THE HOMEPLACE

by Gilbert, Morris

  Roger frowned. “Don’t talk so loud. Nobody’s deaf.” Then he smiled at Lanie. “Hi, Lanie. I hear you’re my big competition for the grand award.”

  “I don’t think I’ll be much competition,” she murmured, then hurried with her brothers and sister to the back of the store, where Mr. Pink was filling prescriptions. He smiled at her. “What can I do for you, Lanie?”

  “Mama says we need some paregoric.”

  “How much?”

  “I don’t know. Whatever it comes in.”

  “Well, you can have a gallon if you want.” Mr. Pink laughed. “But I guess that’d be a bit much. Somebody got a bellyache?”

  “Mama makes us take it every time we get anything,” Cody piped up. “I hate the stuff. It tastes awful!”

  “Well, don’t take too much of it. It’ll put you to sleep.”

  Mr. Pink filled a bottle and handed it to Lanie. “That’ll be fifty cents. How’s your mother doing?”

  “Fine.” It was the standard answer. Lanie took the change and said, “Let’s get a Coke. Mama said we could.”

  They sat down at the counter on the tall stools made of heavy wire with red leather cushions, and Harold Pink took their order—small cherry Cokes, all around.

  Cody went through his so quickly it disappeared as if by magic.

  When he hit bottom, his straw made a bubbling noise. “I could drink a dozen of these.”

  “You don’t need a dozen,” Davis said.

  “When I get rich, I’m gonna get a chocolate soda as big as a number-ten washtub,” Maeva proclaimed.

  The others tried to make their Cokes last. Lanie was aware that Helen was making remarks about “the farmers,” as she liked to call the Freemans, and she was not trying to keep her voice down.

  Finally Lanie got off her stool, and the rest followed her. Roger called out, “Take your best shot, Lanie! It’s me and you for the big money!”

  When they got outside, Maeva said, “He’s the best-looking guy in high school. Why don’t you get a date with him?”

  “Are you crazy? Seniors don’t date freshmen.”

  “I don’t see why not. You’re better lookin’ than some of those ugly old girls he goes around with.”

  “But they’ve got money,” Cody said. “That makes a difference.”

  “Look, there’s Butcher Knife Annie!” Davis whispered.

  Across the street, a tall, gaunt woman wearing a dirty gray dress that came down to her ankles was pulling a wagon loaded with junk. She wore men’s big work shoes, a dilapidated straw hat, and had a sinister look on her face.

  “I heard she was a witch,” Cody said.

  “And I heard that the mayor was going to pass an ordinance to keep her out of town,” Davis said.

  “She’s not a witch,” Lanie said.

  “How do you know?” Cody said. “There’s somethin’ funny about her, the way she lives all by herself in that old shack and keeps all them cats. I bet she sacrifices them or somethin’ awful like that.”

  “Don’t be gossiping about people you don’t know!” Lanie said crossly. “She’s just a poor old woman.”

  Indeed, Butcher Knife Annie was a mystery in Fairhope. She pulled her wagon down the alleys, filling it with discards from the various businesses. She paid for what few things she bought with coins, some black with age, or with bills rolled up in a tight wad. No one knew where she got her money except that she got a letter from someone once a year. At least so said the postman, Dan McGibbon.

  Rumor had it that she once pulled a butcher knife on a man who cursed her, but no one knew for sure.

  “I feel sorry for her,” Lanie said.

  The four watched long enough to draw attention, and when Annie fixed her fierce eyes on them, Cody said, “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

  “That Helen Langley, I’d have popped her in the mouth if Lanie hadn’t stopped me.”

  “You mustn’t be doing that, Maeva.” Elizabeth reached out and brushed Maeva’s rebellious hair back. “You’ve got to try to understand people’s faults.”

  “I wish I was more like you, Mama. Who am I like?”

  “What do you mean, who are you like?”

  “Well,” Maeva said thoughtfully, “Lanie’s so nice and sweet, and I’m mean as a snake.”

  Elizabeth laughed and reached out and enfolded the girl in her arms. “You’re not mean as a snake.”

  “I am too. I’m always in trouble.”

