by Jan Watson
Cara felt like crying for herself as well as Miz Copper. She felt like crying for all the pain in the world. Instead she changed the subject. “Where’s your little brother today?”
Lilly snapped her locket closed. “Oh, he’s home with Miss Remy.” She sidled closer to Cara. “Do you want to know a secret?”
“I purely love a good secret,” Cara replied.
Lilly Gray cupped her hand around Cara’s ear and whispered, “We’re going to have another baby.”
Mr. John appeared in the doorway. “Hey, girls, we’d best get started if you want to call on Fairy Mae.”
Lilly skipped out to meet her daddy. “Can I hold the reins this time?”
“Sure as shootin’,” Mr. John said. “We’ll wait in the buggy, Copper.”
Miz Copper drained her tea, then pushed her chair back and withdrew a leather sack from her skirt pocket. “Ace was good enough to come by and tell John how much Dimm’s fine is, Cara.”
“I’ll pay you back every cent,” Cara said, embarrassed but grateful.
“No need,” Miz Copper said while tying her bonnet strings under her chin. “John said he owed that to Dimm for helping clear land last fall. Count it out before you pay the fine. I believe there’s enough extra to tide you over.” She hugged Cara hard. “I’m praying for Dimm and for you, dear heart.”
“Thank you,” Cara said, her voice husky with unshed tears. “I’m real happy about your new baby.”
Miz Copper patted her still-flat stomach and laughed. “I expect little John William will be right peeved when this one comes. He’s used to being the center of attention.”
“Good thing you’ve got Remy Riddle to help out,” Cara said.
“My goodness, yes. She has been an answer to prayer.” She held Cara’s face between her hands. “Now you take care of yourself.”
“You too,” Cara said, holding the screen door wide. “You take care of yourself too.”
Now Cara pounded her pillow and laid her head in the indentation. She was trying to be strong since that visit. She was trying to follow Miz Copper’s model; she really was. Daytime wasn’t so bad, but nights were pure torture.
Her mind stirred up again, dragging out worn trunks of worry like a widow in an attic of memory. She threw the covers aside, her feet hitting the floor. Where had she hidden that money last? First she’d put it in the sugar bowl; it was empty anyway. But that seemed too obvious, so she’d moved it to the top of the corner cupboard. When that didn’t satisfy, she pried up the end of a loose floorboard in front of the fireplace and stuck it down there. But what if a mouse took a liking to that little leather sack? Silvery moonlight spilled in through a high window and lit that place in the floor like a spotlight. If a robber came in, he’d make a beeline there.
“Ouch!” Cara sucked her palm. Why hadn’t she noticed that nail in the floorboard before? Now she’d more than likely get lockjaw from the rust. She’d be all alone, jaw tight as the lid on a pickle jar, unable to take in a teaspoon of water to slack her raging fever. Just the thought made her thirsty. Might as well draw some fresh water. But what to do with the poke of cash money? For now she’d stick it in her pillow slip. It’d be safe there unless the robber was sleepy.
The mantel clock chimed twelve thirty. At this rate she’d still be awake when Ace came for her in the morning. He was carrying her to the county seat. Dimmert had finally been granted visitors. Cara was beginning to think she would never see him again. It would be the first time she’d visited a person in jail. She wondered how it would be to have bars between her and Dimm. Would she get to touch him? run her hand over his dear face? Probably not. There were surely lots of rules to follow at the lockup. She didn’t want to break a one.
New green grass tickled her feet as she walked barefoot to the well. She relished the mild spring night. The lamb had finally banished the lion. Hand over hand, Cara pulled the wooden bucket up the pitch-dark shaft until she placed it teetering on the rock ledge. Holding the bucket steady, she dipped palmful after palmful of cold water to her lips until she’d had her fill.
Weariness seeped into her long bones with a dull ache and made the thin bones of her fingers and toes twang like fiddle strings. But still her bed did not call. She gathered her gown around her, sat on the single step to the well house, and leaned her head against the doorframe. Sleep found her there, deep and dreamless as the well. She didn’t wake until the rooster crowed.
“Did ye bring me some shoes?” Cara asked later that morning when Ace rolled up in the buggy.
