My brain felt fuzzy. Most mothers would be taking care of their sick daughters. At least I had my Poppa. I propped on one elbow and shook my head. No, I didn’t have Poppa.
Tears ran down my cheeks. Sobs shook me until I drifted into a fitful sleep.
I burned with fever for several days and could only hold down a little water and soup. Momma went out to work every day, taking Zeke with her.
Aunt Jenny came to sit with me. She read aloud from the Bible and prayed by my bedside.
I wished she would make me a Forget Box. Aunt Jenny wiped my forehead with a wet rag and spoke soothingly.
Her words came to me as if through a haze. I mumbled words back but didn’t know what I spoke. Images of people drifted in and out of my small room, but I didn’t know if they were real or hallucinations. At one point, I thought Momma and Aunt Jenny argued, but I didn’t understand what they said.
On the sixth day, my thoughts began to clear, and I was able to sit up in bed and drink the cup of chicken soup Aunt Jenny brought me.
On the seventh day, she helped me to the rocking chair and wrapped me in a quilt.
Miss Jackson brought by my school work the next day, and Momma made Aunt Jenny go home.
I missed Aunt Jenny terribly, and, after a couple of more days spent in the house alone, my strength returned. I was ready to get back to school, to see something besides the four walls that surrounded me.
Saturday, I ventured outside with Zeke. He pulled me to the pen to show me how much the piglets had grown. The days had grown hot.
Zeke begged me to seesaw. He seemed so forlorn that I agreed and rummaged in the barn until I found a long, wide board.
Zeke helped me carry it outside, and we slid it over the top of the hog-pen railing. I climbed over into the hog pen and shooed away the sows. The ground was a muddy gook that sucked at my shoes.
Two of the sows were heavy with unborn piglets. Any day the sows would “find their piglets.” That’s the way Momma said it. No one dared say “pregnant” or “giving birth” in her presence.
I held my nose as Zeke climbed on his end of the board. Then I gently bounced up and down. On the fourth bounce I heard an ominous cracking.
The board broke, and I fell backwards.
Chapter 27—Coals of Fire
My back hit something large and solid. A sow. She emitted an ear-splitting squeal as she bucked me off. I flipped off and landed face down in the muck. I scrambled to my feet, spitting as I came up.
Momma ran from the house, and I crawled over the fence and flopped down on the grass. Zeke’s eyes widened, and his mouth worked. I couldn’t hear what he said over the squeals of the pigs.
Momma pulled me to my feet as I swiped at the muck on my face. Momma grabbed my elbow and marched me toward the house. Zeke followed.
The pigs quieted as we walked away. Momma yanked me to a stop at the bottom of the steps. “Don’t you know better than to play in the hog pen?” Her words screeched in my ears as ear-splitting as the hogs’ squeals had been.
“We were see-sawing, Momma,” Zeke said.
Momma ignored him. “Two of our sows are . . .”
She glared at me. “If they can’t find their babies soon, it’s going to be your fault, Sarah Jane. You probably scared ten years off their lives.” She looked down at her red, rough hands. “I’ve been working my fingers to the bone while you’ve been laying up in bed all day.”
I gasped. Momma didn’t believe I had really been sick? I started up the steps, and she put up a hand to stop me.
“Wash off before you come on this porch!” She shook her head, clucking her tongue. “You ain’t got the sense you were born with.” With that, she turned on her heel and went into the house.
I looked down at the muck covering me. I could haul water from the well and wash off, but it would take a long time. Or I could just walk to Cedar Spring.
I made up my mind. “Zeke, will you bring me my other dress, and some rags, and soap.”
He nodded his head and scurried into the house, soon returning with my things. “Sorry, Jay,” he said as he handed them to me.
“Nevermind. It wasn’t your fault.” I paused and looked at him and tried to smile. “I’ll be back in a little while. I’m going to Cedar Spring to wash off.” I whistled for Chance, and he trotted beside me as I walked down the road.
The days were growing even hotter, and sweat mixed with the muck trickled down my face. I hoped I didn’t meet anyone on the way. I smiled thinking of the reaction I’d get.
