House of Purple Cedar

by Tim Tingle

  I still remember that prayer! We sat at the long wooden table behind the church. It was piled high with food. All that stood between our hungry stomachs and the best Choctaw food in the country was the blessing of the food.

  “Samuel, will you offer the blessing?” Reverend Willis said. Samuel dropped his head so sudden-like, I thought he’d bump it on the table. When he finally looked up, his eyes were swollen big and he clenched his jaw. I knew why. I knew what he wanted to say.

  No, Father, please do not make me do this! But he was too smart to say it. We all waited patiently. Samuel finally stood up and we bowed our heads. But we didn’t close our eyes. Nobody wanted to be the only one at the table, save of course the reverend, who couldn’t later describe what Samuel looked like at his first family prayer offering.

  Samuel stammered and stuttered and started off by God-blessing people at the table, like a go-to-bed prayer!

  “God bless Blue Ned, God bless Roberta Jean, God bless my mother and fa…” And that’s when he realized he was not giving his usual prayer at bedtime. And that is when I first loved Samuel in a grown-up way, for he did not apologize or sit down or make any excuses. Instead, he lifted his eyes and looked at all of us. He took a deep breath and nodded his head and started over.

  We were ashamed to be caught looking, so we closed our eyes and bowed our heads, the rightful way.

  “Dear Lord Jesus above,” Samuel said, “look down on us at this special gathering of the Willis and the Goode families. We have seen many things this past year. We have suffered the loss of New Hope Academy for Girls and we have buried Choctaw children. We grieve also for Pokoni and we pray now near her grave. We have known too much death.

  “But your will and your ways, though forever a mystery to us, we will never doubt. We trust in you. We come together now to share our happiness, not our grief. For all that you provide for us, we give our thanks. Please accept our blessing of this food as it goes into our bodies. May it make us stronger. May we do thy will, for always and forever. Amen.”

  No one said a word for the longest time. Samuel sat down and gathered himself in a hush. Reverend Willis waited. When Samuel finally lifted his eyes, the reverend nodded his head in approval.

  That night, when I brought Amafo his cocoa, he was sitting at the table by the window.

  “Sit right cheer, my girl. You not gonna be seeing your best little boyfriend, me, for several days, you know. Me and your Poppa going on a hunting trip. You gonna be hoke?”

  “I think so, Amafo,” I told him. I almost cried to see him happy.

  “Come here, girl,” he said. I leaned over to him and he held me close. “I guess we all gonna make it hoke, best I can see.” He sighed and I felt the hope wrestling with the sadness. “Go get yourself a cup and come back here with me, want to?”

  “I thought you would never ask me,” I teased him.

  “Well,” he said, “you being the prettiest girl and all, I didn’t even know you’d be interested.” I dashed down the steps and to the kitchen to put the water on to boil. My grandfather was coming back, I could feel it.

  When I returned to his room, Amafo pulled the chair out for me, in that funny way-too-formal way he had. Once he was settled in his own chair, he sipped his cocoa quiet for a few minutes. I just waited, like I had seen him do.

  “She was the sweetest woman that ever walked the earth,” he said. “And the strongest too.” He took another sip and almost laughed. “Lord knows, she was strong.”

  For the first time I knew about since the funeral, Amafo was talking about Pokoni. I listened to him for almost an hour, till Momma called from downstairs.

  “Let your Amafo get some sleep, now. Get on to your own room, let him be.” Amafo squeezed my hand and whispered, “Best do what Momma says.”

  I lay awake that night thinking about how happy Amafo and Pokoni were, how they touched each other when they thought nobody was looking. Just before I fell asleep, I realized something else. For the first time since the funeral, I was thinking about Pokoni without crying.

  Dark Resurrection

  Hardwicke in Texas

  Hardwicke turned south. He spent two days in the caves overlooking Wilburton, a small settlement where the law had little sway. Deemed Robber’s Cave, these mountainous hideouts were used by gangs who haunted the territory by night and day.