“Dance sent her extra pair,” he said.
“Thank ye. These are sure nice.” Cara was so thankful. The soles of her shoes had separated and flapped like an old man’s gums when she walked about. Looking the many-buttoned boots over, she asked, “Do ye reckon I’ve got time to throw a little polish on these?”
“Don’t take long at it. Dimmert’s lawyer’s supposed to meet us at the jailhouse.”
Cara hurried inside and rummaged around for the tin of black polish and a rag. In seconds the shoes had sheen on the toes. It was a little more effort to get them on. Her hose kept bunching up at the heels and pulling at the toes. The boots were at least half an inch too short. Dance was about her size except for her feet. Frustrated, Cara tore off her stockings and flung them aside. She’d have to chance a blister. Try as she might with the button hook, Cara couldn’t get the ones around her ankles to fasten. She shrugged and gave up. What did it matter as long as she was shod to go to town? Her skirts would hide her ankles anyway. After pulling her go-to-town gloves from the bottom drawer of the chiffonier, she was ready.
The buggy jounced along, tilting to the driver’s side on the narrow roadbed. Cara kept sliding into Ace.
“Did Miz Pelfrey bring you the money?” he asked.
“I’ve got it right here,” she replied, patting the bottom of her linen carryall. Carefully, she’d counted out the fine this morning, put the leftover folding money in a small drawstring purse, and pinned it inside the carryall. “Do you reckon they’ll let Dimm out today?”
“I don’t hardly see why not. That lawyer said all we need to do is pay the fine.” Ace looked like a lawyer himself in his shiny black suit. “After all, it was his own mule he stole.”
“Dimmert’s a fool about his animals,” Cara said.
“That fellow who accused Dimm would steal the dimes off a dead man’s eyes,” Ace said. “I would have done the same thing Dimmert did.”
Cara clung to the side of the buggy. Her teeth rattled when they hit a deep hole. “He could have gone about it in a different way, though.”
“That’s water under the bridge now.”
Tears under the bridge, Cara thought. Enough tears to make a river.
The jailhouse was situated on a side street, right beside the sheriff’s office. Ace held the door as Cara entered a room furnished with a rolltop desk, a straight chair, and a coatrack. A man with a star on his chest that proclaimed Deputy sat slouched in the chair. One hand rested on his holstered gun. With a brown hat set low over his eyes, he seemed to be sleeping.
Ace caught Cara’s elbow and ushered her back outside. He closed the door softly. “We don’t want to catch him unawares,” Ace said, then made a show of loud talk and letting the door bang shut before he got it open.
“Help you folks?” the deputy asked, sitting ramrod straight and taking off his hat.
Ace stepped forward. “We’re here to see Dimmert Whitt. This here’s his wife, and I’m his preacher.”
“Visits on Saturday mornings only,” the deputy said.
Cara couldn’t hide her dismay—to be so close and not see Dimm. She covered her mouth with her gloved hand as tears pooled in her eyes.
The deputy jangled a large brass ring holding many keys. “I reckon it won’t hurt to make an exception.” He stood and looked kindly at Cara. “Now if we was full, I’d have to turn you away, you understand.”
“Yes, sir,” Ace replied, his hat in his hands.
“Thank ye, sir,” Cara said.
“Turn your pockets inside out,” the deputy instructed, “and, ma’am, you can hang your sack on the coatrack there.”
A key turned in a large black lock and a door swung open. “There’s only the two cells,” the deputy said. “Whitt’s in the last one.”
Cara felt her heart break at the pitiful sight of Dimm clutching a set of steel bars as if he’d fall to the floor without their support. She stood back a ways, not sure how close she was allowed to be.
Ace pressed his hand to the middle of her back, urging her forward. With a nod he indicated the deputy standing with his back to them in the open doorway. “Take advantage of small favors,” Ace whispered in her ear.
She leaned toward Dimmert and kissed his cheek through the open bars. “Dimmert, are they treating you well?”
“It’s tolerable,” he answered.
“Ace brought me to see your lawyer,” Cara said. “We aim to get you out of here.”
