House of Purple Cedar

by Tim Tingle

  “I want you to pick one for yourself,” George said. “She won’t miss it. And if she does, I’ll tell her it was my gift to you.”

  Hardwicke weighed his options. If Marty returned and found the old man dead and the box gone, she’d send the law after him and he could be facing a hanging. As he gazed at the stones, a soft breeze parted the curtains and the morning sun peeked through. A reddish-yellow light sparkled from the chest and Hardwicke smiled.

  Nothing like a fire to send a message, he thought.

  “Go ahead, son. Don’t be bashful,” said George.

  Hardwicke picked out a gold watch chain and held it dangling. “This be alright?” he asked. “I don’t want anything too costly.”

  “Oh, son, I am so proud of you. You picked a good one. That chain belonged to my father.” He flung his arms around Hardwicke and pulled him into a tight hug.

  Hardwicke gave himself to the old man’s embrace. No one had ever held him like this, not in this father-son way. For the briefest of moments he felt the warmth of the old man, felt sorrow at the slipping away of a good man’s life.

  “I ain’t gonna hurt you, old man,” he whispered, his head still buried in George’s shoulder. “But that wife of yours, she not getting away with it, treating me like her hired hand.”

  “I always knew you’d come home, Tommy. I’m so proud knowing you gonna be carrying my father’s watch chain.” With a final pat on the back, George released Hardwicke. “I’ll keep this a secret from your mother,” he said, returning the box to its hiding place under the bed.

  “I better get some work done,” said Hardwicke. “You wanna help me?”

  “I’ll be glad to, son.”

  “I been chopping weeds and brush from the garden for several days now,” Hardwicke said. “How’s about we have ourselves a brush fire and get that garden ready for planting? What do you say, old man?”

  “Sounds like a good idea to me.”

  Hardwicke found a wheelbarrow in the barn and tossed George a rake, saying, “You rake and I’ll haul.” An hour later they’d staked a pile of broken branches and dried grass against the barn, as big as a dozen hay bales.

  “Let’s take a break,” said Hardwicke. He rolled a log facing the brush pile and slapped the sweat from his hat. “Have a seat.”

  With George settled by his side, Hardwicke continued. “You ’member when you used to take me hunting, back when I was a kid?”

  “I sure do. The woods were fulla any kinda meat you wanted back in those days. We killed wolves, wildcats, even a bear that one time.”

  “And ’member how we sat around the campfire at night?”

  “Yes, Tommy. That’s when you had your first taste of whiskey. Your Uncle Edgar brought the jug and I let you have a sip.”

  “Dad, why don’t you get us a fire going? You got any matches?”

  “Sure do, son. I’ll be right back,” George said. He returned with two cups of water and a pocketful of matches. “Have a drink, Tommy. It’s good creek water.”

  “Thank you,” he said, tossing down the water with a single gulp. “Dad, why don’t you start the fire, like in the old days?”

  “I’ll be glad to, son. Before long your old man is gonna be his old self again.” George stacked a handful of dried leaves around the edge of the brush pile and struck a match. He held it over the leaves till they burst into flames.

  “Never waste a match, my father always told me,” he said, backing away as the branches caught fire and the flames rose with a crackling pop.

  “You stay here and watch the fire. I’m gonna get Bobby. He likes fires, don’t he?”

  “Oh yes. He always sleeps next to the fireplace.”

  Hardwicke found Bobby asleep in the living room. He carried him inside the barn and tied his leash to the rear stall.

  “I wish I was here to watch Momma find you,” he said, spitting and kicking sawdust in Bobby’s face. “Better yet, I wish I could stay and give her the beating she needs––her thinking she can tell me what to do.”

  With the smell of burning pine, Hardwicke felt a pounding in his chest. He exited the barn and found George rocking back and forth and saying in a whispering voice, “Momma’s gonna be mad,” over and over.

  “Oh no, Momma’s gonna be glad to see this rotten barn gone. I’m here to build us a new barn. You can tell her. I’ll go get the lumber and we can start on the new barn before she gets back.”

  “Tommy! Me and you can build a new barn!”

