Cover
Title Page
Good Ground
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Tracy Winegar
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Omnific Publishing
Dallas
Copyright Information
Good Ground, Copyright © 2013 by Tracy Winegar
All Rights Reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher.
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Omnific Publishing
10000 North Central Expressway, Dallas, TX 75231
www.omnificpublishing.com
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First Omnific eBook edition, July 2013
First Omnific trade paperback edition, July 2013
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The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
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Library of Congress Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
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Winegar, Tracy.
Good Ground / Tracy Winegar – 1st ed
ISBN: 978-1-623420-34-5
1. Love—Fiction. 2. 1930s—Fiction. 3. Farming—Fiction. 4. Relationships—Fiction. I. Title
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Cover Design by Micha Stone and Amy Brokaw
Interior Book Design by Coreen Montagna
Dedication
Dedicated to my daddy and mom,
his daddy and mama, and to
Rosemary, Marlin, Minnie, DeAnna, and Lee.
Proverb
Part I: Sowing the Seed
Chapter 1
Fall of 1908
JIM HOOPER BEGAN WALKING on a Sunday, a day he generally set aside for worship. But Jim no longer had the desire to worship. The grieving had become so bad; he wondered if there really was a God in the heavens above, for surely no father could watch his child suffer so. His decline had been a steady and steep one. From the time he had covered her up in the ground two weeks ago to now, the fragile shell of his brain had succumbed to the pressure of his loss, and the cracks and fissures had begun to appear and spread like an egg being beaten against the side of a frying pan. So, on this Sabbath day, Jim was about other business.
He had always taken great pride in his land. The red earth neatly and precisely furrowed, worked up fine and soft. No clots. No weeds. Long, straight rows of hand-watered tobacco, fussed over much as a mother would fuss over a child. He had watched it grow with great affection. First had come the fuzzy leaves sprinkled with chartreuse flower buds, then the chest-high foliage, broad and thick and lush.
He was born to be a farmer. It was something that he was good at, something he knew well. He was a giver of life, an alchemist that worked in dirt, seed, and manure. Yet, as the days stretched by, he’d begun to question all that he thought he knew, even farming, that most fundamental part of himself. All else seemed to fall by the wayside. All that he had lived for—the very reasons he had gotten out of bed in the morning—had become unimportant, even trivial.
In the spring, he had planted the tobacco seeds in seed beds, protected with a canvas cover until they had grown strong enough to transplant to the fields. They had grown six to eight inches high, tall enough for Jim to see that they were ready to sink their roots into some real earth. Then he had done the setting, pulling them from the seed beds and putting them into the ground in the fields.
How he had fawned and fussed over them. But somewhere along the way, he had stopped caring. His heart was empty. She was gone, never to occupy the rocker, squinting in the light of the fire as she darned socks. He would never hear her hum a tune as she hung out the laundry, or watch her strain fresh milk through cheese cloth into a pail. There were so many small things that he had taken for granted when he had her. Jim now saw them for what they were: daily miracles of living.
Maybe he should have counted himself lucky that he’d had her at all, that for one brief moment she’d been his and they had known such complete joy. She had confided in him once that all it had taken was a good look at the back of his neck. She had said, with a sheepish smile, that she’d spotted him out back of Beaty’s Grocery playing at horseshoes while she and her friends were having a grape soda pop, and just the sight of the back of his neck had convinced her that this was the man she would marry.
In all of his sad and difficult life, she had been the bright ray that had made it all seem worth the struggle. And what more could a man want from life than the companionship of a good and true woman? Edith had been that and more. So much more.
Two weeks had passed, and he had tried to keep up with the farm out of duty, out of routine, out of doing what he had always done. But gradually, as the days had slipped by, he had stopped toiling and struggling with it. To start with, Jim had wondered what might happen. He had the notion that the farm would go the way of his soul, a mirror image of the ruin he felt inside of himself. He imagined that if someone were to slice him open, he might very well resemble an apple that looked all shiny and golden by its exterior but once cut into was all decaying brown and rotten flesh, good for nothing. What did he care of the farm anyhow? Or, how could he care now that she was gone?
The place seemed to have a will stronger than his. Sure, it was worse for wear, but it still struggled on. God had seen fit to water his crop for him, and the tobacco had thrived on its own without Jim’s loving attention, as if to flaunt its own abilities and confirm his lack of significance. And as the leaves grew stronger and paler, to a yellow-green hue, it was a painful reminder that life went on.
Now, the tobacco was ready to harvest, waiting to be cropped, managing, somehow, to have withstood the scorching heat of the merciless sun. Still, Jim ignored the signs he had so eagerly watched for in seasons past, and just as the cutting had been left undone, so had other things about the farm. By and by, he had fallen out of his usual habits and taken to sitting in a stupor of self-pity, letting the day fritter by with no productivity on his part as the evening shadows engulfed him. And his mind worked over what he could have done, what he should have done differently to save her. He, the man who had vowed to provide for her and protect her. He, the man who had failed her.