  He built no fire, ate dried meat, and drank the remains of his whiskey till night and day blended into a head-shaking fury at those who had wronged him so. He awoke from his stupor at noon on the third day. Hardwicke knew his options were simple. He could join a gang and always be the outsider, the man most likely to be gunned down when money was divvied up. Or he could make his way across the Red River and wait.

  Staying in the shadows and approaching every bend in the trail with caution, he eased his horse down the mountain path. A week after throwing the body of Bill Gibbons in front of an oncoming train, Marshal Robert Hardwicke of Spiro, Indian Territory, crossed the Red River and fled into Texas. He left behind his former life and disappeared into the wilds of the Big Thicket. For the first time in twenty years, he was a happy man.

  For several weeks he sought work, appearing at the front doors of struggling homesteaders. With a smile and a strong handshake, he introduced himself as Bill Gibbons. He offered himself as a worker needing only a place to sleep and three meals a day. He chopped wood, fed livestock, carried water, and repaired rotted roofs and broken-down barns, then said his goodbyes and moved on.

  And he waited.

  He soon found what he was looking for. He knew it the moment the old man opened the door.

  “Hello,” he said. “I don’t mean to be no bother. I’m just passing through. If you need a few days help around your place, I can give you good work. I don’t need money, just meals is all.”

  The old man’s face lit up. He grabbed Hardwicke and pulled him to his chest. “Tommy, I knew you would come home!” the man shouted. “I have missed you so bad. Come into this house!”

  Hardwicke lifted a forearm and blocked the old man’s embrace. An elderly woman appeared in the doorway. “Excuse my husband,” she said. “He doesn’t always get things right. He thinks you’re our son.”

  “Marty,” said the man, “look who’s here. Tommy come home. I been tellin’ you he was gonna. Oh mercy, son, we been missing you.”

  “That’s alright, ma’am,” said Hardwicke. “I’m just looking for a few days work is all. I’m Bill Gibbons, from over at Fort Smith. I’m on my way to San Antonio.”

  “Well, you have a long ride ahead of you. I’m Marty Jacobs and this is my husband George. Long as we can trust you, we could sure use the help.”

  “I won’t be no trouble, Miss Marty. All I needs is a place to sleep and meals. Maybe a day’s eatings when I take my leave. I’ll work hard long as you need me and be on my way.”

  “I’ll get your bedroom ready,” George said, entering the house. “Tommy,” he said over his shoulder, “you’ve made your old man proud! I knew you’d come home, I just knew it.”

  “You cain’t stay in the house, Mr. Gibbons.”

  “Call me Bill, please.”

  “Fine, Bill. And you can call me Marty. Make yourself a place for you and your horse in the barn out back. I’ll fix you some lunch and let you know when it’s ready. You’re welcome to eat on the back porch.”

  Hardwicke led his horse to the barn, tossed his blanket to the floor, and surveyed his temporary home. He found a tool chest and went right to work, repairing a broken-down stall. Soon Marty stepped from the back door, followed by a small fluffy-haired dog.

  “Come and git it!” she called out.

  Wish I had my dogs, thought Hardwicke. They would eat you alive and fight over the bones. “Who’s your little friend?” he said with a smile.

  “This is Bobby,” Marty said. “He likes people. We don’t get many visitors back in these woods, so you two will git along fine.”

  “I’m a dog-lover myself,” Har
dwicke said, kneeling down and rubbing Bobby behind the ears.

  “My, you come ready to work all right,” Marty said, seeing the stall.

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  Hardwicke spent the afternoon prying and ripping rotten boards from the barn walls. He spotted a rain puddle in a rear corner and by mid-afternoon he’d repaired the leaky roof. He ate his supper of biscuits and beans on the back porch steps. As he rose to go, the back door opened.

  “Tommy,” said the old man. “Your mother cain’t know about this, but I been saving something for you.”

  “What?”

  “Follow me. It’s hid out in a corner, back yonder in a stall.” He stumbled down the steps and walked limp-legged to the barn.

  “George!” Marty called out from the kitchen. “Where are you going? Leave him alone now.”

  “It’s okay, ma’am,” Hardwicke said. “He wants to show me around the barn. I’ll see he’s safe and help him back inside.”