  “That’s right, old man. Me and you got plenty of work to do. Momma’s gonna be so proud when you tell her you lit the fire. Be sure to let her know.”

  “I will, Tommy, I will.”

  “This is a good fire, old man. Look at it. A good strong fire.”

  The flames lapped higher, dancing across the roof. A whoosh of air sent a curling tower of yellow flames to the sky, carrying burning bits of dried shingles and twisting hay.

  “You did it,” Hardwicke shouted. “Tell her! You burnt down the old barn so we could build a new one!” Hardwicke tied his horse to the back porch rail and hurried to the bedroom. He yanked the quilt from the bed and wrapped the box in it.

  George never saw him leave. He waited, rocking and crying and clapping his hands, part of him knowing this was a tragedy beyond anything he had ever seen, part of him hoping Tommy could make a miracle happen. As the rear of the barn crumbled, he heard Bobby barking.

  “Bobby! You in there?”

  George ran to the barn door and saw flames breathing through the wall. He flung open the door, covered his face, and made his way to the yelping sounds, through waves of flames rising from the hay floor.

  “Oh Bobby!” he cried. He knelt to the dog as the barn collapsed.

  Hardwicke heard the crash of the barn walls. He pulled his horse to a stop and watched a cloud of dark smoke rise over the treetops. “Yeah, old man, you started one hell of a fire. Your woman ain’t ever gonna forgive you for that. I wonder how long before she runs praying to the bedroom, hoping you never showed me the box.” He laughed and jerked the reins, turning his anger to his own wife––and to the Choctaw girl with the hard look.

  Marty never ran to the bedroom seeking the pine box of family heirlooms. She knew better. From the moment she first saw the smoke, still a mile from the house, she knew better. She snapped the reins and urged her pony into a gallop, talking to herself the remainder of the trip.

  “From that first morning I shoulda known he couldn’t be trusted. Some men just hate women and he was one of ’em. I could feel it. We just needed the help so bad. Why did I let him stay?”

  She found George sitting on a log and staring at a pile of burning boards and popping hot embers, all that remained of the barn. He held Bobby tight to his chest with his left arm and slapped hot ashes from his hair and clothes with the other. He shook his head and cried to see her.

  “We gonna build a new barn,” he said. “Me and Tommy. I burnt this one down so we can build a new one.”

  She lifted George to his feet and lowered Bobby to the ground.

  “Momma’s gonna be mad,” said George, over and over, as she led him to bed.

  “Here, now, let me take your clothes off soes you can get some sleep.”

  George lay his head on the pillow and closed his eyes.

  Marty waited till morning to look under the bed. She knew the box was gone. He took the quilt, so of course he took the box. But until she saw the empty space beneath her bed, the box still sat on the cedar floor, just as it had every day for the past forty years.

  Homecoming

  After crossing the Red River, Hardwicke made his first social call. “Cain’t be blaming a dead man for settling an old score,” he reasoned.

  He rode for what remained of the night till he passed the First Christian Church of Skullyville. As the sky lightened to the east, he slipped off the road and into the woods. Tying his horse in a clump of scrub oaks, he crossed the narrow wooden bridge and stepped onto the back
acres of the Goode spread. Lanterns shone and people were moving inside the house, so he crept to the garden and hid between two rows of dried okra stalks.

  Amafo appeared in the kitchen window. Hardwicke’s eyes narrowed and he whispered to himself, “I bet you was relieved to hear ’bout my death, you old fool.” He ran across the yard and knelt beneath the window.

  “How ’bout we leave Whiteface here in case the ladies need to use the wagon?” Rose’s father asked. “You can ride your Choctaw pony. She’s small and quick, won’t be no trouble.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Amafo said. “I’ll saddle Slowboat and bring her ’round front.”

  “I couldn’t ask for anything better,” said Hardwicke. He slipped Bill Gibbons’ hunting knife from his belt and ran his thumb across the razor-sharp blade. “You and your pony both. That ought to wake ’em up.”

  He hurried from the house and entered the barn. Moving from stall to stall, he picked the small and slender pony as Amafo’s. “Easy now, girl,” he said, patting her flank and moving to the rear of the stall.

