“I do indeed, Mr. Jones. Would you like me to bring it out?”
“Perhaps not at this moment, but I would definitely like to look at it another time,” he said as he put the derby back on the shelf. Hoping to get out of the store before embarrassing himself further, he put his fedora on and thanked Wilson. Once outside, he walked his horse to the water trough at the south end of the store. When he was sure that the bay was secured to the rail of the porch, he crossed the road to the hotel. Maybe Wilson will be able to direct me to a farmer or two who might be open to making a deal, he thought. That would be fine, just fine.
But Mark Wilson knew exactly what Edwin T. Jones represented, and it was trouble.
After dinner, Jones left the hotel in Lynnville, wishing he’d listened to the storekeeper’s advice. He’d chosen the daily special, which had sounded tasty, but now the meal was churning in his gut. While he ate dinner, he’d had a bit of luck. He overheard some men talking in the hotel dining room. One of the men said that several farmers on the Fairbanks road would be in desperate need for cash come harvest time. Jones thought that he might as well take advantage of the opportunity and make his first deal with one of these desperate farmers. He turned east and found himself on another narrow, wheel-rutted road and spotted a young boy of ten or twelve engaged in clearing weeds from the ditch. He thought he’d find out if the boy’s father was available to talk.
Before he approached the boy, though, Jones sat on his horse, concealed by the shade of a stand of beech trees. It had been his practice to watch people, searching for things about them he could turn into compliments. This had worked well for him in the past, and he was confident it would work again today. Once he caught on to the boy’s rhythm, he gently heeled the horse’s flanks and moved closer.
“Excuse me, young man. You are certainly a fine craftsman in the art of weed chopping. Might I have the privilege of knowing your name?”
The boy turned and squinted up at Jones. He clearly hadn’t understood Jones, and when he saw the man’s fancy clothes and his big horse, he immediately grew cautious.
“I said, what’s your name?”
“John Stanley Wilson, sir.”
“Well, Mr. Wilson, your family certainly has a fine farm and what looks to be a healthy crop of tobacco. Since I assume that you, Mr. John Stanley Wilson, are not the owner of the farm, could you tell me who is?”
“It’s my pa’s farm.”
“And what might his name be?”
The boy appeared to be either formulating an answer or simply didn’t understand him, so Jones added, “Who’s your pa, son? Is he home today?”
“His name is Wes Wilson, and he ain’t home.”
“Then I suppose I’ll have to carry out the first stage of my negotiation with you, young man. Would that be all right?”
“Yeah, I suppose.”
Jones reached into the pocket of his vest and said, “All right, then. If I was to give you this brand new, shiny, silver ten-cent piece, would you be so kind as to give my calling card to your father when he returns from running his errands?”
“Yes sir, I will.”
“And would you also tell him that I will return mid-morning tomorrow to discuss an offer on his tobacco at a price I believe he’ll be seriously interested in?”
“Well, sir, Mr. Jones, I’ll take the coin and I’ll try to tell him what you said. But if I don’t get this chore done before he gets home, then he truly won’t be interested in anything else I have to say.”
With that, John Stanley reached up to Jones, took the coin and the card and stuffed them into the pocket of his overalls. He looked directly into the buyer’s eyes and then turned abruptly to his weeding. He only knew that Jones was leaving because he heard the sound of the bay as it trotted down the road. By the time he could no longer hear the horse, he’d returned to his rhythm of chop, pull, throw and began dreaming about what he could do with his shiny new dime. But it didn’t take him long to realize that he’d have to give the money to his pa. If I don’t and Mr. Jones asks Pa about it, then Pa will ask me why I didn’t tell him. If I do give Pa the dime, then I won’t get to spend it myself. He finally decided that the only safe thing to do, especially since his pa was already mad about something, was to give him the card and the coin and see what happened.