  “You have a great deal of imagination and a very strong will. My brother was exactly the same way.”

  “Barney?”

  “That’s him.”

  “Maybe you should have named me Barney after him.”

  “Well, it would have been fairly cruel to name a helpless little girl baby Barney, wouldn’t it?”

  Maeva laughed too and said, “Mama, I worry about you.”

  “You mean because I’m having trouble with this baby?”

  “Yes.” She gave her mother a direct stare. “You won’t die, will you?”

  “No, of course not. I’m just a little bit old to be having a baby.”

  “You promise you won’t die?”

  “Yes, I promise. Now, why don’t you go fix me some iced tea.”

  After a supper of greens, pork chops, and pot likker, Elizabeth sat out on the porch with Forrest. They rocked and watched the children for a while, then she said, “Maeva’s worried about me.”

  “So am I.”

  “I’ll be all right.” She took his hand. “We’ve got good children, Forrest.”

  While their parents talked, Cody broached his newest scheme to Maeva and Davis. Keeping an eye on his parents, he said, “I seen them pears in Butcher Knife Annie’s orchard. They’re just right.”

  “Well, she wouldn’t let you have none of ’em,” Maeva said.

  “Though I don’t know what she does with so many.”

  “She sells them to the store,” Davis said.

  “Well, I’m gonna go get me some of them pears. Let’s all three go,”

  Cody said.

  “You mean steal ’em?” Maeva grinned.

  “Shoot, they’re just gonna rot. We might as well have a few.”

  “I ain’t stealing any pears,” Davis said, frowning. “You’d better stay away from there too. I don’t reckon she’s a witch, but she does have a butcher knife.”

  “I ain’t afraid of Butcher Knife Annie,” Cody said. “I’m gonna go and get me some of them pears tomorrow afternoon, just about dark.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Maeva said. “Davis, you’ll go too, if you’re not chicken.”

  Davis could not refuse a dare. He sighed. “I’d better go along then. You two are bound to get into trouble, and I’ll have to be there to pull you out.”

  C H A P T E R 4

  By the time Maeva, Davis, and Cody reached the edge of Butcher Knife Annie’s house, twilight had come, and the low hills to the west turned dark against the sky. It seemed to Davis that the sun dropped with a silent crash of light, and he watched as it seemed to melt into a shapeless crown of gold flames on the faraway hills. He turned to the old woman’s shack as the pearl shadows came upon the eaves and lit the soft silver shavings of the dusty path beside it. The evening’s peace magnified distant sounds, and he heard the melody of a night bird in the far-off woods. He glanced at Cody and Maeva. “This is crazy! Let’s go home.”

  “No, I’m gettin’ me some of them pears,” Cody said stubbornly.

  “You don’t even like pears,” Davis retorted. “You just want to be up to mischief.”

  Maeva was smiling broadly. She took Davis by the arm and shook him. “You ain’t gonna chicken out on us, are you, brother?”

  “It don’t make any sense, Maeva.”

  “It’s adventure.” Maeva laughed softly and her eyes danced in the last light of the fading sun. She squeezed his arm. “Come on. Bet I’ll fill my sack first.”

  Davis resisted her pull at first, but finally sighed and s
hook his head. “All right. Let’s get it over with.” The three of them entered the ragged orchard. The pear trees were, in fact, very fine, much nicer than the house, and he had tasted their fruit before. More than once he had picked up a ripe pear from the ground and sunk his teeth into the white, juicy flesh. But this was different.

  The yellow light of a lantern highlighted the windows of the shack and cast its amber glow across the orchard. Davis found himself holding his breath. He was not afraid, for he was the fastest runner in his age group at William McKinley High School (and in the county for that matter!), and he knew that both Maeva and Cody could outrun the old woman. Not fear, but a distaste for what he was doing troubled him. “This is dumb!” he muttered, but it was too late to protest.

  Cody was already in a tree, and Maeva was scrambling up another like a boy. The fact that she wore a dress meant nothing to her. He caught a flash of the whiteness of her legs as she shinnied up and began filling her sack. “Come on, Davis,” she called in a low voice. “Fill that sack up.”

