She heard voices coming from inside the car. Loud, husky voices. She heard the sounds of boots on a hollow floor. She heard laughter.
Men entered and exited like ants in an anthill. Marigold stood far away, behind a pine, watching.
The gray boards on the railcar bore large faded yellow letters that spelled Cowikee Mills Cotton. Men in stained clothes, crumpled hats, and worn shoes walked into the railcar. They entered with strong steps; they left the place staggering.
Her head hurt and her eyes ached. She’d been starving for months now, couldn’t remember what it felt like not to have a hollow stomach.
She dusted her dress, which had grown too big for her. Then she let down her hair. She combed the knots with her fingers and clumps came out in her hands. She could only imagine how hideous she looked. She drew in a quick breath and pinched the white out of her cheeks like her mother used to do on Sunday mornings.
Marigold had once asked her mother why she pinched her cheeks when she put on her Sunday clothes.
“’Cause,” her mother had explained, “girls is supposed to have red cheeks. Makes ’em look pretty.”
Once, Marigold had spent an entire afternoon pinching her cheeks in front of her mother’s vanity to make them red. She’d accidentally bruised her face and cheek muscles so bad she couldn’t smile for three days.
Cowikee’s was a lonesome place that looked like it was nearly falling apart. But the closer she got, the more life she heard inside it. She walked toward it like a woman instead of a girl. There was a difference between the loose-limbed gait of a girl and the sure-footed stride of a woman. Men could tell the difference between the two. There was confidence in women that girls did not have.
The car was big. A large clapboard cabin had been built onto the back of it with a corroded tin roof spanning over both structures. The years had faded the wood siding into a dirty brown. Green mold and mildew covered the paned windows.
When she entered Cowikee’s, the eyes of men landed on her. The mood changed in the room. She could feel their thoughts. Their laughter faded. Some men wore smirks. She was frightened. But she was less frightened than she was hungry.
A man behind the bar let his eyes travel from Marigold’s feet to her face. And the silence seemed to last for a whole year.
“Honey?” the man behind the bar said. “You lost?”
“I’m thirsty,” was all she could make herself say.
The weight of too many stares from too many strangers made Marigold breathe fast. Her chest started to thump. She didn’t trust men. She didn’t trust anyone who shaved their faces. Her father had made her this way. He’d ruined her. He had changed her.
She cleared her throat. Her mouth was so dry it tasted bad. “Could I have a drink?”
A tall, hairy man leaning on the bar said, “Well, have a seat. We got the cure for thirst right here.”
Low-pitched laughs came from the room. She was getting too dizzy to care.
The hairy man walked toward her. He leaned close. She could smell his sweat—like onions and dirt. He removed his hat to reveal a mop of black fur, matted against his forehead. “Name’s Robert, sweetheart.”
She smelled the whiskey on his breath when he said it, and it almost made her gag. She wished she had never come into this place. She wished she would have just kept on walking after she saw it.
But they were interrupted by the sound of a woman’s voice. “Get away from her, Bobby,” said the voice.
Marigold saw a woman from the back of the room making a beeline for her. The woman pushed the man away before he could say anything else.
“She said she’s thirsty,” the woman said, grabbing Marigold by the arm. “Leave her alone.”
The men in the place laughed. The hairy man waved the woman off and mumbled something. He walked away from her, but he did not remove his angry eyes from her.
The woman touched Marigold’s forehead. “Honey, you’re burning up.” Marigold’s heavy head was throbbing, and she felt like she was floating through the world. The woman pressed a cool hand on Marigold’s forehead. “Oh, sweetie,” said the woman. “You’re on fire. Come with me.”
They walked toward the back door. Marigold felt limp inside. The woman hooked arms with Marigold to keep her upright.
Then something struck Marigold on the face. So hard she lost her balance. She fell and hit the ground. She opened her eyes and saw the face of the hairy man who was standing over her.
“That’ll teach you to thumb your nose at Robert Donahue!” said the man, pointing at her.
