Long Upon the Land

by Margaret Maron

  As it isn’t quite eleven, Sue knows that could be at least an hour away.

  “You think he’d hear if I blew the horn?”

  “Maybe.”

  Worth a try, thinks Sue. She piles more dead limbs on the fire, then goes over to the car and blows the horn three times, waits a few beats, then blows it three more times. She repeats the sequence twice before returning to the fire.

  “Let’s hope he notices,” she says.

  “He will,” says Robert, and little Frank keeps looking up past the old ruined house as if he expects their father to suddenly appear.

  She has just stood to go try starting the car again when she hears an engine. A moment later, a battered old pickup truck comes down the slope and skids to a stop nearby.

  “Daddy!” the little boys cry and they drop the blankets to run to the tall man who emerges from the truck.

  He scoops them both up in his arms. “Here, now. What’s happened to y’all? How come you’re so wet?”

  Sue retrieves the abandoned blankets and drapes them around those small bare shoulders.

  Frank is sobbing into the safety of his father’s chest and words are tumbling from Robert. “We was larking on the ice and it broke and she pulled us out but then her car wouldn’t start. We near ’bout drowned, Daddy.”

  Sue realizes that this is the fiddle player from last Saturday night. “Kezzie, is it?” she asks. “Kezzie Knott?”

  She sees his blue eyes widen in recognition but now her own reaction is setting in and she is suddenly shaking with anger.

  “What sort of father lets little boys like this play around a creek with no one watching them?”

  In a voice cold with matching anger, he says, “A right sorry one, I reckon, Miss Stephenson.”

  He carries the boys to his truck and sets them down inside with the blankets still tucked around them. “Where’s y’all’s clothes, son?”

  “I’ll get them,” Sue says and goes over to the branch for them.

  The man follows. “What’s wrong with your car?”

  “Flooded.”

  “I’ll start it for you,” he says.

  “Don’t bother. I’m sure it’ll start by the time I’ve finished cutting a tree.”

  He frowns. “Tree?”

  “A Christmas tree. That’s what I came out here for and I’m not leaving without one.”

  “And what was you planning to cut it down with?”

  Sue looks around blankly. “I had a saw. I must have dropped it when I saw them fall through the ice.”

  “Show me.”

  “No. You need to get them home to warm dry clothes.”

  “They’ll be fine. I left the heater running.” He sees where their footprints had left the bushes and heads toward the creek.

  Reluctantly, Sue follows and soon finds the saw where it has fallen.

  Kezzie Knott stares out at the broken ice for a long moment, then takes the saw from her. “Which tree you want?”

  Wordlessly, Sue shows him the one she decided on earlier. Minutes later, it’s tied to the top of her car and he’s poking around under the hood.

  “Try it now,” he says and to her relief, the engine catches.

  “What about the fire?” she asks through the rolled-down window. A fine rain has begun to fall.

  “I got a shovel,” he says. “I’ll throw some dirt on it. You better get on back to town ’fore this rain turns to ice.”

  As she takes her foot off the brake and starts to roll up the window, he puts his hand on the glass and looks her straight in the eyes. “My boys? They was real lucky you come along when you did. I thank you.”

  That night, Sue opens the door of her father’s study. The lamps are turned low and soft carols play on his radio.

  “Dad?”

  Mr. Stephenson glances around and motions for her to join him. A tall man, he stands in front of the blazing hearth, his slender frame sharply silhouetted against the flames, and Sue realizes with a sudden pang that his shoulders have begun to stoop. His hair is completely white now and age spots blotch the back of his hands. She knows that her parents delayed having children until several years into marriage, but seeing him clearly like this makes her aware that he is no longer young. Is indeed well into middle age.

  “Finished decorating the tree?”

  Sue closes the door and smiles at him. “You know Mother and Zell. They’re still making sure every strand of tinsel’s just so. Poor Ash. He just wants to sling it on in clumps.”

  “Wise man,” her father says, crossing to his desk.

  “Wise?”