Dimm eyed his brother-in-law. “You plan on preaching a sermon whilst you’ve got a captive audience?”
“Figured looking as good as a lawyer wouldn’t hurt your case none,” Ace said.
The two men bantered while Cara looked around. The cell was small, probably twelve by twelve, with walls of mortared stone. It had four bunks hooked to the walls by chains and one open but barred window which Dimm could see out of if he stood on tiptoe. That window gave her great comfort.
There was one other man in the cell rolled up in a khaki-colored Army blanket on one of the lower bunks.
Dimmert saw her looking. “That there’s Big Boy Randall,” he said.
“You’re joshing.” Ace stepped in for a closer look.
“One and the same,” Dimm said.
Cara was aggravated with them—acting like it was a source of pride to be locked up with such a notorious figure as Big Boy Randall.
As if he read her thoughts, Big Boy Randall opened one eye and touched the tips of two fingers to the side of his forehead, saluting her with the small gesture.
Her heart hammered with a trill of fear. Ace and Dimm were still jawing and didn’t take notice. She swallowed and turned away from Big Boy’s staring eye.
“Henry Thomas was supposed to meet us here,” Ace said.
“I ain’t seen him but once the whole time I been in this hoosegow,” Dimmert replied.
“We’ll go down to the office then,” Ace said. “I’ll be just outside, Cara.”
Dimmert fixed her with a look of such longing she thought she couldn’t stand it. “Cara-mine,” he said, “do you miss me still?”
“Only every second of every hour of every day.” She would have kissed his cheek again except for Big Boy Randall’s presence on the bunk behind.
“It’s time, missus,” the jailer said.
“We’ll be back for you, Dimmert,” Cara promised.
CHAPTER 2
CARA FELT RIGHT SILLY as she took the extra place setting from the table. She’d been so sure of bringing her husband home today that she’d set the table for supper right after breakfast. Now she stood in the middle of the empty room cradling the white ironstone plate against her hollow chest. The white china had been a gift from Miz Copper when she and Dimm married. So young, she thought, at eighteen we were sure we were all grown-up.
Cara went to the black-and-white calendar that hung on the back of the kitchen door. Avery’s Feed and Seed, it advertised. Turning the month from April to May, she studied the days. Dimmert had drawn a black circle around their special day—the mark signified their sixth anniversary. Cara traced it with her index finger. To think Dimmert had stood thus so circling the day with a pencil just weeks before as if they’d forget without a reminder. And now he was gone—penned up in the jailhouse like an animal.
Their wedding day had been full of regret. Cara supposed she and Dimm were marked for sorrow from the start. She remembered as if it were yesterday how beautiful she felt and how Dimmert stood so proudly beside her in his new overalls and his borrowed jacket. Her dress fit just so, and her short veil fell softly around her shoulders. Even her contrary hair, brown and fine as a baby’s, obeyed for the day. It was supposed to be a double wedding—she and Dimm alongside Miz Copper and Mr. John. But there’d been that terrible accident with Miz Copper’s friend Remy Riddle, casting a long shadow upon the sunny day.
Cara smiled to remember Miz Copper insisting that their wedding go on as planned, though Cara protested. Miz Copper and Mr. John had waited so long, and then to have their plans cast aside . . . Cara sighed. She still felt the injustice of it all. Not that she and Dimm weren’t happy that day—oh, they were—but it was a sorrowful happy.
Things had worked out in the long run, though. Once Remy recovered from the accident that nearly took her life, Miz Copper and Mr. John had married and moved into a fine new house. Miz Copper said they were building an extra room off the back since another baby was on the way.
Cara missed Miz Copper and Lilly Gray, who was a big girl now. Cara would sure feel better if Miz Copper were at home, but she was away visiting her folks in Philadelphia. Mr. John and Miz Copper and their children had left soon after their visit to Cara. She supposed they wanted to travel before Miz Copper got too far along.
Letting the calendar page fall back to the proper month, Cara walked to the table. After wiping the plate with her apron, she put it back upon the shelf, on the stack with the other plates—twelve in all, with matching saucers, cups, and bowls. She reckoned Miz Copper thought Cara and Dimm’s table would soon be full. That proved false hope.