Marigold stared at his finger, inches from her face. Without thinking, she reached her hand out and gripped his forearm. She squeezed, and her palm became hot. In her grasp, the man’s skin became so warm it felt like candle wax. She let her eyes bore into him. Immediately she felt things swimming in her mind, memories and images that weren’t hers.
She saw the man standing on the shore, fishing. A boy stood beside him. She felt the man’s happiness. A euphoria filled her head. Then she saw the man seated at the boy’s bedside. She saw the child with a rag on his forehead. And she saw the man carrying a short casket. She could see the man crying, alone beside a creek. She could feel the depth of loss.
She squeezed him and felt his bones beneath her grip. His fragile bones. She could feel each of his breaths.
He tried to break free from her grasp but could not. The hairy man fell to his knees. He stared at her with wide eyes.
“What are you?” he said.
“I’m so sorry you hurt,” said Marigold. “I’m so sorry.”
The place fell silent. The man’s eyes became wet and pink. Then he leapt to his feet and jogged for the door. He stumbled over a table and shot out of the railcar.
The woman lifted Marigold in her arms. Marigold opened her eyes and saw the woman’s face was colored with beautiful makeup.
“Oh, your cheeks,” said Marigold. “They’re so red and pretty.”
Twenty
Run, Boy, Run
The sun peeked through the second-story window of the small bedroom. Blake rose from the creaky bed, careful not to wake Coot. He looked at himself in the mirror. His eyelids were wrinkled, surrounded by lines that dug into his cheeks. He was not a young, handsome Southerner traveling with a western show, with a girl on each arm and a ten-gallon hat tilted on his head. He was an old man. His hair was thinning and his mustache was so thick it almost blended into the gray stubble on his cheeks. He was skinny, frail, stiff, and sore.
Long ago, he was the picture of showmanship. He could dangle from the saddle of a speeding horse while twirling a rope in his right hand. Now he couldn’t even crawl into bed without wincing.
He saw a floor fan in the corner, blowing on him. He heard the sound of a radio playing in another room. It took a few minutes to rally the strength to stretch his long arms into the air and shake the ache from his bones.
He wandered toward the tall window. The view overlooked miles of prairie and spring wheat that seemed to stretch toward the end of the world. In the distance, two men were scalping a field with a binder pulled by two horses. The machine sliced swatches of grass, one row at a time. They moved in a slow but deliberate way. They paused now and then to drink from a ladle and bucket.
Blake was jolted from his thoughts by the sounds of voices coming from downstairs of the old farmhouse. Men’s voices. The deep vibrations resonated within the wood home. At first he thought nothing of it. But the voices were getting louder, more intense.
He eased the window open and leaned out for a better look. A black-and-white car sat parked in the driveway. The painted star on the side made his chest sore.
He moved as quickly as he could. He gathered Coot’s clothes, then nudged the boy. Before Coot’s eyes opened, Blake pressed a hand over Coot’s mouth.
“We’re in a jam,” whispered Blake. “A real jam.”
Coot’s eyes were big, looking straight at Blake. He nodded.
Then came the soun
ds of heavy footsteps downstairs.
“Hear that?” Blake said. “They’re coming for us. We got a few seconds to do this right.” Blake pointed to the window. “Get to that car and don’t wait for me. Turn the key, gun it, and go whether I’m with you or not.”
“But I can’t drive,” said Coot.
“Time to learn.”
Coot sprang to his feet, and in only seconds he was crawling onto a hot roof, wearing nothing but his long nightshirt. Blake followed behind, carrying a bundle of clothes beneath one arm, his boots in the other hand. He tiptoed on the tin using gentle steps.
The hot metal burned his feet bad enough to leave blisters. The particular words he chose to mumble were not words used by revival preachers. Then he tossed the armful of clothes into the air. They fell onto the grass, scattering on the lawn like confetti.
“Go down the drain spout,” Blake whispered to Coot.