* * *
About a quarter-mile from his farm, Wes saw the smoke from the burning weeds. I’ll give John Stanley some time to finish up and head home so he can get there before I do, he thought as he got down off the mule and let it chew on a patch of grass at the side of the road. While he waited, he thought about the distance he’d created between himself, Zora and Anthie, and wondered if there was some way he could hide his growing anxiety from them. He rolled himself a cigarette and lit it with a wooden match and waited until he saw the smoke begin to fade away. Guessing that his son was on the way back to the house, he mounted the mule and rode toward home.
When he turned onto the lane, he saw John Stanley trudging toward the barn, the hoe across his shoulders like an ox yoke. A few steps behind her brother, Irene dragged the water bucket at her side. Their bodies were covered with dirt, and they looked tired.
“It looks like the two of you have been rollin’ around in an ash pile,” he said, smiling just a little. “Maybe I ought to throw you in the pond.”
“Aw, Pa, we were burnin’ weeds just like you told us to,” said Irene. “We didn’t roll in no ashes.”
“Yeah, Pa,” added John Stanley, “I got rid of all of the weeds, and Irene finally showed up when I started to burn ’em.” He looked at his sister and added, “But she helped a little.”
“That’s good, then. Go and wash up and tell your ma I’ll be in soon. I want to check out the sty and the garden after I put up the mule. Did anythin’ else happen today while I was gone?”
“A man stopped by this afternoon to talk with you. He gave me somethin’ to give you.” John Stanley looked at his pa, wondering if there was any chance he could keep the dime. He saw a softening in his pa’s eyes and knew that telling him anything but the whole truth would turn them hard again.
“Well, get cleaned up and we’ll talk about it when I come in,” said Wes. He pulled the mule into the barn as the youngsters headed to the pump. After putting the animal into the stall, he removed the blanket and the bridle, set a bucket of oats in front of the mule and closed the gate. A man stopped by to talk with me, he thought. I wonder what that’s all about.
Wes saw that Irene hadn’t done much in the garden, but maybe Zora didn’t have anything for her to do. Wes had no concerns about Connie’s farming skills. He knew that the boy could work hard, that he understood what it took to grow the crops and keep the place in working order. Wes also knew that Anthie didn’t have the same skills or interest. What’s going to happen to that boy? he wondered.
* * *
Zora had just started supper when John Stanley and Irene came into the kitchen. When she saw that they’d washed their faces and hands but had neglected their arms, she almost sent them back outside to wash again, but was distracted when Mary Lula came into the kitchen from the back of the house. Ruthie hung onto her apron with one hand and a large wooden spoon with the other. A quizzical look crossed Zora’s face, and when she started to ask about the spoon, Mary Lula said, “Ruthie’s been chasin’ flies.”
Zora smiled at her youngest and then stood next to Mary Lula. She turned to Irene, and they talked about the garden. When she asked John Stanley what he’d been doing, he muttered “weeds” and then left the room in a hurry. He doesn’t look upset, she thought, but he sure must have somethin’ on his mind.
Zora looked up as Wes stepped through the door. His eyes were not as dark, and his face seemed softer, more relaxed. But she knew from the set of his shoulders that he was still bothered. She waited for him to speak first, and when he did, her thoughts were confirmed.
“
After supper, before I speak with the boys, we need to talk. I’ve got some news and a few ideas.”
“All right,” she said. “Will you be ready to eat soon? Supper’s almost ready.”
“Uh huh. I just want to change out of these muley clothes. Do we have coffee?”
“I just made a fresh pot. I’ll pour you some.”
Wes headed toward the bedroom, stopping only to touch Mary Lula on the shoulder and to kiss Ruthie on the top of her curly hair. “What’s that you have there, little girl?”
Ruthie mumbled something that sounded like “flies,” but Wes could only guess what she meant. Ruthie spun around and followed her pa as he walked down the short hall. Zora set the knife down and caught Ruthie before she’d gone a half-dozen steps. She picked her up and brought her back into the kitchen.
“Here, munch on this for a while,” she said, handing her a small chunk of raw potato.
While Wes was buttoning up a clean shirt, John Stanley tapped lightly on the door. “Pa, can I come in?”
