a crowd?
The assembly stood as one, every eye turned to see Brother Jasper approaching. The water ringed in ever-widening circles as he broke its flat surface. He was knee-deep when he turned to assist Remy.
Remy was all in white. Her dress, layered for modesty and weighted with small, smooth stones tucked into the hem, had been sewn by the ladies of Copper’s quilting circle. Her hair was covered by a long scarf that was intricately folded and tied at the nape of her neck. Her boots and her crutch waited on the creek bank. Cotton stockings covered her feet. Copper steadied her at the edge of the pool where grass gave way to the muddy bank. Remy paused and tightened her grip on Copper’s arm.
“Don’t be afraid. Jesus is with you,” Copper murmured.
Brother Jasper stepped closer, lifting Remy down the bank. She was so tiny beside the big preacher it seemed she might float away. “Having repented of her sins,” Brother Jasper addressed the church body, “Remy Riddle comes to be baptized this blessed Lord’s Day. Sister, repeat after me: I believe that Jesus is the Christ, God’s only begotten Son, my Lord and my Savior.”
In a small but clear voice, Remy publicly confessed her commitment to Christ.
Brother Jasper raised one hand to heaven. “I baptize you in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost,” he proclaimed before he lowered his arm. Remy held a man’s white handkerchief to her mouth and nose. Brother Jasper placed one hand over hers, positioned his other hand on her upper back, and dunked her beneath the waters of Troublesome Creek.
Copper shivered in the presence of the Spirit as Remy came up from the water. Tears flowed as people gathered around Remy, praising God for her salvation. One of the women wrapped her in a quilt.
Brother Jasper was just about to step onto the bank when a voice called out, “Wait. Wait up.” A man walked out of the woods and headed toward the preacher. He hesitated not but strode right into the water, hat, boots, and all. “I need me some baptizing.”
“Ace,” Copper gasped. She caught sight of Dance standing far back from the crowd, near the tree line. She was holding baby Jay.
“Well, now, Ace Shelton,” Brother Jasper said, “I never figured on seeing you here today.”
“I been convicted,” Ace replied.
Like everyone else, Copper stepped closer. It was a wonder they didn’t all fall in.
“Do you confess your sins?” the preacher asked.
“All of them,” Ace said. “And they ain’t many I ain’t done. But I’m purely sorry.”
Once again Brother Jasper asked for the good confession, and once again he plunged a sinner beneath the cleansing water.
Ace came up sputtering and coughing but free. His slouch hat floated downstream, and a young boy plunged into the water to cat
ch it.
Elder Foster started singing, “‘O how sweet to trust in Jesus, . . .’” His rich baritone reverberated up and down the hollow as everyone joined in the hymn: “‘Just to trust His cleansing blood, just in simple faith to plunge me ’neath the healing, cleansing flood!’”
As they sang, half a dozen more folks, one the boy who’d fetched the hat, made their way into the water to be baptized, following the example of Jesus Himself. Copper hadn’t been so moved since her own immersion years before in this very same place.
Many tears followed as people hugged each other and cried together. Seemed like no one wanted to leave.
Finally Brother Jasper, soaking wet and smiling from ear to ear, announced, “We’re having dinner on the grounds, brothers and sisters. Let’s go break bread together.”
Back at the church, Copper wondered how she had ever left these people and this place. She sat eating a piece of Fairy Mae’s peach pie. My, it was good. The fruit was tender and sweet, and the crust was so flaky it crumbled beneath her fork. Had she been alone, she would have licked the plate.
Hezzy and Remy shared her quilt spread upon the ground. On one side was part of Fairy Mae’s brood, including Ace and Dance, and on the other side were Cara and Dimmert. Where was Lilly? Oh, just there, chasing around with Bubby Foster. “Lilly Gray,” she called, “come have some pie with Mama.”
Lilly ran up for the last bite. Her dark hair, so carefully combed that morning, was tumbling out of its ribbons. Her face was flushed from play. “I having fun,” she said, plopping down on Copper’s lap, such a big girl now.
Resting her cheek against the top of Lilly’s head, Copper prayed a silent, simple prayer: Give me strength. She was either the most blessed woman here to have two men to miss—Simon and John—or the most cursed. A chuckle escaped her lips. Sometimes she was such a ninny she had to laugh at herself.
“Why you laughing?” Lilly asked.
“Because I’m happy. You make me happy.”
“Yup,” Lilly said, tossing her head and looking up at Copper with her big gray eyes. “More pie.”
John walked home with Tommy from the small Baptist church on the corner. It was a warm day in early fall, and they took their time—partly because Tommy had only one speed and partly because folks John didn’t even know stopped to say hello. Maybe people in Lexington weren’t so different from those he was used to after all.
He could smell food cooking before they reached the porch.
“Roast beef and mashed potatoes every Sunday,” Tommy said.
“Smells good,” John replied.
Mrs. Archesson met them at the door with tall glasses of lemonade. “You men rest your bones. Dinner will be ready shortly.”
Companionably, John and Tommy sat sipping their drinks, sharing the Sunday paper. When John finished a section, he made sure to fold it in a neat square for Tommy. That made it easier for him to hold. Funny, John mused, how quick a body adjusts to new people, new surroundings. It scared him a little how fast he was settling in here.
“Massey’s has a sale on hammers and nails,” he told Tommy. “I could use a good hammer, and when I redo the floor in the washhouse, I’ll need a pound of nails.”
“Let’s see,” Tommy said. John handed him the advertisement. “That’s a fair price all right.”
Tommy’s twisted hands jumped as he held the paper. John wondered how he could even read. “Think you could go along in the morning?” John asked. “I might need some help.”
“Sure thing. Did you see this piece about the bull escaping from the stockyards?”