Out of mercy, Jim had finally given in and milked the cow that afternoon. It had been bawling so loudly that he just hadn’t been able to ignore it any longer. How long had it been? Couldn’t have been more than a day or two, he’d told himself. The old Guernsey was usually a gentle thing, but she had voiced her discomfort when he had finally come around to milk her, her teats leaking, her udder bulging and taut.
When Jim had finished the milking, he had gone into the house to have another drink. Though he was normally not a drinking man, he had taken up the pastime recently. He’d had an occasional glass of corn whiskey now and then but always for what he would have said were only “medicinal purposes.” Never enough to get drunk.
Another exception to his usual conduct, he had gotten drunk. Very drunk. He’d let the devil have his way about it, giving into the thoughts that beset his weakened mind. Have a drink, the seductive voice had whispered. It will surely take away the pain. And, perhaps at first, Jim had attempted to resist. It will take your burden from you, it had insisted. It will make you feel nothing. That is what you want, isn’t it, to be numb, to feel nothing?
The first several times he had gotten drunk, it had left him violently ill, for his system was not used to the ample flow of alcohol. But it had felt good to hurt so, to be so physically crippled, to inflict such punishment upon his body. He would drink until he vomited and then drink more. Eventually, he would pass out and later wake up in strange positions in various p
laces about the house and yard. His mind was a splendid fog of confusion—long stretches of time gone and shameful behaviors Jim failed to remember. He could forget what had happened and live in the surreal hallucinations that haunted him.
When the drink began to leave his system, his limbs would shake and his body would break out in a cold sweat, his head throbbing cruelly. However, after several days of binging, he had grown to tolerate it. If he had not been so weak, so small and feeble, so pathetic, he might have had the guts to drink until he was dead. But he never brought himself to death—only the verge of it.
On this day, while he threw down one glass after another, his foggy brain had formulated a plan. His lips sucked the last of the amber liquid from his glass, and he slammed it back onto the table, angry that it was empty. Angry that he needed it. Angry that it hadn’t taken away the pain and only seemed to magnify it. Angry that he had been driven to that point. Even angry enough that his plan seemed sane.
It made sense that someone should hurt as badly as he did, and since he couldn’t punish God, he chose the next worthy candidate. The doctor had let her die. He had let her die, and there needed to be some retribution for someone, anyone…
She made his usual breakfast that day. Only it was not like every other day. It was the day his world would end. He didn’t know that yet, and so he ate his bacon, eggs, biscuits, and gravy without enjoying them properly. His Edith knew how to please a man’s stomach. She was far superior in that area to most women. He liked watching her at work as she kneaded the dough, scattering the flour across the surface of the table with her slender hands. How she stirred the pot slowly, deliberately, as if she were engaged in some form of worship, as if each meal were a work of art. She was so meticulous about her duties.
After finishing his breakfast, he kissed her and held her close, with her big belly pressed between them. He placed a little peck on her brow before putting his hat on his head and leaving to tend to his tobacco. After cleaning up breakfast and tending to things about the house, Edith eventually emerged to milk the cow, as she did every morning. He watched her with pleasure as she made her way to the barn, swinging the empty bucket in sync with her fast pace.
Jim thought it was funny that her stride was so broad and ambitious. Edith was such a tiny thing, but even he, with his long legs, struggled to keep up. She always wanted to get wherever she was going in such a hurry. Why was she so impatient?
The question lingered, but he did not have an answer for it, so he pushed the recollection aside, rubbed his whiskered chin, and let out a sour belch. Yes, Jim knew exactly what he would do.
He got up from the table, staggering a little, trying to steady himself on drunken legs, and went for the door, where his essentials were stowed on the pegs on the wall. He stuck his arms in his old coat, having some difficulty with it because of his state. He pulled his hat down tight on his head, went to the cupboard in the kitchen, and got his pistol. He headed out as the sun grew very low in the sky, lighting it up with fiery reds and oranges.
For the first time in two weeks, he had a purpose. He had a destination. He was going to town. He was going to have a visit with the doctor. If Jim hadn’t been so drunk, he would have thought to take his horse.
With every step of the rutted road, his goal became clearer and sharper in his mind. First, it was an image focusing then blurring, growing dim and then bright. His pace grew faster as the memories flooded him. The more he walked, the more clarity came to him. He thought of her pain, her fear.
She went to the barn to do her milking, and he busied himself with checking the progress of his tobacco. He observed that it would be ready soon, ready to cut, ready to thread onto the tobacco spears that he would hang from the barn rafters to dry. He saw her come from the barn with the bucket filled to the rim with foaming milk. She dropped it.