  Amafo stepped gingerly from the back porch and made his way to the barn. The soreness played on his knees and his back.

  “I am moving like an old man,” he said. He paused and lifted his gaze to the bright morning stars. “I miss you, my Hester. It was better being old with you around.”

  “No reason to be lazy,” he heard Pokoni say.

  “You are right, hon,” he replied. “I’m getting outta my laziness, I promise.” He smiled at the thought of her as he put his weight against the door and pushed it open. “You get heavier every year,” he said.

  Entering the barn, he called out, “Halito, Slowboat. Good morning.” Slowboat whinnied in response.

  “Yes, it has been a long time,” he said. “Thanks for not giving up on me. I guess I sorta gave up on myself. But you understand, don’cha? You ’bout old as I am.”

  Amafo took a single step into the barn and stopped. A feeling as sudden as a slap to the face came over him. A bitter chill crackled the air. He staggered backwards and shook his head to clear the dizziness. Slowboat stomped the floor and when Amafo paused at the door, she kicked against the gate of her stall.

  Amafo felt his knees grow slack. He fell to the ground outside the barn. He tried calling for help, but his breath turned to fog as he slipped into unconsciousness.

  When he came to his senses, Rose and her father stood over him. Rose bathed his face with a warm, wet cloth.

  “You gonna be hoke, Amafo?” Rose asked.

  “I think so,” he said, rising to a sitting position.

  “He better stay home today, Daddy,” Rose said.

  “She’s right, Amafo. We can go hunting tomorrow or the next day. Looks like cold weather might be blowing up anyways.”

  “Yakoke for the thoughts,” Amafo said. “But I done promised Pokoni I’d get out of my laziness. I don’t want no shilombish, hers or anybody else’s, getting after me. I better keep my promise.”

  “No need to rush it.”

  “I am better already,” he said. “I had a dizzy spell is all.”

  Half an hour and two stiff cups of coffee later, Amafo returned to the barn. He smiled to see the growing spiderweb, now stretching from the rafter to the top board of the stall. “You’ve got it all to yourself for a few days, momma spider,” he said, tipping his hat and stepping into Slowboat’s stall.

  She flicked her tail from side to side and twitched the muscles of her flanks. When he reached for her, Slowboat flung her head and knocked his hand away.

  “What’s the matter, gal?” Amafo asked, rubbing her ear and running a gentle hand along her spine. He lifted her legs to inspect her feet, walking slowly around her, talking and touching her softly as he moved.

  “You’re a purty gal, Slowboat,” he said. “Everything’s hoke. I been feeling low, but I’ll be seeing you more often now.”

  As Amafo circled his horse, the marshal sank behind a haybale at the rear of the stall. His breathing slowed and his eyes focused on the spot where the teeth of his blade would sever the flesh––the blue vein running down the skin of Amafo’s throat.

  One cut and he is gone, he thought.

  When Amafo moved to within three feet of him, Hardwicke slowly stood. His heart pounded in anticipation of the kill.

  Your horse will be spotted with your blood, old man. Just like Bill Gibbons, I will look you in the eyes before I kill you.

  He pressed the blade against his thumb and drew it slowly across the padding of his fingerprint. A bright red trail of liquid ran the length of the blade and dripped from the knifepoint to the hay on the stall floor. Hardwicke felt a small wet drop on the tip of his fingers. He flicked the blood at Amafo and it landed on his neck.

  Thinking it was a horsefly, Amafo slapped at the spot. When he removed his hand and saw the blood, he muttered, “Mosquitoes!”

  Hardwicke savored every moment, knowing he had the power to end the old man’s life whenever he chose. He lifted the knife and reached for Amafo. As he did so, the upturned blade sliced the dangling spider web. The silky cluster drifted into his eyes and mouth. Instinctively, Hardwicke puckered his lips blew, wiping his face with his free hand.

  Feeling the sudden gust of air on her hindquarters, Slowboat went berserk, kicking her hind legs and sending the marshal crashing against the wall. She bolted from the stall and fled from the barn, bucking and kicking, with Amafo chasing after her.