Wes looked up and nodded. Then he told him to close the door. “You said a man came by today askin’ for me?”
“Yes, Pa, he said his name was…” the boy paused for a moment, trying to remember what the man had said. “He said his name was Edwin T. Jones. He told me to give you his card and to tell you he’d come by tomorrow.” He blurted out the rest of what he had to say in a flurry of words. “He gave me this coin too, but I think I need to give it to you ’cause we need the money and I’d just prob’ly waste it anyway, so here it is.” He placed the dime on the bed next to Wes and just stood there, with his chin on his chest.
“Hold on, son.” Wes could barely conceal the smile that broke out on his face. “He gave you this dime and told you to give me a card?”
“Yes, Pa,” he said, still staring at the floor.
“Well, why don’t you give me his card and tell me the whole story.” Wes sat on the bed and pulled his son down next to him. He took the calling card from John Stanley and looked at it. Despite what Jones might have thought about farmers and their literacy, Wes could read. What stood out and caught his attention were the bold black letters at the top of the card—The American Tobacco Company. He turned and looked at the boy.
“Tell me about this Mr. Jones.”
For the next five minutes, John Stanley told his pa everything he could remember about the conversation and what the man looked like. He described the fancy clothes and the horse and told him how hard it was to understand Jones because of the odd words he used. He made sure to tell him that there was something about Jones that he didn’t like.
“It was somethin’ in his eyes, Pa. He was smilin’ but it wasn’t real.”
“Thanks, son. You can go get ready for supper now.” Wes suddenly felt anxious. His chest tightened as he considered the news. He stood up and walked into the kitchen, looking for Zora.
* * *
For most of the morning, Anthie had done what his pa had asked him to do. He found a cool spot under a tree and sat down to think about the men he’d seen on Sunday night. He tried to remember how many of them there had been, but couldn’t be sure if there were ten or twelve. Only three of the men had spoken, and he hadn’t recognized any of the voices. He couldn’t even remember exactly what was said. It had been too dark to tell the color of the horses or recognize any piece of clothing. As he whittled sticks he kept searching his memory for something that might be helpful to his pa. But after a while, the gentle sound of the water flowing in the creek caused his thoughts to drift along with the ripples, and he started thinking about Sudie. He remembered how the setting sun highlighted her brown hair with gold streaks. He could still feel the warmth of her hand and the touch of her lips on his cheek. He remembered how good it had felt when she said his name. Before long, Anthie was snoring, propped up against the tree.
The screech of a raven flying through the woods startled him awake. His knife and whittling stick lay in the grass beside him. He sat for a moment looking up at the peaceful sky. Sure would be nice to go back to sleep, he thought, but he knew he needed to have something to tell his pa. He tried again to recall the event on the road, but he could remember no more than he already had. I guess that’s what I’ll tell Pa. Ten or twelve masked men on horses, three of them spoke, one was the leader and he was angry. They were headin’ into Tennessee and knew where they were goin’.
His growling stomach reminded him that he’d slept through dinner. He slipped the knife into his pocket and kneeled down at the edge of the creek. He cupped his hands and drank some of the water and then splashed another handful in his face, hoping it would wake him up. Drying off with his shirt sleeve, he rose and headed home. I hope this gets me off the hook with Pa, he thought. I hope he apologizes and that he’s not drinkin’. If he is, I’m not stickin’ around.
Coming out of the woods, he looked across the field of tobacco and saw his pa leading the mule into the barn. He stopped and took a few steps back. Hiding in the shade, he decided to wait until his pa was inside. He won’t yell at me in front of Ma, he thought. He watched John Stanley and Irene wash up at the pump and then go into the house. A few minutes later his pa did the same. It doesn’t look like he’s drunk, but it’s hard to tell from this far away. He stood there for a few minutes, wanting to avoid what lay ahead. He thought one more time about Sunday night, trying to remember the details, and then walked to the house.