  “How do you think I’ve gotten out of having to drape tinsel one strand at a time all these years? If you do something badly, your wife won’t expect you to do it well. She’ll just decide you’re hopeless and do it herself.”

  “Someone should tell Ash.” She pulls a chair up near his. “Can I ask you something, Dad?”

  His eyes twinkle behind his smudged glasses. “Has saying no ever stopped you?”

  “I’m serious.” She lifts his glasses from his face, breathes on the lenses, and begins to polish them with a clean handkerchief from her pocket.

  Her father massages the bridge of his nose and leans back in his chair. “Very well then. Seriously.”

  “Tell me about Kezzie Knott.”

  “Knott? Why do you ask about him?”

  Eyes on her task, Sue says, “He was one of the musicians at the dance Saturday night. They said he’d been in prison and Brix Junior said you were his attorney.”

  “So?”

  “Brix Junior says he’s a moonshiner. Is he?”

  Mr. Stephenson shrugs. “Probably, but that’s not what sent him to prison. He was charged with tax evasion. He owned a little crossroads store out from Cotton Grove and he was buying a lot more sugar than he could prove he sold in the store.” A small smile appears at the corner of his mouth. “I believe the store is no longer in his name.”

  “But he owns it?”

  “Not that anyone can prove.”

  “Brix Junior said you got him released early.”

  He nods and his smile disappears. “His wife died and there was no one else to take care of his children. I was able to persuade the authorities that he wasn’t a danger to society.”

  Sue holds his glasses up to the light, polishes away a final smudge, and hands them back. “Brix Junior says he asked about buying Grandmother’s farm.”

  “I didn’t realize Brix Junior was so interested in Knott’s business,” Mr. Stephenson says as he settles his glasses into place. “Why are you?”

  “No reason. I just wondered why he wasn’t drafted. Making moonshine isn’t exactly a vital industry, is it?”

  He chuckles. “Depends on who you ask.” When he sees that she isn’t smiling, he says, “He had too many people dependent on him, honey. A widowed mother who was dying, a wife, and five or six little boys.”

  “Five or six? Are you serious?”

  “You said you wanted me to be. Last I heard, there were actually eight. All boys. He married young and they started making babies right away.”

  “Kept her barefoot and pregnant?” Her scornful voice turns to pity. “That poor woman.”

  “Hard to know what goes on between a husband and wife,” her father says mildly. “Could be that’s what she wanted.”

  Something in his tone makes her wonder if he was the one who put off having a family, or was it her mother?

  “Did you want a son, Dad?” she asks.

  “Now, Sue—”

  “Someone to come into the firm with you like Brix Junior?”

  He leans over and pats her hand. “Every man wants a son, honey, but I wouldn’t trade either of my girls for ten Brix Juniors.”

  When Zell comes downstairs next morning, she finds her sister in the breakfast room. A roll of red ribbon lies beside a half-eaten biscuit and Sue is filling small paper bags from a bowl of hard Christmas candies. Zell pours herself a cup of coffee and joins
her at the table.

  “Who are those for?” she asks.

  With Ash hovering at Zell’s elbow all day yesterday, there had been no chance for Sue to talk to her alone. “Promise you won’t tell Mother or Dad?”

  Zell listens wide-eyed while Sue tells how she pulled two small boys out of Possum Creek. “You could have drowned yourself. I knew we shouldn’t have let you go out there alone.”

  “Then come with me this morning. I want to see if they’re okay and I thought I’d take them some candy. I doubt if their father does much for Christmas.”

  Yet even as she says it, she remembers how eagerly those little boys had run to him and how he’d scooped them both up in his arms. She cuts lengths of the ribbon and begins to tie bows on the eight bags.

  Hearing their voices, their housekeeper opens the kitchen door. “You want me to scramble you an egg, Miss Zell?”

  “No, thank you, Mary. Just a biscuit and some jam, please.”

  Sue looks up from tying the last bow and says, “Do we have anything festive I can put these bags in, Mary?”

  “Might be something in the pantry,” the older woman says.