  Rose came running from the house and together she and Amafo caught Slowboat. They walked her around the yard before strapping her saddle tight. With all eyes on the horse, the marshal beat a shadowy path from the barn. He quickly crossed the back pasture to his waiting horse.

  Once Slowboat was saddled, the family gathered in the backyard.

  “Not a good start on the day,” said Rose’s father.

  “She just hadn’t been rode in a while,” Amafo said. “She’ll be hoke, and so will this old man.”

  Rose crept behind Amafo and gripped his hand as she had seen Pokoni do a hundred times. For the whisper of a moment, Amafo thought Pokoni stood with him once more.

  “Gimme just one minute,” said Amafo. “Somebody I need to check on.” Without knowing exactly what he was looking for, Amafo moved through the barn to Slowboat’s stall. Holding the lantern high, he spotted momma spider hard at work, whirling in quick, tiny circles to repair her broken nest. His voice took on a smile.

  “Well, I guess it’s not easy, rooming with a horse.”

  He lowered the lantern and his eyes followed the path of the spiderweb along the rear wall. “Chi-pisalachiki,” he said. “See you in a few days.”

  Two fresh boot prints stared up at him from the stall floor, but he never saw them.

  “I made my promise, Hester,” he whispered as he exited the barn, “and I’m gonna keep it. I’ll be counting on you to look after things ’round here while we be gone.”

  Empty House

  Rose

  With the men gone, Momma was nervous as a stray cat. “The house sure seems empty with nobody to take care of,” she said. Daddy and Amafo had only been gone two hours, but Momma was right. I already did miss ’em.

  “You can do these dishes by yourself,” she said after we finished breakfast. “I got cleaning to do.” She went to sweeping with a fury in the living room. Not two minutes went by and she said, “You finished with those dishes yet?”

  “Won’t be long, Momma.” I had barely cleaned the table off and hadn’t drawn the water yet. I was just soaping up the first plate when she dropped the broom and burst through the kitchen door.

  “Get your brother and a change of clothes for you both,” she said. “We’re not lazying around this house with nothing to do. It’s been half a year since we visited the McCurtains. Time she and I did some cooking and swapping canned goods. Get a move on!”

  I knew better than to remind Momma I still hadn’t done the dishes. I dipped ’em, rinsed ’em, and laid ’em on the coun
ter to dry, then dried my hands and went looking for Jamey. Less than an hour later, with Whiteface hitched to the wagon, we were headed to the McCurtain place.

  Whiteface was frisky and ready for the trip. She reminded me of Momma, how she shook her head and snorted impatiently as Jamey and I clambered on board. The McCurtains lived only five miles to the east, but the road was seldom traveled. Pine trees grew thick along the edge and scrub oaks and stubborn underbrush sprouted in the middle of the road, scarred as it was with rain-washed ruts.

  Our visit––Momma had made it clear––was not a social call.

  “We are going there to work.” The plan was for Momma and Missus McCurtain to cook for the better part of two days. We had loaded dried corn and beans to trade for squash and pickles, a McCurtain specialty.

  “Will Mister McCurtain be there?” I asked.

  “No, just her boy Aaron,” Momma said. “Mister McCurtain’s off selling or buying horses or God knows what all.”

  Momma almost never talked about people like that, so I knew one reason we were going to visit Missus McCurtain. Momma had somehow heard Mister McCurtain was gone, and she wanted to see her friend without him around.

  “Whatever reason she has for not liking him, it must be a good one,” I ’member Pokoni saying. “Can’t be the buying and selling of horses. Lots of folks do that. Must be the God knows what all.”

  We’d been gone seemed like only half an hour when Whiteface started her whinnying, a nervous way she had of sniffing and pawing the ground, usually when she caught the scent of animals in the woods. It might be only a polecat, maybe a raccoon. Momma snapped the reins and urged her on.

  “Giddap, girl. Get on along.” Daddy always kept the road cleared close to our house. Once a month at least he rode his horse up and down that road looking for lost livestock. As we neared the noon hour, the brush grew thicker and the trees met overhead, forming a dark roof over the road. Once Jamey and I had to climb down and dig up a small oak seedling blocking our path.