The spring came into view. The water splashed over the rocks, and I waded into its coolness with my dress on.
The water came to my knees, and I knelt to splash water on my hair and face. With the lye soap, I washed my hair and scrubbed myself. To rinse, I lay down in a shallow part of the stream and let the water wash over me. The cool water left my skin tingling.
I stayed on my back, gazing up into the blueness of the sky and watching a hawk circle high above.
I shivered and scrambled to my feet. I ducked behind a bush to dry off and change into my other dress. My dirty dress needed to be washed, so I took it back to the stream and scrubbed it with the lye soap, beating it against the rocks.
The sun was low in the sky when I finished.
A cooling breeze blew now while I stood by the spring, not wanting to go home to face Momma.
Chance barked and ran to meet someone, his tail wagging. My heart leaped into my throat when Michael stepped from the shadows of the trees.
He stopped midstride. “Hey, Jay.” Color rushed to his face as he stooped to pat Chance.
“Hi.” I whistled for Chance and started down the trail.
“Jay . . .”
I turned to face him.
“If you’re not in too big of a hurry, let’s sit here and talk a little while.” He settled on one of the rocks.
I searched his eyes before I nodded and sat down beside him. We watched without speaking as the sun dipped a little farther behind the trees. The minutes ticked past.
“Didn’t you want to talk?” I asked, not looking at him.
Michael cleared his throat. “Jay, do you know what vegetable you’ll find in heaven?”
The question sounded familiar, but, with Michael so near, my mind wouldn’t function.
The stream splashed gently, and the breeze cooled my warm cheeks.
“Peas” he said softly.
Tears burned my eyes. The same joke Poppa told before he got sick. “I sure hope there’s peace in heaven.” My voice sounded bitter.
“There is, Blue Jay.”
The nickname startled me, and I turned to look into his eyes.
He cleared his throat again. “I know you’ve been having a hard time dealing with your father’s passing.”
“Yep.” I blinked.
“Jay, God didn’t put us on earth to find happiness. He put us here to prepare us for heaven.”
I looked at him in surprise. He sounded older than his years. I turned my head away. “Doesn’t he want us to be happy?”
He moved closer, and I inhaled the farm smells mingled with scent that was uniquely Michael. A fresh scent like sunshine on grass.
“Actually, he’s more interested in our holiness than our happiness. Struggles are part of life.”
“It’s not just Poppa. My mother and Dan . . .” I wanted to add and you.
“Dealing with others means struggling. But the Bible tells us what we need to do.”
And then his voice took on a strange timbre as he quoted scripture.
“‘Therefore if thine enemy hunger, feed him; if he thirst, give him drink; for in so doing thou shalt heap coals of fire on his head.’ That’s in chapter twelve of Romans.”
He reminded me so much of Poppa that a lump formed in my throat.
The sun set, and the stars came out one by one. I pushed off the rock, and he followed me down the path, neither of us speaking.
We emerged onto the dirt road, and he fell i
n step beside me.
Clouds obscured the moon, and darkness gathered quickly about us. It reminded me of the night Poppa died. We walked without speaking for a minute or two.
“Whoa!” Michael swung his arm in front of me.
I caught hold it and peered into the darkness, wondering what he had seen. His muscles, tensed beneath my hand, and I held my breath.
A huge, black, rounded shape in the middle of the road came into focus. The shape moved, and I discerned a large head.
Chance growled, a low-throated growl that raised the hair on the back of my neck. I clung to Michael’s arm, fear coursing through me. Then I sensed, rather than saw, the head turn in our direction and eyes inspecting us. My knees shook.
Then the shape stretched out its neck and mooed.
Chance barked, and I shushed him. Michael and I both laughed shakily. Embarrassed, I let go of Michael’s arm.
We gave the cow a wide berth.
“I’ll come back and see if that cow is still here tomorrow,” he said. “Can’t see whose cow it is tonight.” His hand found mine. “You know, Jay, things are not always what they seem.”