  “Alright,” said Marty. “Just don’t be long or he’ll fall asleep on you.”

  George entered the barn and motioned for Hardwicke to follow.

  “Come on, Tommy!” he said. “I ain’t touched a drop since you been gone.” He knelt in a rear corner of the barn and started digging, tossing dirt and hay aside. “Lookie here,” he shouted, then cupped his hands over his mouth with a giggle. “Oh, I better be quiet. Momma cain’t know.”

  George lifted a short plank and held up a gallon jug. “Whiskey, Tommy! I know you like it.”

  Hardwicke’s eyes lit up and he fought the impulse to knock the old man to the ground.

  “Thank you, George,” he said, taking the jug and popping the cork.

  “You call me Dad. Like in the old days, Tommy.”

  “Yeaah. Thank you, Dad,” said Hardwicke. At least you’re good for something, he thought. He lifted the jug and took a long, slow swallow. As the first drops stung his tongue, Hardwicke stumbled backwards. His throat burned and his whole body shivered.

  “Old man, I been needing that.”

  “George!” Marty called from the back porch.

  “You best be going. Dad. You gonna tell Momma ‘bout the whiskey?”

  “Oh no, Tommy, that’s me and you’s secret.”

  Hardwicke helped George to the house, where Marty stood in the back door waiting. “Did he cause you any trouble?” she asked. “You know he don’t think right, like I told you.”

  “No, me and him just looked around the barn is all.”

  Hardwicke spent the remainder of the evening sipping whiskey and remembering his hideaway back home. “Wonder what the old lady is doing tonight? Bet she’s cleaning house of me. Probly building a fire and burning my clothes, anything reminds her of me. Her husband. Won’t be long before she’s whoring around looking for a man.”

  His eyes took on a dark glare and he saw her cringing before him. He clenched his fist and swung it hard against the wall of the barn.

  “I’ll get you for that,” he said. “You ain’t free of me yet. Oh no. I’ll pay you one last visit, and when I do you’ll be wishing you were dead.” He curled up on the dirt floor and fell into a dream-filled sleep.

  Hardwicke stood over the fire staring at the wrinkled flesh of Bill Gibbons. The embers popped and the skin fell away. Ona Mae stared back at him. She met his gaze with a strong, defiant look. He gripped the neck of his old whiskey bottle and smashed her face. Her eyes burst into flames and fire shot from her mouth. He stomped it, again and again, till she cowered in the kitchen and he stood over her, yanking her hair and flailing his fist against her cheek.

  The next morning he was jolted awake by a loud knocking.

  “Bill, you up in there!” Marty hollered.

  “Yes, ma’am. I’ll be right out.”

  “Your breakfast is waiting on the porch. Get on up and we can talk about the day’s work.”

  Hardwicke froze. He had taken orders for months now, but these orders came from men. He had never in his life done the bidding of a woman. He felt a twitching in his face and he gritted his teeth.

  “You’ll be sorry you ever talked to me like that,” he whispered to himself. “You don’t know who you’re taking to. But you will. Oh yeah. Be too late to do anything about it, but you gonna regret the day I come into your life. You and that worthless old man, you both be sorry.”

  The barn door opened and Bobby leapt through, barking and yelping. Hardwicke picked him up by the collar and gave him a hard squeeze. When he dropped him to the floor, Bobby rolled over and ran from the barn.

  His plate of beans and bread sat on the top step. Hardwicke had no appetite, but his throat burned with thirst. He downed his coffee in two quick gulps and slammed the cup to the porch.

  “You sleep good?” Marty asked, standing over him.

  “Fine,” said Hardwicke without looking up. She noted his rudeness, then decided not to say what was on her mind.

  “Good. We got plenty of work needs doing, if you’re still up to it.”

  Hardwicke said nothing.

  “You can start with the garden,” she said. “We got tomatoes, some corn and squash, but they gitting eat up by every hungry critter in the thicket. Don’t spend too much time with the grass and weeds. Just clean out the brush soes we can get to the food crops. Keep your gun handy and see if you can kill a coyote. Maybe seeing one of their own hanging dead’ll send ’em somewhere else. That sound good for the first day’s work, starting out easy?”