Jim thought to himself that she was going to be good and mad for making that mistake and almost laughed, thinking on how she would scold herself thoroughly for such a blunder. But instead of stamping her foot and cursing, instead of bending to pick up the bucket, she remained hunched over, holding her swollen belly. He knew immediately that something was wrong, and he ran through the rows of tobacco, breaking the leaves of the plants in his haste, as he hurried to her. A dark fear rushed through him, starting in his throat and coursing through his gut, pushing him to increase his speed as he struggled to reach her.
He called to her. She said nothing, only looked up at him with eyes full of fear and panic, her mouth pressed in a grim line. She brought her hand up from between her legs and gasped when she saw it was wet. His arms around her, he carried her back to the house. Once inside, he lowered her onto the big iron bed.
Jim was sick at the thought of it. He gritted his teeth, and his long, calloused fingers curled tightly about the gun in his pocket, reassuring and comforting him, as each stride propelled him closer to his goal. Yes, he would go and call on the good doctor. He would go to his fine house, with all of his fine things, and he would pay him a little visit.
Chapter 2
IT WAS FULLY DARK by the time he hit town. Good and dark, the streets empty. The only trace of whiskey was the slightly queasy feeling in his stomach. His illness had left him, but his rage had not. The rage had replaced the drunkenness but felt even better. Now, rage drove him, not the drink, and he felt wonderfully lucid.
He hung back in the shadows of the trees that lined the street for a moment, watching the doctor’s house for any signs of life within.
He had come here that day, once he had discovered how bad off she really was.
Edith was distraught. She told him that the baby was coming. But it wasn’t time for the baby to come. It was too early. He told her he would fetch the doctor. He told her he would only be gone for a bit. He told her everything would be all right.
She agreed that would be the best thing to do, holding her belly and lying back on the bed. He didn’t want to leave her. Fearful of what might happen with her there alone, he raced to harness the horse and hitch it to the wagon and then hollered the brown mare into a dead run out of the yard and onto the rutted dirt road. He took the curves too fast, nearly colliding with another wagon on the winding mountain road during the forty-five minute dash to town.
But when he reached Doctor Fielding’s home, Gilda Fielding said the doctor was not there. He was off tending to someone else. Jim was panic-stricken, and Gilda could do nothing but sympathize with him.
“Please,” he said. “I don’t know nothin’ to do for her. Please come on and hep her.”
Gilda was in a difficult spot. She reasoned that if she left to go with him, the doctor wouldn’t know to come. She said he wouldn’t be much longer. She would tell him Edith needed help. She promised Jim that she would send the doctor out to the farm the second he returned. And she promised that she would come along too, to help.
Now, standing outside of that same home he had come to the day she had died, feeling his heart pound furiously within his rib cage and adrenaline pump through his veins, he wondered if he could do it. Could he kill another human being?
And then he thought of Edith. He thought of her thick brown hair, normally worn in a tight bun but which cascaded down to her shoulders when she would pull the pins and shake it loose. He pictured her tan cheeks and the freckles on her bronzed arms and remembered the milky white softness of the skin beneath her stockings and dress. He also remembered how her rounded belly had grown large and taut. His Edith, who had been so small, so fragile compared to his big, clumsy frame. She had been strong, could put in a day’s work that was equal to a man’s, but she had been slender and small-boned too.
The memories flooded his mind again, coming in a wave of remorse and regret.
He left the doctor’s house that day without any doctor to show for it, pushing the tired horse back up the mountain road just as he had come, feeling an urgency he had never felt before. She was alone. She was afraid. She was his responsibility. It was his job to p
rotect her, to take care of her, to see to it that nothing harmed her. She was relying upon him.
Leaving the winded mare to stand in the yard, he vaulted from the seat and sprinted into the house. He could hear Edith moaning before he reached their bedroom, and the sound made his stomach drop.
Relief flooded her face when she saw him again, glad that he had returned, desperate for help. She looked past him, expecting the doctor, but he wasn’t following along behind.
She asked him where the doctor was. It was left to Jim to tell her the doctor was not coming. He saw the panic setting in and attempted to soothe her, reaching to smooth his frantic wife’s hair.
It was torture to hear her groan, to see her suffering. And she told him how it hurt, how frightened she was, murmuring over and over that it was not time…It was not time. As she writhed in pain, Jim unlaced her dusty shoes and took them off her feet, setting them on the floor next to the bed neatly beside one another. He rolled her stockings down and pulled them off, placing them on the chest of drawers. He then followed her direction as she asked him to remove her soaked underwear and pulled her dress down to cover her legs.
Bewildered by his helplessness, he asked her what more he could do. Edith momentarily distracted him by requesting a drink of water. It gave him something to do, and he went quickly to the cistern in the kitchen and brought back a cup of water. Struggling to sit up, she drank it messily while he held the cup to her lips, sloshing much of it onto the front of her dress. When she signaled she’d had enough, Jim put the cup on the table next to the bed and helped ease her back onto the pillow. She whimpered a little, her knuckles white as she clenched her fists, a striking contrast to the colors of the quilt that her mama had made, one of the few things she had left to remember her by.
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