When Anthie walked through the door into the kitchen, the smell of ham filled the air. His older sister was busy slicing the meat from the bone, and the sizzling sound it made as she placed it in the skillet made his stomach ache. When he reached into the pan to grab some of the meat, Mary Lula smacked him lightly on the back of his head.
“Can’t you wait for supper?”
“No, I can’t. I haven’t had anythin’ to eat since breakfast. I’m starvin’.”
“Then grab a piece of bread instead. I baked it today. Be sure you wash up first.”
“You ain’t my ma.”
“No, I ain’t. But I am the cook, so wash up first.”
He carved a piece of bread off of the loaf and turned to go back outside. But Mary Lula caught his shirt sleeve and handed him a good-sized chunk of ham. Then she smiled at him and said, “That ought to keep you ’til supper.”
“Where’s Pa?” he asked Mary Lula.
“He and Ma are outside, back of the barn. They’re talkin’ about something private, so don’t you go out there.”
“I’m not goin’ anywhere near Pa until he wants me to.”
* * *
Wes and Zora were standing near the woodpile at the back of the barn. She watched his face, looking for signs of trouble, as he told her what he’d learned at Art’s.
“I expected Mollie to have trouble after the baby,” she said. “She’s nearly as old as me, and she had four other children with Mr. Arnold.”
“You’re probably right, but Art’s a good man, and it makes no difference to him if she’s older or was married before. He’ll take care of her.”
Wes hunkered down and pulled at a weed. Then he looked up at Zora and said, “But there’s more you need to know about what’s goin’ on in the county.”
“What is goin’ on, Wes?”
“Art told me about some of the Association meetin’s he’s been to. Accordin’ to him, those fellas don’t talk much about what they’re doin’ or what they’re plannin’ until you join up. He ain’t done it yet, but I think he will soon. I told him I’d go with him to one of the meetin’s next week, just so we could get more information. We figure the more we know, the smarter we’ll be when it comes time to choose. And we’re both gonna have to choose pretty soon.”
“Are you thinkin’ of joinin’?”
“I just don’t know, Zora. I still need more information from Anthie.” He paused and added, “I’m also gonna talk with a to
bacco buyer tomorrow.”
“When did you meet him?”
“I haven’t yet. He gave his card to John Stanley this afternoon and told the boy he’d be back here tomorrow. Once I talk to him and go to the meetin’ next week, I’ll know exactly what my choices are.”
“I sure hope you and Art take enough time to think things through before you decide on what you’re gonna do.”
“We will.” He paused and then stood up. Facing his wife, he said, “But I’ve got an idea that just might help.” Wes pulled his hat off, rolled it up and stuffed it into his back pocket. He took both of Zora’s hands in his own and looked straight at her. He knew his idea was selfish, but that it would please her. “I’m gonna let Anthie go see Sudie on Saturday or Sunday.”
“Oh, Wes.” Her eyes smiled back at him.
“I’m gonna let him go see her if he does somethin’ for me while he’s there. I want him to talk to her pa and find out what the farmers down there are thinkin’. I want him to ask about buyers, the Association and if there’s been any Night Riders.”
“But, Wes, don’t you think that’s dangerous? What if her pa is a Night Rider?”
“I’m gonna have to trust my son to know when to ask the questions. I’m gonna talk to him after supper, and I won’t send him without bein’ sure he’s ready.”
They spent the next few minutes talking about tobacco and their limited choices. Zora got the feeling that Wes was less angry with Anthie and that he hoped the boy would appreciate the chance to see Sudie. She also saw this as the only apology he’d likely get from his pa.
* * *
After a calm supper, Zora and the girls picked up the dishes. Wes looked at Anthie and signaled that he should follow him outside. Anthie’s throat felt suddenly tight and his mouth dry, but he didn’t hesitate. He didn’t know which of his pa’s personalities he’d see out there: the one who’d beaten him on Sunday, or the one who’d given him a free day today. They stepped off the porch and walked to the end of the lane. Cautiously, Anthie stood back from his pa and waited, thinking, I’m not gonna risk gettin’ hit again.
Death in the Black Patch Page 8