  Moving forward, Davis reached up and plucked one of the pears from a low limb. It felt firm, just a little soft, as a ripe pear should. He could not see the color, but he knew it would be that beautiful blend of yellow and orange with dark flecks in it. The flour sack he held would hold at least twenty, and he found plenty on the low branches. Finally they grew scarce, so he pulled himself up and edged out along a limb. He had no sooner gotten there when he heard Cody’s shrill warning: “Look out! She’s comin’!”

  Davis was in an awkward position. He had put his feet on two limbs far apart and was reaching upward when he slipped. One hand held the sack, and he grabbed wildly with the other for the trunk of the tree, but his fingertips barely brushed it. He fell on his stomach, and for a moment the breath left him. Fear rushed in as he tried to breathe. He could hear the fleeing footsteps of Cody and Maeva, and Maeva’s voice came floating back faintly, “Come on, Davis! Run!”

  He struggled to his feet, still grasping the sack in his right hand. He started to turn and saw the figure of the old woman not ten feet away.

  Butcher Knife Annie’s face was in the shadows. Her bonnet shaded her eyes, yet not completely. Her eyes seemed to gleam like a cat’s or a wolf ’s, and her lips were in a tight line like a blade. She had something in her hand, and alarm ran along Davis’s nerves. A knife!

  Reacting instinctively, he grabbed a large pear out of his sack and threw it with all of his might. Davis often pitched for his baseball team, and he never threw a baseball harder. He saw it hit the old woman in the mouth and drive her head backward. She dropped what she was holding, and Davis saw it was a bowl of some kind.

  Silence. Davis saw by the last rays of light that Annie’s bonnet had fallen off, and he could see her face. Her mouth was bleeding. Her eyes were fixed on him, and suddenly he could not bear to look. He turned, dropped the sack of pears, and dashed out of the orchard, his feet barely touching the ground. When he emerged, he turned down the road and had gone no more than thirty yards when he found Cody and Maeva waiting for him. “Did she pull a knife on you?” Cody demanded.

  “No.”

  “What’d she say to you?” Maeva asked, coming closer and looking at Davis’s face.

  Davis shook his head. “She didn’t say nothin’.”

  Maeva laughed. “That was fun, wasn’t it?”

  “No, it wasn’t fun!”

  “Where’s your pears?” Maeva demanded. “Why didn’t you bring ’em?”

  A disgust that Davis had felt a few times in his life thickened in his throat. He was thoroughly ashamed, and without another word he struck off toward home. He did not want to talk to Maeva or Cody, but the two soon caught up with him and pestered him with questions.

  Finally Maeva said, “What’s wrong with you, Davis? Why ain’t you sayin’ nothin’?”

  “It was a rotten thing to do!” Davis said.

  Maeva stared at him, caught his arm, and pulled him to a stop.

  “What are you talking about? She’s a mean old woman. Maybe a witch.”

  “That’s right.” Cody nodded. “Those pears would have rotted anyway.”

  Davis yanked his arm away from Maeva and took off running. He heard them calling, but he ran as if he were in a race at school. The others had no chance to catch him, and he kept accelerating until the sound of their voices faded. All he could think of was the sight of the old woman’s face with blood running from her mouth.

  Lanie turned off Oak Street down Stonewall Jackson Avenue and found Pardue Jessup sitting inside the small office working a crossword puzzle. He looked up and winked, “Well, howdy there, missy. Say, what’s a three-letter word for a canine?”

  “Dog.”

  “A dog is a canine? Well, why don’t they just come out and admit that?” Pardue had his feet up on a desk, though there was scarcely room, for it was covered with paper, advertisements, and Collier’s magazines, and was probably as neat as the rest of the Sinclair station that he operated. To the right was a door that led to the rack where he greased cars, and out in front two or three older cars waited to be repaired.

  “Daddy asked me to come by and pick up the carburetor for his Model T.”

  “It come in on the bus this mornin’. I reckon he can put it in himself.” Pardue stood up and scratched his head. He was a tall, well-built man in his mid-thirties. He had the blackest hair that Lanie had ever seen and dark eyes. She had always admired his rough good looks and heard rumors that grown women did too. She had seen him several times at dances, for he could play a fiddle, and at social events he was always either fiddling or dancing.