Coot crawled down the metal pipe on the side of the house like he was a natural-born monkey. When he made it to the ground, the boy ran toward the Hudson parked behind the farmhouse. Blake had a bird’s-eye view of Coot from where he stood.
He saw the boy jump into the car. He heard the engine roar to life. Blake watched the car zigzag in the lawn, making wide turns back and forth as though a drunk were behind the wheel.
Blake said another ugly word.
He heard footsteps behind him, then voices coming from the open window. He looked at the downspout and decided it was too flimsy to hold his weight. He sat on his haunches so that his bare feet dangled over the eave and said a quick prayer.
“Lord Jesus,” he said, “please don’t let me break my neck. It’s all I ask.”
Men crawled out the window onto the roof. They were yelling.
Blake jumped. His lanky body sailed through the air, his arms spread outward. He landed feetfirst and heard something in his knee pop. It felt like someone had stabbed a hot knife into the joint. He tumbled on the grass. His chin was in the dirt, his hind parts over his head. He leapt from the ground and hobbled toward the car like a one-legged ostrich. He ignored the scattered clothes on the lawn and flung the door open. He crawled into the car, slammed the door, and shouted, “Drive! Drive! Drive!”
The car shot forward. Coot held the wheel, aiming the vehicle at the gravel road. The engine of the Hudson sounded like it was going to explode. The car weaved left, then right, then left, then right. Back and forth. Side to side. It was enough to make Blake nauseous.
“Hold ’er steady,” said Blake. “You’re gonna make me puke.”
“I told you I can’t drive!”
“Just keep ’er straight.”
“I can’t hold the wheel still!”
Blake gripped the wheel and righted the vehicle. “Just push your foot on the gas, boy!”
Then Blake remembered the money. A pang of fear shot through him. He couldn’t remember if he’d taken it inside the farmhouse with him or not. He fumbled through the glove box contents until he found the leather-bound Bible with the hollowed-out square in the center. He opened it and saw the folded bills.
“Glory be,” said Blake. “At least they didn’t get this.”
“You okay, Blake?”
Blake leaned backward in the seat. His knee felt broken. His feet and ankles were sprained. His back hurt from tumbling on the unforgiving ground. His chin was bruised. He’d bitten his tongue and blood was all over his lips. His shoulders and wrists hurt from breaking his fall.
He touched his neck. It was unharmed.
“The good Lord answers prayer,” said Blake.
Twenty-One
Sugar and Candy
A few customers had been forming a small line at the tailgate of Paul’s truck all morning. Paul served them by packing handfuls of warm pork into a tin coffee mug, then turning the mug upside down onto a sheet of newspaper. Behind him, Eulah and her children were shredding bits of pork from the bone. Paul had to remind the children twice not to lick their greasy fingers whenever paying customers were nearby.
A man with a sweat-stained fedora asked for three pounds. Paul placed three pork cylinders in the center of the newsprint before wrapping them and handing the bundle to the man.
“That’ll be thirty cents,” Paul said.
The man scowled. “Thirty cents is highway robbery.”
Paul didn’t answer. He only took the man’s money and God-blessed him.
“Hey,” the man said. “Don’t I get any barbecue sauce with that?”
“Sauce is extra.”
“How much extra?”
“Nine cents.”
“Just for sauce?”
“No, sir, not just for sauce. For the best sauce you’ve ever had.”
“You must be crazy,” said Fedora.
“The Lord looks out for children and fools.”
The man dug into his pocket and slipped out two nickels, grumbling beneath his breath. He slapped the coins into Paul’s hand.
Paul bit one of the nickels, just for show, then tucked the coins into his shirt. He handed the man a Coca-Cola bottle filled with red sauce and one penny in change. Paul lifted his hat. “Don’t eat it all at once, now. The good Lord frowns on gluttons.”
The man sneered, then crawled into a yellow car and drove away.
“How do you like that?” said Paul to Pete, who leaned against the side of the truck. “We go to the trouble of making the world’s best sauce, and they got the gall to gripe about it?”