  Sue follows her out through the kitchen and there on a top shelf of the pantry are several tins that had held fruitcake and cookies from her father’s grateful clients.

  “That one’s right nice,” says Mary, pointing to a slender white canister painted in a Currier and Ives winter sleighing scene. The lid pictures seasonal greenery and the tin is big enough to hold all eight bags of candy.

  Last night’s freezing rain petered out before bedtime and the morning sun is rapidly clearing the pavement, but there are patches of treacherous ice the sun has not yet touched and the car fishtails more than once even though Sue drives slower than usual.

  As they near Cotton Grove, she turns off onto the dirt road that leads to their farm and stops at the first house to ask directions.

  “You got to go back around and get across the creek and come in from the hardtop,” says the farmer who is crossing the yard to his barn when they drive up. “You can’t see the house from the road, but there’s a mailbox at his turn-in with a big cedar tree on one side and a magnolia on the other. On the left like you was going Cotton Grove. It’s at the bottom of a wide curve when you get to the creek.”

  They thank him and retrace their route till the dirt road intersects with the highway.

  “Bottom of a curve?” Zell asks as both scan the passing woodlands.

  Sue nods, concentrating on the road’s icy patches. “Cedar tree, magnolia, mailbox on the left.”

  They are beginning to think they must have gone too far when the road curves down and they see the landmarks the farmer described. The lane rises up from the bottom land and when they crest the rise, they see an old two-story wooden farmhouse with outbuildings behind. Like most of that time and place, the house is built of unpainted heart pine that has weathered into a soft silvery gray. Down the slope and off to one side is a family graveyard. Some of the stones are just that—big rocks dragged up from the creek—but one is a black marble obelisk. It has to be at least ten feet tall and must have cost a fortune.

  As they drive into the yard, little boys tumble off the porch and out of the barn. A colored woman comes to the door with a toddler in her arms. A dark blue shawl protects both of them from the biting wind.

  “Mr. Kezzie ain’t here,” she calls as soon as Sue steps out of the car. “Won’t be back till dinnertime.”

  “That’s okay,” Sue calls back cheerfully. “I came to see how Robert and Frank are after their swim yesterday.”

  White teeth flash in that dark face. “You the lady that pulled them out?”

  Before Sue can answer, the door of the wash house is flung open and a blue-and-white enameled dishpan sails into the yard, where it hits a tree with such force that flakes of enamel shatter to the ground. It’s followed by two boys who flail at each other as they careen through the door. The taller child is Frank. His face is red and distorted with anger and grief as he hurls himself at a slightly smaller one who tries to run.

  “Frank! Andrew! You young’uns stop that this minute!” the woman calls, but they pay her no mind.

  Sue rushes over and is sent tumbling to the ground herself when she pulls them apart. The younger boy runs for the safety of the house. Frank tries to go after him, but Sue wraps her arms around his furious little body. He struggles for a moment and then collapses in long shuddering sobs against her shoulder.

  “He took Mama’s dishpan!” the boy wails.

  “Oh Lordy!” says the woman. With the toddler perched on her broad hip, she bends down to comfort him. “Oh, honey baby, Aunt Essie’s so sorry. She forgot all about that.”

  The woman looks at Sue in consternation. “I told Andrew to fetch me a pan so I could soak some real sandy collard greens. I meant the one hanging on the wall.” She turns back to the boy whose first wild cries have dwindled into hopeless sobs. “Don’t be blaming Andrew, honey. Blame Aunt Essie.”

  A ring of little boys now circles them. They stair-step up to the one she recognizes from the day before. Robert.

  Still sitting on the chilled ground, she pulls a handkerchief from her pocket and wipes the child’s nose. “What happened, Frank?”

  His voice is a misery of hopelessness. “They’re gone. Andrew messed all through them.”

  “Messed through what?” Sue asks. “Show me. Maybe we can fix it?”

  He shakes his head and fresh tears stream down his cheeks.

