As they passed the town sign, she snapped the reins and got Henrietta to pick up her pace a little.
She was about an hour or so from home when she came around a bend and saw a man walking up ahead, down the middle of the road. Before she was close enough to see much detail of him, she knew he was a hobo. There was just a look they all seemed to have—weary and weather-beaten. Instead of the bindle many seemed to carry, this one wore a brown canvas satchel hooked across his body. Ada had seen similar bags and was fairly sure it was military issue from the war.
It was a vulnerable place in her trip, about fifteen minutes past the last homestead and another fifteen before she’d be in sight of the next. The sun had nearly set, leaving only a dark pink ribbon around the edge of the world and the rest of the sky deep in its gloaming.
She glanced over her shoulder and saw the butt of the shotgun. It was loaded; all she’d have to do is reach back and grab it. Her father had taught her to shoot long ago. Unless the man was also armed with a gun—and she’d never met a wanderer who had been—Ada was in no danger from this tired, probably hungry man.
As she approached, he crossed to the side of the road, turned to face her, and stopped. He seemed older, she thought, in his forties or fifties, maybe. He might well have been in the Great War. He didn’t try to wave her down, and she didn’t stop. She couldn’t. But as she pulled up alongside him, he fell into step with her, walking at the side of the wagon.
“Evenin’,” he said.
“Evenin’.” Feeling uncivil, she added, “I’m sorry, but I can’t offer you I ride.”
“I understand, ma’am. I don’t mean you no harm, but you can’t know that. If you was my woman, I wouldn’t want you stoppin’ for no stranger on the road.”
She smiled and offered him a nod of shared understanding.
“Might I ask, though—you know where a tired man might find a place to put his head for a night? I don’t need much, but I smell rain on the wind, so a roof’d be ‘preciated.”
“About a mile or so farther along, you’ll see symbols on a post. They’ll offer you the hayloft, and if you’re polite, they might have some work for you in the morning. Work’ll be hard to come by soon. Harvest’s in.”
“I know. I jus’ got to get to Knoxville. Then I’ll have a place for the winter.”
Knoxville was more than a hundred miles away. He’d best not tarry if he wanted to get so far before the cold set in.
“If the Conners don’t have work for you tomorrow, and you keep on this road in the morning, you’ll come upon another set of good symbols about three miles farther on. That’s my people’s place. We don’t have a good place for you to bed down on a rainy night, but we might have some work that’d earn you a meal.”
“I’d take that kindly, ma’am.” He doffed his cap and held it to his chest. “You’re a beautiful angel, come upon me jus’ as I was in despair.”
Well, that was ridiculous, and this conversation had gone on too long and begun to get awkward, but she gave him a smile anyway. “You take care now.”
He gave her a courtly bow. She snapped the reins, and Henrietta hopped into a trot.
Chapter Three
The hobo showed up the next morning, before the sun was full up.
Ada had just let the chickens into the yard and was tossing their feed when she saw him clear the dogwoods that framed the gate. He’d been right; it had rained most of the night, a soft, soaking rain that had left the world smelling fresh and new, and the first rays of sun on what promised to be a clear day turned the wet leaves and grass to diamonds.
He saw her and stopped, then pulled his hat off his head and waited for a sign from her.
She dumped out her apron and brushed the seed dust from her hand.
“Mornin’, ma’am,” he said as she took her first steps to him.
“Mornin’. Did you find a safe place to sleep?”
“Yes’m, I did. You was right. The Conners shared they supper and give a blanket for the night, and they loft was soft and dry. Thank you much.”
The hobo symbols etched outside the Conners’ gate would have told him as much as Ada had, but she accepted his thanks with a nod.
“Ye said there might be work here?”