I shivered and was glad for the comfort of Michael’s hand.
We paused at my drive.
“Thanks for walking me home,” I said, pulling my hand from his grasp.
“Jay . . .”
I strained to see his face in the darkness.
“It wasn’t me who told Dan about the rooster.”
Before I had time to reply, he was gone, and I yearned to call him back, to run after him. But Momma would be wondering where I was. Reluctantly, I went into the house to meet her wrath.
MONDAY MORNING THE scripture Michael quoted haunted me when Laurie and I walked to school.
Maybe I hadn’t been treating others kindly enough.
Dan pushed by us as we entered the school yard.
“Good morning, Dan,” I said, plastering a smile on my face.
He frowned but didn’t answer. Somehow I felt as if I had scored a point.
The morning passed without incident. At lunch, I spotted him sitting with two of his friends under the oak tree in the yard, Michael one of them. I took a deep breath and walked over.
“Dan, would you like a biscuit?”
He frowned at me and sneered. “What?”
“A biscuit with fig preserves. I have an extra one and wondered if you wanted it.”
“I don’t want nothing from you.” He practically spat out the words.
“Sure. Maybe someone else would like it.” I held out the biscuit wrapped in a cloth, and Michael reached for it.
“Thanks.” He grinned at me.
“You’re welcome.” I turned away, my face burning.
“I wouldn’t eat that if I was you. She probably cooked it.”
“If she did, I bet it’s delicious,” Michael said.
I smiled. This dropping of coals felt good.
“Glad I’m leaving here,” Dan said.
I swirled around, and Dan smirked at me.
He puffed out his chest. “I’ll be joining the army next month when I turn eighteen.”
I shrugged and hurried away. Well, he needed to. It would be a relief to get rid of him. I was sure I wasn’t the only one who felt that way.
GRINNING, I TOLD LAURIE and William when we walked home that afternoon. A feeling of peace washed over me just thinking about life without Dan.
Laurie grinned back. “Don’t that beat a goose a gobbling.”
“Well,” William said, “he needs to do something. I heard he was failing.”
We reached the gate, and I unlatched it, strangely reluctant for them to leave me there.
“See y’all in the morning,” I said.
I felt apprehensive, reluctant to move into our yard.
I shook the feeling off and went in.
Chapter 28—Dreams Broken
No one was around. I did my chores and then picked up limbs that had blown about in the yard.
Momma and Zeke came in from the field, dusty and walking slowly. Zeke plopped down on the porch to watch me. Momma went into the house and reemerged with a sage broom.
She handed it to me. “Sweep the yard while you’re out here.”
Not a word of thanks for picking up the limbs. I sighed. That was typical of Momma. Nothing ever pleased her. I wondered, as I had so many times before, why Poppa had married her.
Poppa always said it was because of our poverty that Momma was so irritable. I didn’t know anything about Momma’s family. She had no kinfolks nearby. At least, she never spoke of any.
Those gloves she had pulled out of her trunk when it snowed—they had looked expensive. And she had two pairs.
Momma had started up the steps when a car I didn’t recognize drove into the yard. “Take Zeke and get inside.”
“I’m not through sweeping the yard,” I said.
She yanked the broom from my hand and threw it down. “Now.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I peered curiously at the car as I climbed up the steps, but no one got out.
Zeke followed me wearily inside. I had started supper by the time Momma came in.
“Who was that, Momma?” Zeke asked.
Momma didn’t answer. She simply clamped her teeth together and sat down in the rocking chair by the fireplace. She didn’t eat any supper.
I cleaned up the kitchen, did my homework, and got Zeke ready for bed.
Momma still sat in the chair when Zeke and I told her goodnight.
The next morning Momma shook me awake before daylight. “Get up, Sarah Jane.”
“What’s wrong?” I asked, rubbing my eyes.
“We’ve got work to do. Ezekiel James, get up.” She yanked his cover back. “Right now!”
Zeke and I dressed quickly. Momma waited for us at the back door.
“Ain’t we going to eat breakfast?” Zeke asked.