The old nagging hurt welled up. Maybe she’d stay in the little pantry, closed up behind the curtain she’d made from printed cotton and hung on a length of heavy twine. On a better day, Dimm had pounded a nail at each side of the open doorway and watched while she strung the curtain panel on the twine, then wound and knotted it around the nails. He’d laughed to see how the curtain puddled on the floor. She’d been aggravated at how she’d misjudged the hem. “I’ll have to do it all over again,” she said.
But Dimm jerked the nails out of the wood with his claw hammer and pounded them in higher up. He never even unwound the twine or took the curtain panel off. And when he finished, it hung just so. She’d rewarded him with a fiery kiss. Now her lips were lonesome—missing him.
The next morning, after Cara washed up her cup and bowl, she looked aimlessly about the kitchen. What would she do with her day? Maybe she’d walk to Dance’s, visit with her and the children. Cara’s face brightened with purpose. Leaving her apron on, she headed out the door only to scoot back in to retrieve the borrowed shoes. She thanked those shoes for three blisters.
It was a pleasant two-mile hike to Dance’s. Way different from when she and Dimm had first settled so close to the Sheltons. It had taken most of their spare time that summer for Dimm and Ace to clear a decent path between the two cabins. Now Dimm kept it passable by running the heavy drag over it on occasion. Who’d keep the weeds down for her now?
She couldn’t help but dwell on seeing Dimm in that awful cell. Her mind went round and round. Why didn’t that lawyer fellow get him out, and why wasn’t he in his office like he’d told Ace he would be? She and Ace had found a cardboard sign in his office window that read, “Be back in the office Tuesday next. Sorry for the inconvenience.”
A right smart inconvenience, Cara thought as she walked along, plucking leaves from low hanging branches and shredding them with her anxious fingers. They’d had to go back to the jail and beg the sheriff to let them tell Dimm. Cara could see by the deputy’s warm brown eyes he would have let her go back again, but the sheriff said, “Saturdays for visitors.” He had to uphold the rules, she reckoned. He sent them outside, around back of the jail, to stand under the window and wait for Dimm’s head to appear.
Ace told Dimm the news while Cara swallowed tears.
“Don’t worry none,” Dimm called after them when they walked away. Then he holler
ed, “Cara,” when they got to the corner of the building. She didn’t want to look back, afraid she’d lose all composure, but of course she turned around. “Cara-mine,” she heard but only saw his fingers wagging out the narrow bars.
Now her mind conjured up the things that could happen to Dimm left alone with Big Boy Randall. Big Boy’d probably eat up all his plate and Dimm’s too. How long did it take for a body to starve to death? She counted Dimm’s ribs in her mind.
Just ahead bluebirds flushed up from the low branch of a budding apple tree. She counted two bright blue males with rusty chests and one washed-out female. Her daddy always said bluebirds carried the hue of heaven on their backs. Her mama said bluebirds brought happiness. Cara listened to their soft warbles as they flitted off. Maybe God was sending her a sign—maybe Dimm would get to come home the next time she and Ace went to town.
At least try to think positive, she chided herself. But it was hard.
“Hello to the house!” Cara yelled as she approached the Sheltons’ yard, giving notice of her intrusion.
Jay ran across the porch floor, shouting, “Aunt Cara! Aunt Cara!” before he nearly bowled her over.
Cara returned his fierce hug. “What have you been up to, Jaybird?”
“I’m too old for Jaybird now,” the boy replied, all serious.
“Sorry. I forgot,” she teased. “How old is too old?”
“I’m six. Don’t you remember? Six going on seven.” He grabbed her arm and tugged her toward the house. “Did you bring me a riddle?”
“I did. Do you want it now?”
The boy stopped and looked up at her. “Yup, I think I do.”
“Can you fetch me a glass of water first? I’m parched from my walk.”
Jay ran ahead up the porch steps and to the weathered wash bench that looked out over the yard. Snatching up the water bucket, he stood on tiptoe to empty what was left into a granite pan before scampering away. “I’ll bring you fresh,” he shouted over his shoulder.