She considered him now, in the clearer light of a new morning. He was polite, and spoke softly. He’d obviously been on the road a long time; his pants and canvas coat were heavily patched and needed more, and his boots were cracked and curled across the toe bend. His body was tall and skinny, his clothes hanging on his shoulders. His skin was the ruddy, roasted color that came with too much time spent in the elements. His hair was dark, short, and fairly well-kept. He was creased and leathered, ancient but somehow not old. His age might have been anywhere from thirty-five to seventy-five.
He was a hobo.
But was he a good man?
After Ada had breakfast made for her parents, she’d saddle Henrietta and head back to Callwood to finish the paperwork for her new job and get the information for her route. She’d be gone the better part of the day. Her father wasn’t an invalid, but he wasn’t strong anymore. He could use help finishing the work to end the season.
They’d helped men like this before; there were marks on their posts, too, made by men who’d passed through. Those marks said that a meal and work might be found here, and that the people who lived here were kind.
But since her father had hurt his back, Ada had never left her parents with a stranger on the property. She couldn’t stay home today, and she wouldn’t be home much in the future. Could she welcome a stranger and then go?
She and her parents had talked long into the night about their worries for her with this new job, and her worries for them. Both planks of worry leaned on the same thing: how much time Ada would be away. Her father thought her worry was silly, because he didn’t yet see how much he could no longer do. He was much more concerned about her traveling into the mountains alone, up into the hollers where people were suspicious and aggressive in defense of what little they had.
But twenty-eight dollars a month was twenty-eight dollars a month, and no amount of worry could overbalance that need.
Deciding to let her father make the final call, Ada told the man, “I’m about to make breakfast. You can join us, and meet my father. If he’s got work for you, he’ll say. Not for pay, there’s no money, but for food. Maybe another night’s rest, but our loft’s not as good as the Conners’.”
The man smiled. “That’s real kindly, thank you.” He held out his hand. “Name’s Joel Abernathy.”
Ada shook with him; his hand was cold and hard, like quartz. “Pleasure. I’m Ada. My people are the McDaniels.” She held back her own last name. She’d heard stories; a widow was more vulnerable to strange men with bad intent. They saw widows as easier targets—already experienced, no longer pure. Nothing to ‘ruin,’ so free for the taking.
This man hadn’t yet given her cause for suspicion, and in fact had been downright gentlemanly, but Ada valued caution. Better he think her unmarried and untouched. And protected by her father.
As they walked toward the house, Mr. Abernathy said, “If you don’t mind me sayin’, Miss Ada, you’ve got a real pretty way of talkin’. You got schoolin’?”
“I’m a schoolteacher,” she answered. “And a librarian.”
“I’ll be. Well, that’s real impressive. I didn’t much go to school, but I liked it when I did.”
Mr. Abernathy was still there when Ada returned from Callwood that afternoon. The trip on horseback took not much more than half the time she’d spent driving the wagon the day before. She returned with her deep saddlebags full of books and magazines, and the ledger she’d use to log the borrows and returns, and the progress and key details of her route.
Not since George had been alive had Ada felt such a pure flush of hope for her life. This was good work. She would be able to use her skills and education. She’d be out in the world a bit, with long spells alone to think. And s
he’d be doing something helpful for her people in these hard times.
The afternoon was bright, though a brisk, winter-leaning wind had picked up and made the trees shake as if impatient to rid themselves of their still-soft cladding of leaves.
Mr. Abernathy was with Ada’s father, patching the fence along the near side of the pasture. It looked like their helper had hewn new posts to replace those that had gone soft with age. This was the work she’d hoped he’d help with. They both turned and smiled as she clopped down the drive.
Sending them a wave, Ada rode to the barn to unsaddle Henrietta, brush her down, and give her the rest of the afternoon off. Starting tomorrow, Henrietta was going to be working hard almost every day.
She fixed supper for four that evening; her father had offered to let Mr. Abernathy sleep on the floor in their sitting room that night, since he’d helped all through the day. Ada felt a little uncomfortable about that. It was one thing to offer a meal or two for work, and if they’d had a decent place in the barn for a human being to sleep, she wouldn’t have hesitated to offer that, but sleeping in their own house with a stranger under their roof, that didn’t sit quite right with her.