  Pardue was also the sheriff. He was wearing a work shirt now that was fairly clean of grease, but he wore another shirt when he was on duty. It was hanging up in the corner along with the pants to match it. Sometimes he wore his old Sinclair uniform to make arrests, but he never serviced cars in his uniform. “Where you headed for, honey?” Pardue asked, holding the box with the carburetor.

  “I’m going down to the library to get some books, and then I’m going home.”

  “The library?” Pardue’s eyebrows shot up, and he grinned broadly. He looked vaguely like a rough sort of Clark Gable with the same kind of dimple in his cheek. “You don’t need to be carrying this heavy carburetor. I’ll just take you down there myself.”

  “Why, Sheriff, you don’t need to take me. I can carry it.”

  “No, young folks don’t need to be overburdened.” Still grinning, Pardue walked over to the door and opened it and said, “Hey, Boo, I’m going to take me a young lady to the library and then home. You watch out they don’t steal everything that ain’t tied down.”

  Boo Findley slid out from under a car, covered with black grease.

  “Why shore, Shurf. I’ll take keer of it. Howdy, Miss Lanie.”

  “Hello, Boo.”

  Boo had just graduated from high school and was friendly enough, more than most of the older students. “You gonna win that grand prize, ain’t cha now?” he grinned.

  “I might win one of the little ones, but I don’t think the big one.”

  “Shoot, that ain’t no way to talk.” Boo smiled. “You can do it. You can beat ’em all.”

  “Come along, sweetheart. I’ll take you down to that library.” Par-due grabbed the wide-brimmed straw hat that he often wore and walked out to his car. He drove a big Oldsmobile which he had rebuilt from the ground up after a Yankee from St. Louis wrecked it.

  As soon as Lanie was settled, he put the carburetor on the floorboard and said, “Now, let’s go to that library. Maybe I’ll get a book myself.”

  “You like to read, Sheriff?”

  “Not particularly. I read the sports page every day and the comics. I bet you do, though.”

  “I like to read all right.”

  The Oldsmobile exploded to life, and Sheriff Jessup drove like there was no one else on the highway. He roared off down Stonewall Jackson Boulevard to Elm, took a right, and at the end of t
he block, right next to Robert E. Lee Boulevard, he pulled the Bearcat in front of the red-brick library. “It may take me a while, Sheriff,” Lanie said as she got out and started down the walk. The yard was beautifully cultured and tailored with flowers, and she admired it as she always did.

  The sheriff caught up with her, and Lanie said, “Are you going inside?”

  “Oh, sure. I might catch a criminal in there.”

  The sheriff opened the door and Lanie walked inside. She saw Miss Pruitt behind the desk. Cassandra Sue Pruitt was in her early thirties, and Lanie had always liked the way she looked. She was perfectly groomed with her dark hair always in place. Today she wore a tailored dress. As Lanie approached, she took off her glasses and smiled. “Hello, Lanie. You’ve already read those books?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I have. I’d like to get some more if you don’t mind.”

  “Why, of course not. You go right ahead.”

  “I think I might get me a book too,” Sheriff Jessup said.

  Cassandra Sue Pruitt had to look up at the sheriff, for he was six-two in his stocking feet, and he was wearing boots. She was not a short woman, but she felt somehow fragile in front of the sheriff ’s broad shoulders and deep chest. “What kind of book would you like, Sheriff?” she said primly.

  “I reckon I’d like me a romance book. You probably got lots of them.”

  A faint flush touched the librarian’s cheeks. “Of course, we have all kinds of romances. Do you have any special author?”

  “No, to tell the truth, Miss Cassandra, I ain’t never read one, but I thought I might ought to. Maybe it’ll make me be a little bit more romantic.”

  “From what I hear, you don’t need any lessons.”

  “Oh, shucks! Now who have you been talkin’ to telling stories on me like that?” Sheriff Jessup leaned over the counter until his face was close to the librarian’s. “You don’t want to listen to all them things. I’m just an innocent boy.”

  “I . . . I’ll get you a book if you wait here.”

  “I don’t mind going with you now.”

  “No, I’ll be right back.”