But Pete wasn’t interested in barbecue. “Please take us with you,” the boy said.
Paul was getting tired of talking about this. The more he talked about it, the worse he felt about himself. “We’ve already talked about this, Tex. Don’t make me feel any uglier than I already feel.”
Paul placed a handful of coins into a wood box. He tried not to look at the kid’s big, sad eyes. They made him feel guilty.
“Please,” said the boy. “I’m a hard worker.”
Paul lit a cigarette and greeted the next man in line, who wore suspenders and a bow tie. Bow Tie said, “I’ll take a pound, please.”
Paul started to wrap some pork in newsprint. But the kid stepped between Paul and the stack of newspapers. “Here,” said Pete. “Let me do it.”
Paul took one step backward and watched the kid wrap the pork. It made him feel like a pathetic human being. He didn’t want to leave this family on the side of the road, of course, but he couldn’t support them either. He had a hard enough time finding work as it was.
Paul forced out a breath of smoke. “Tex, it ain’t nothing personal, but folks gotta pay to breathe in this world, and I’m still holding my breath.”
“We’re worse off than you are,” said Pete.
“That ain’t the point,” Paul said. “Your chances won’t improve none with us.”
The conversation was interrupted by a baby crying. Vern was holding her. He leaned against a tree, listening to the radio blaring from the open door of the truck. The sound of trumpets and trombones cut through the air. Vern opened a candy bar wrapper using only his teeth.
“Don’t you do anything besides eat candy and listen to the radio?” hollered Paul.
“Who, me?” said Vern.
“No, your brother,” said Paul. “Yes, you.”
“I cook it, you sell it,” said Vern. “That was the deal.”
A woman asked Pete for two pounds of pork. The kid fell into action and wrapped the pork in the newspaper like he had something to prove.
Paul patted Pete’s shoulder. “You don’t have to do it so fast, Tex. It ain’t going nowhere.”
Pete spoke up. “You don’t know babies like my mama does. She knows everything.”
“Son, you’re breaking my heart. I wish you’d just accept that facts is facts, and the fact is I can’t afford you or your family. My mind’s made up. Now it ain’t right, you makin’ me feel so bad about it.”
“Please.”
Paul moved the kid out of his way. He began wrappin
g meat in newsprint without speaking. From the corner of his vision, he saw the boy throw his arms around his mother.
The next man in line ordered half a pound of pork. Paul folded newspaper over the warm meat and tried not to look at the kids and their mother.
“Be five cents,” said Paul.
The man dug into his pocket and glanced toward Pete. “Is that kid gonna be okay?” the man said.
“’Course he will. It’s just allergies.”
Paul’s heart dropped. His chest felt sore. Especially when he saw Eulah remove Pete’s hat and hold him while he sobbed. Paul felt like he belonged beneath a pile of warm horse logs.
Vern, on the other hand, didn’t seem to be bothered by anything. He unwrapped another candy bar and tossed the wrapper on the ground. He pressed his nose against the baby’s face and made high-pitched noises.
The man in line cleared his throat and said, “Hey, what about my sauce? Don’t this come with sauce?”
“Not you too,” said Paul. “Sauce is extra.”
“How much extra?” the man in the slacks asked.
“Nine cents,” said Paul.
“Nine cents just for sauce?”
“It’s a whole bottle.”
“Of what, gold?”
“Keep talking and it’ll go up to fifteen cents.”
“You’re out of your mind.”
“Maybe. But if you keep pushing me, I’ll take that pork outta your hand and rub it in my armpits.”
The man gasped. He dug into his pocket again, slapped the coins into Paul’s hand, and said a swear word.
Paul shoved a bottle into the man’s hand. “Pleasure doing business with you, sir! Don’t get lost on your way to Bible study.”
“Women make everything easier,” said Vern. “She could help with the wash. I ain’t washed our clothes in a week. We smell bad. And them kids is sweet.”
“That ain’t the point,” said Paul. “That ain’t the point at all.”
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