But her father had offered without reservation, and Mr. Abernathy had shown them nothing but gratitude and respect. He said he wanted to be off with the first light because he had to get to Knoxville before the cold set in, and that was long miles of hard walking. That he’d be leaving at the same time she did in the morning settled her worries some.
After supper, he sat in the sitting room with her parents and listened to the radio. Ada cleaned up the kitchen and then sat at the table with the contents of her saddlebags, contemplating the map of her route and parsing out how long her trip would be each day. The route was laid out so that she’d travel fewer miles when she had more places to stop, and travel farther when the homesteads got more distant from each other. The last days of the first week, she’d go deep into the mountains, into the little nooks where the people hardly ever saw anybody but their own. Those days, the riding would be harder, and the chance she might get shot by a suspicious homesteader would be greater.
Her father had insisted she take a rifle with her, for bears and panthers and suspicious homesteaders.
The first day would take her up to Bull Holler, where she’d taught. She knew everyone in that area pretty well, and didn’t expect trouble. One of her stops would be the schoolhouse that had once been hers.
“What’s all that?”
Ada turned at Mr. Abernathy’s voice. “Is the program over?”
“Yes ma’am. Your daddy’s helpin’ your momma to bed. She gets around pretty good for bein’ blind.”
“She’s lived in this house a long time, and we make sure never to change anything. She knows where things are.”
“You got a real nice family, Miss Ada.”
“Thank you.” She felt intruded upon. As cordial and helpful as this man had been, Ada couldn’t seem to let go of her suspicion of him. It was unchristian of her, certainly. A man down on his luck was not a bad man, and he’d been nothing but kind. She and her parents were hardly a step above him in circumstances. And yet, she felt a dull beat of tension around him.
“What’s all that you got there?” he asked again.
“I’m a librarian. A pack horse librarian. It’s a program to bring reading materials to people up the mountain, who don’t have access to books on their own. I’m just preparing for tomorrow.”
“That’s a real nice thing.” Standing at her side, he picked up a book from a stack and opened it: Treasure Island. “This one’s got pictures!”
It had woodcuts at the beginning of each chapter, showing a key moment from that chapter. “Yes.” She felt uncomfortable with him so close, looming over her like he was, so she slid from the chair and stood as well. “I need to pack everything back up and turn in for the night. Do you need anything before I do?”
He gave her a long look, then closed the book and set it neatly back in place. “I’m sorry, Miss Ada. I don’t mean to make you scared. I’s jus’ curious.”
Hating herself a little for her prejudices, Ada gave him a smile. “You don’t make me afraid, Mr. Abernathy. You’ve been very kind, and the work you did for my father helped him very much. I’m grateful.”
“I had a job once. I had a woman, and a nice-enough little house, and a reg’lar life. Then the world went pell-mell, and I lost it all. Had a couple bad years after that where maybe I wasn’t such a good man. But Jesus came lookin’ for me and showed me what’s what. Now I’m jus’ tryin’ to get by until the world rights itself again. Y’understand? I don’t mean nobody no harm. Jus’ tryin’ to make it through one day to the next.”
“I understand. I hope you find what you need in Knoxville.” She hadn’t asked what Knoxville might offer, and she didn’t mean to. Once he left the farm, his business was not hers.
His mouth stretched in a weary grin. “Thank you. It’s prob’ly nothin’, but a little hope never hurt nobody, y’know? At least it gives me a place to walk to.”
When Ada woke the next morning, Mr. Abernathy was gone. The bedding they’d given him for the night was folded neatly and stacked on the seat of her father’s chair. He hadn’t even waited to get a good breakfast in him first. But two of the rolls left from last night’s meal were gone from the covered basket on the table.