“I’ve got to get ready for school.”
“You ain’t going.” Momma gave Zeke a push toward the door. “Hurry up.”
“Wait, Momma. I’ll see if I can find Zeke something to eat,” I said.
She shrugged. “You’d best hurry. Your brother and I ain’t waiting. You can catch up with us.”
I scurried to the kitchen and lit the lantern. Some leftovers were in the pie safe where we stored food. I placed a biscuit and a cold sweet potato in the old syrup bucket, blew out the lantern, and hurried out. Stars still sparkled in the black sky.
I hadn’t thought to ask Momma where she was going but it had to be to the cotton fields. A cow lowed, and I hesitated. Did Momma milk the cows yet? I ducked into the barn to check.
Poppa’s lantern hung on a nail, and I lifted it down to light it before making my way to the stall. Our two milk cows turned sorrowful brown eyes on me. Their udders were swollen.
I would have to go back to the house to get the milk pail.
On my way to fetch it, chickens scurried around me, and I stopped long enough to throw them some corn.
By the time I finished milking and lowered the pail down into the well to keep cool, streaks of reds and pinks colored the sky. Well, at least finding Momma and Zeke wouldn’t be as difficult.
Birds sang, welcoming the morning. I spotted a bluebird, its feathers vying with the blue of the sky. I breathed deeply of the morning’s freshness as I walked along.
Momma attacked grass in the cotton field with her hoe. I deposited the syrup can under a tree, alongside the water jug and found the extra hoe Momma had brought. I walked over to a grassy spot, but, before I could begin, Momma strode over to me.
“Where have you been?” Her eyes narrowed until they were mere slits, as she clutched the hoe in her hands like a baseball bat.
I swallowed hard and stepped back. “I milked the cows.”
“Who told you to milk them? We’ve got to get this grass hoed up.” She gave me a hard stare and began whacking the weeds.
Zeke, next to Momma, kept his head down, swinging th
e hoe. I got busy, and no one spoke for hours.
Zeke’s tenacity surprised me. He didn’t keep up with us, but neither did he quit. Neither did he ask for breakfast again. My own stomach grumbled, but I ignored it.
When the sun reached its zenith, Momma walked to the tree and called to Zeke and me. “No need to go home for lunch. We’ll just eat this.”
“But, Momma, I just brought enough for Zeke.”
“There’s plenty here.” She took the sweet potato and broke it into three pieces.
We each peeled our small portion. I ate mine in two bites. Momma started to break the biscuit.
“I don’t want any of the biscuit,” I said. “You and Zeke can have it.”
I took a drink from the water jug before heading back to work. Less than five minutes later, Momma and Zeke joined me.
The sun beat down on my back, and sweat trickled into my eyes. When I paused to wipe the sweat away, I spied Uncle Colt at the edge of the field watching us. Zeke saw him at almost the same time.
“Uncle Colt!” He threw down his hoe and ran to him.
Uncle Colt swung him into his arms and walked to Momma. “Hey, Molly. I was up at the house and didn’t see anyone around.” His eyes swept over the field. “Do you need help?”
She glanced at him briefly and shrugged. “Help if you want.”
Uncle Colt put Zeke down under the tree and told him to stay there. He took Zeke’s place and began hoeing. Zeke curled up and slept.
Occasionally, Uncle Colt glanced at Momma. As the sun worked toward the horizon, I knew Uncle Colt wondered when Momma was going to quit.
She showed no signs of quitting until we had hoed up every sprig of grass between the rows in that field. The sun set as we dragged ourselves home.
Uncle Colt tended to the livestock, and for that I was grateful. Momma didn’t offer to cook. I was too tired, so I scrounged among the left-over food and fixed a plate for Zeke and me.
My blistered hands burned as I washed up the dishes. My back ached, and I longed for my bed.
Momma had settled into her chair by the fireplace without the lamp. I hadn’t offered to fix her a plate, figuring she would ask if she wanted anything.
Thunder Snow_Prequel to In the Shadow of the Cedar Page 12