  “Good enough, if that’s what you want,” Hardwicke replied.

  The next few days followed the same pattern––a night of whiskey and dreams and a day of sweaty digging, cutting, and chopping. Two milk cows had settled in the far corner of the garden, and Hardwicke built a small milking stall in the barn. He found an old crate and fashioned a stool. By the third day he presented Marty with a pail of milk when she called him to breakfast. He had a plan now and gaining Marty’s trust was part of it.

  Every night George joined him in the barn. “Momma won’t know, Dad. Here, have a glass of whiskey,” he said one night, handing the old man a cup of milk.

  “Ummm,” said George. “That’s durn good whiskey.”

  “Yeah,” said Hardwicke, sipping from the jug. So every night George had his glass of milk and Hardwicke his whiskey.

  And every night he dreamed. Night after night he watched Ona Mae burn. But his thoughts by day took on a different hue. He knew she had lady friends, and lady friends have husbands willing to help a widow make her place in the world. Soon his dreams changed as well. Ona Mae no longer cringed. With every passing night she grew stronger, almost daring him to hit her. The fear had left her eyes.

  Hardwick felt his time in Texas drawing to a close.

  “Old man,” he said between whiskey gulps one evening, “Momma told me you had something in the house, something real nice you wanted to give to me.”

  George wrinkled his brow for a long while and Hardwicke waited.

  “Yes, Tommy. I do. A special gift for our boy. Momma made me promise not to be giving stuff away so you cain’t let her know.”

  “I always been good at keeping secrets, you know that.”

  “Yes, Tommy. You always was my favorite little boy. Momma’s going to town soon. We can get your special gift then. That be alright?”

  “Anytime you like, be fine with me.” Hardwicke worked later than usual that day. His supper was cold by the time he ambled to the back porch. Marty was watching through the kitchen window and met him on the steps.

  “Bill,” she began, “I’ll be headed to town before sunrise tomorrow. Maybe you can stay close to the house and keep an eye on George for me. No telling what he’s likely to do if he’s left by hisself.”

  “I’ll keep a good eye on him,” Hardwicke said. He spent the evening packing his horse and readying for the long ride home. He was tempted to empty the whiskey jug, but knew he needed to be wide-awake and alert in the morning. He took two long sips and wrapped the jug in a
blanket. Be nice to have some whiskey for the trip, he thought.

  An hour before sunrise Marty knocked on the door. “You up yet, Bill? I’ll be leaving soon.”

  Hardwicke opened the door, dressed and ready for the day.

  “Oh, yes, ma’am,” he said. “I’ve got plenty of work to do in the garden. I can keep a good eye on George from there.”

  “Good. I’ll be home early evening. George is sitting on the porch, guarding over your breakfast. He’s all excited about spending the day with you. He still calls you Tommy. Hope that don’t bother you.”

  “No, ma’am, he means well. Don’t bother me at all.”

  “All right then. When you get hungry later, go on in the kitchen and fix you two some lunch.” Marty turned to go. While George and Hardwicke huddled over plates of beans and biscuits, she climbed aboard the wagon, snapped the reins, and left for the two-hour trip to town.

  They ate without speaking, but after every bite George glanced at Hardwicke and rocked back and forth, grinning a secret he couldn’t wait to tell his son. He downed his last drop of coffee and slapped his thighs.

  “Tommy, you ready for that special gift I been waiting to give you?”

  “I sure am. Any time you ready.”

  “Wait right here,” George said, entering the house. Hardwicke followed him through the kitchen and into the bedroom.

  “Your momma’s been keeping it hid. She thinks I don’t know where it is.” George reached under the bed and dragged out a foot-long pine box. He took a deep breath and turned to Hardwicke.

  “Tommy, what’s in this box goes way back. It belonged to my grandparents and your momma’s grandparents. Some of this jewelry come over the ocean from England. Some of it from back East.”

  He opened the lid and Hardwicke knew he could live for years on the gold and sparkling stones that shone back at him.