  “Come on, honey,” the woman coaxes. “We need to get this baby back in the house where it’s warm before these nice ladies freeze to death.” She offers a free hand to help Sue stand up. “I’m Essie. I take care of these young’uns.”

  “I’m Sue. Sue Stephenson.” She gestures to Zell, who has gotten out of the car with the bright canister in her hands. “And this is my sister. Zell, why don’t you show these young men what we brought them while Essie and I go see what’s got Frank so upset?”

  “No!” says Frank. “I’ll show you by myself.” He glares at his brothers through tear-reddened eyes. “And the rest of y’all better stay away.”

  Taking Sue by his cold little hand, he leads her into the wash house. A brick firebox has kindling laid, all ready to build a fire under the deep iron tub set into its surface. Two large zinc tubs stand upside down on a ledge of rough planks that runs the length of the small structure, and a second blue-and-white enameled dishpan hangs from a nail in the wall. The 2x4s that support the countertop stand directly on a dirt floor. A window at the far end lets in light and probably helps keep the place bearable in summer.

  “There,” says Frank and his lower lip quivers again as he points to a spot beneath the window, just under the edge of the counter.

  Sue can see the outline of where the round pan must have been pressed into the dirt before it was dragged from its resting place. Multiple footprints of all sizes crisscross the dirt floor but that spot under the counter is wiped smooth.

  “It was Mama’s footprints,” he says, his voice quavering again. “Last time she did the wash, right ’fore she went to the house to have Jack.” His blue eyes bore into hers, searching for understanding. “I come in here after the burying and there was her footprints and I put the dishpan over them so I’d always have them and then Andrew went and— I hate him! I hate him! And I’ll hate him forever!”

  “Oh, Frank,” she whispers and hugs him to her as grief overcomes him again.

  “Now she’s really all gone,” he moans and her heart breaks for him.

  When he has cried himself out, she says, “Listen, Frank. Her footprints may not be there exactly as she left them, but they aren’t really gone.”

  “But they is, Miss Sue. See?” He points to the smooth dirt that the pan had once covered.

  “The shape, maybe, but not the substance.”

  “What’s substance?”

  “What things are made of, honey. Your mama’s footprints wer
e made in the dirt and that dirt’s still there. See where the pan piled up a little ridge of dirt before Andrew lifted it off?”

  He gives a doubtful nod.

  “That’s where your mama’s footprints still are. Not in the same shape maybe, but still the substance that she stood on. Wait right here and don’t touch it yet, okay?”

  He looks at her in mute hope and nods.

  She darts out to the yard and is back a moment later with the now-empty Christmas canister. “If we put that little pile of dirt in here, you can keep it safe for as long as you want.”

  Wanting to be persuaded, he watches as she pulls the lid off and kneels down beside that smooth spot.

  “I’ll do it,” Frank says, so she sits back on her heels and holds the canister while he gently scoops up the dry dirt as solemnly as if something of his dead mother really is being poured into the tin.

  When he is satisfied that he has saved all the dirt her feet had touched, Sue snaps the lid back on and hands the canister to him.

  “And if Andrew touches it, I’ll kill him,” he says fiercely.

  The hired woman invites Sue and Zell into the big, shabby, and blessedly warm kitchen. She wants to hear about Robert and Frank’s near drowning in more detail. While the children are distracted by the Christmas candy and the pretty lithographed scene on Frank’s can, she thanks Sue in a low voice for comforting him. “That baby took Miss Annie Ruth’s passing the hardest.”

  The two older boys seem to regard Sue as their own personal property, but she soon charms the others. While the younger boys chatter and tussle, Essie puts together a big pot of beef stew and gets started on fried apple pies for the midday meal.

  “Come see our tree, Miss Sue,” Robert says and leads the way into the unheated front parlor. Somehow Sue hasn’t expected such a big tree nor one so festive with tinsel and lights.

  Or that eight small socks would be hanging along the mantelpiece. The older boys point out theirs.

  “Santa Claus don’t come for grown-ups and Jack’s too little for candy,” says Robert, “so can we give his to Daddy?”