Andy stepped out the door. “Ah, we caught him easy enough. Can’t believe it made the papers.”
“I guess it was a slow news day,” Tommy said. “How’d you happen to be at the stockyards?”
“Just hanging around. I like to watch the sales. Someday I’m going to have me a farm with cows and horses.” Andy picked up their empty glasses and headed back inside. “Miz Mary Martha says dinner is ready.”
It was much later before John was ready to pen his letter home. After Mrs. Archesson’s bountiful dinner, he’d fallen asleep stretched out on top of his covers in his rented room. On waking, he yawned and splashed water on his face, scrubbing at the creases that confessed his laziness. He’d never slept this much at home, but a sodden lethargy had consumed him ever since the judge’s pronouncement. Maybe he just couldn’t bear to be fully awake.
He bent to open the window; fresh air would surely help. His knuckle struck a bell jar sitting on the sill and set it vibrating with a tinkle of sound. The white blooms of an African violet sheltered there quivered in reaction. A spider mite leaped down from the blossom. John had upset its equilibrium. He felt the need to apologize.
Sitting on the straight-backed chair beside his bedside table, he picked up the Bible his mother had given to him when he left home at eighteen. The cover was worn thin in places. John could almost see his mother’s hands stroking the leather binding each time she picked it up. He remembered once when as a boy he’d carelessly knocked the Good Book to the floor and run on. His mother was a gentle woman not given to punishment or raising her voice, but she’d given him a good shaking that day. Now his hands caressed the Bible as hers once did.
The room darkened. He glanced at the clock. It was only three; a storm must be brewing. As if in answer, a mighty roll of thunder shook the window and rattled the bell jar. John put the Bible on the edge of his bed and went to the window.
He heard the plop of the book falling to the rug as he closed the window. Rain beaded on the sill. He should dry it off. After putting the Bible safely on the table, he took his towel from the washstand and blotted the rain, disturbing the violet as little as possible. With a sigh he turned back to the table; he’d dithered away the afternoon, and still the letter to Copper was not written.
The tablet paper was missing from his Bible. He guessed it came out when the Bible fell. On his knees he spied the paper and the marriage license underneath the bed. He raked them out, then leaned against the bed. The fluttering of his heart made him feel ill as it did each time he held the despised certificate. Lord, he prayed, seeking comfort, will I never get over this?
“Face your fears,” he fancied he heard the Lord answer.
For the first time he studied the document. It was just an oblong piece of paper with a fancy design across the top. It proclaimed the marriage of John Daniel Pelfrey to Remy Rees Riddle on the fourteenth day of January 1884. There was the preacher’s signature and that of his wife as witness. He swallowed hard to read his own bold mark on the paper, but it was there. And then Remy’s on a line beside his. His heart beat hard, and he sat up straight. “What is this?”
Not trusting his eyes in the dark room, he paused to light the coal-oil lamp on the table. He’d noticed a magnifying glass nestled in the bedside drawer, and now he pulled the drawer out so fast and hard he nearly dislodged the lamp. Carefully, license in one hand, magnifier to his eye, he examined the paper.
Remy had not signed her name! Instead she had made a series of squiggles. Why, he reckoned, Remy Riddle couldn’t read nor write, and she hadn’t asked anyone to witness her X. Maybe she didn’t know to. If you didn’t look closely, you would swear it was a signature. John’s heart thumped a different cadence—one of hope. He had his boots and hat on in seconds. He must show this to Benton Upchurch. It made all the difference in the world.
He’d just stopped to blow out the lamp when hail pelted the tin roof. A shrieking shearing sound like twisting metal filled the room; then a thin, mewling voice called, “Help me. Please, somebody, help.”
Miss Emma, John thought. After sliding the certificate underneath his pillow, he hurried across the hall to her aid.
Miss Emma lay in a heap of sodden clothing and shattered glass. Poor old thing. John knelt beside her, careful of the glass. It looked as if her window had blown out and she’d been thrown across the room. A jagged piece of tin roof as sharp as a razor’s edg
e seesawed on the window ledge. Had it struck her?
Gently John unfolded her tangled limbs and smoothed her clothing. He saw scratches and minor cuts but no frank bleeding.
“I was just putting my window down,” she said as he bent over her.
“Can you get up?” he asked.
“I don’t have a pup,” Miss Emma said, confused. “Do you see my ear trumpet?”
“Hurry!” John heard Andy holler from the hallway. “Everybody to the cellar.”
More hail, more screeching outside. The room was as black as midnight.
“Miss Emma,” John yelled, “I’m going to carry you downstairs.”
She was as light as a child, John thought as he raced down the stairs. All he could feel was clacking bones.
“This way.” Andy directed with a lantern. “Down the cellar steps here.”
Thankfully, John saw the rest of the household huddled together under the steps. He deposited Miss Emma on a pile of musty old rugs. “We’d better pray,” he said.
Fall hurried its way up Troublesome Creek. After a week of rain in mid-September, dry weather settled in and turned the trees into jeweled colors of orange and red and rust and gold seemingly overnight. Copper was on the porch each morning at sunrise, delaying milking just a bit until the mountain’s majesty revealed itself. She loved this part of the day best, when ribbons of mist hung in the hollers like smoke dissipating raggedly as the sun rose.
While sitting on a bench to pull on her work shoes, Copper took stock. They needed to gather root vegetables today. Dimmert would spread clean straw on the floor of the cellar to bury turnips, parsnips, and sweet potatoes in. Yesterday Copper and Cara had swept the dirt floor clean of debris and wiped out the boxes where they’d store potatoes. Speaking of jeweled colors, sunlight streaming in through the open cellar door made row upon row of canned vegetables—green beans, pickled beets, tomatoes, sliced carrots, okra, and kraut—sparkle.