She stood before the window and looked out across the foggy morning. In her own discomfort, she’d made him feel unwelcome. He’d worked hard for her father all day, asking only for compassion and shelter in return, and she’d been suspicious. And with no cause—not only had he been respectful and cordial all day, but none of the men they’d offered assistance to over these past few years had treated them with anything but gratitude. She’d heard stories of bad men taking advantage, but they’d been only that: stories. She couldn’t account for her discomfort. Maybe it was simply that she’d be away from home so much now, with her new job, and worried for her parents while she was away.
With a sigh, Ada sent out a little prayer that Mr. Joel Abernathy might find what he sought in Knoxville. Then she turned her mind to her own business.
Riding in the mountains had been one of Ada’s favorite things to do from the moment her father had lifted her onto a saddle. Though she’d never been out of Kentucky, or any farther from home than Lexington, she’d seen pictures of places around the world—Asia, and Europe, and South America. Africa and India. Deserts and oceans. They all had their beauty, too, some of it mysterious and alien. But she’d never seen anything prettier than her very own Eastern Kentucky world.
Yes, life was hard here. Most people barely kept themselves sheltered and fed, and dying hungry was an ugly way to go. But, just as He’d done when He’d sent a rainbow to Noah, God had given the people of Appalachia all the natural beauty He could muster to remind them that He was good and full of love for them.
As she rode up on this first morning of her new job and all the hope it brought her and her parents, Ada pushed back her work hat and breathed deep of fresh mountain air, crisp with autumn chill. Sun had burned away the fog and left a sparkling bright promise of a day. The turning of the leaves had finally taken, and a new wash of warm colors surrounded her.
She’d dressed in a few layers—wide-leg denim pants, work boots, one of her father’s heavy undershirts, a cotton blouse, and a canvas jacket—to account for the brisk morning and a day that looked to warm well, even as she climbed high. Her farthest reach today would be twelve miles up from home, with a return that would bring her and Henrietta back to the barn at dusk, maybe a bit later. There could be a swing in temperature of thirty degrees or more on her route, from dawn to dusk, from the foothills to the hollers.
Her saddlebags were full of her library supplies. She had a lunch pail and canteen tied to her saddle, and one of her father’s hunting rifles, in the event of a bear or cat. She’d also tied up a bedroll, just in case trouble befell her and she couldn’t get home or f
ind better shelter before nightfall.
An hour after she left home, she made her first stop—a rambling, ramshackle cabin at the edge of Bull Holler. A skinny dog stood on the warped porch and snarled and barked at her, his jowls flinging slobber, but he didn’t come down. He was waiting for an attack order.
She knew the family who lived here, the Devlins—she’d taught their oldest children when she’d had her own school post. Remembering Mr. Devlin’s hostility to strangers, as evidenced by his furious guard dog, Ada stayed mounted and called out “Mr. Devlin? Mrs. Devlin? Hello?”
A tattered curtain moved in a window. Ada smiled at it, hoping she’d be recognized and thought a friend. “Hello!”
The plank door creaked open, and she saw the muzzle of a rifle first. Ada held still and didn’t react. She understood mountain people. They didn’t want intruders, and some of them didn’t even want company at all, but most wouldn’t shoot unless truly provoked. They weren’t animals. They were simply isolated people living hard lives.
Mr. Devlin followed that muzzle out and squinted at her. “State yer business.”
“Mr. Devlin, hello! It’s Ada ... McDaniel.” She used her maiden name, the one she’d had when she was a teacher, but it hurt to cleave George’s name from her. “Remember me? I used to teach at the school.”
“I remember you. What you want?”
“I’m working with a new program, bringing books and other reading materials up the mountain. I’ve got all kinds of things to read, I can leave a few and then I’ll come ‘round in two weeks and let you trade them out for something different.”
“Like one o’ them liberries?”
“That’s right, sir. Just like. A library on horseback, and I’m a librarian, bringing it to you.”
“You know ain’t me or Jezzie c’n read. The little ‘uns get they schoolin’ at the school. What we need books for here?”
Carry the World Page 4