by Clara Hume
Poor Eugenia's husband had just died, but her faithful son and friends who'd learned of the news came to comfort her. Caine and Maisie were off together gathering kindling. Fran was talking with Leo, and they were smiling because he had just shaved and it was like she was seeing him anew and teasing him for his old actor's face. Then he pulled out that old guitar and started strumming something very old, before our time, before our parents' times--a song that had stood through time. It was about a man who rode across the snow on horseback. I thought of what their home in Idaho had been like in the winter, where they said it got cold in the mountains. I suddenly wanted to do just that. If a horse could hold my weight. I wanted to ride, ride, ride across the snow on a horse. As Leo sang, I watched the others who had others: Joe was sitting with Mei, even though she was a funny chick who wouldn't talk, and Daniel and Elena were soothing their daughter.
Everyone's got someone, I thought. I closed my eyes to the night of humidity, caught the familiar scent of a potluck, and lifted my head up to the sky, which was full of stars and moon. I dreamed of cold, of snow, of being a different man: I dreamed of riding a horse across the snow and laughing like a crazy hermit with all the soul in his belly that any old madman could muster. I may not have had anyone, but I had a new dream.
Maisie—Chapter 21
We left that ancient and decrepit camp of Eugenia's, south of Vicksburg, Mississippi, and were as refreshed as we could be. The dying river had provided us some reprieve, but not much. Now as we rode on, the sun dipped down to the Earth like a woman picking flowers, gathering those who were living and bringing us closer to her heart, smothering us in heat. Unlike the desert, it was the moist and unbearable heat of the South, and with it came insects of all kinds, biting us and leeching our blood.
Without Jimmy, we had a little more space. And poor Buddha had lost some weight too, giving us more room, though he preferred driving his bike. Because Mei seemed claustrophobic, she chose to ride with Buddha most of the time and nobody argued. He was happy talking to her without answer, and was still inwardly sorting out the fact he lost his friends.
It was mine and Caine's turn to drive together. We stayed south of old Highway 20 and headed toward Jackson, still frightened by the highway deaths that had befallen Wesley and the bandits. To conserve our energy, Caine and I talked as little as we could, but he'd told me of his old ranch in Australia and how he'd ended up in the states. We were headed toward the section of country where he'd grown up.
"Got anyone left there in Miami?" I asked.
"Not that I know of,” he replied nonchalantly.
I thought he was hot. His dark body perpetually went without a shirt during the day, and his muscles rippled broadly across his back and shoulders.
I still felt bad for looking at him that way, considering Joe had had something for me since as far back as I could remember, but one day at Eugenia's I caught Joe staring at Mei with a light in his eyes and felt a relief. It was after she had saved him and the others.
By and by, we came across another roadside stand. This one we drove right up to, and it was run by a haggard woman with her two teenage sons. They traded us an ancient road atlas, which was missing Texas for some reason, for some fresh fruit, and waved us on.
We spread the pages open to reveal towns like Edwards, Champion Hill, Bolton, Clinton. We wouldn't drive straight through Jackson, but around it. Then we'd shoot over to Alabama. I wished I could remember exactly where my mammaw had lived. I just knew it was somewhere near South Finley.
That night a full moon hung in the sky, screened by mist. I remembered the desert moon we'd traveled, where the skies were clear and everything was silhouetted in perfection. I drove first, while Caine settled in beside me. He was in charge of water and guns. Skirting behind us were Buddha and Mei, in the sidecar. They stayed a short distance back but within clear sight of us.
Strangely, that also was the first night Floppy left his usual spot and sat with us at the front of the wagon. He didn't get near enough to touch us, but flopped down and snored.
"Ever been to the east?" Caine asked me after we got over the surprise about the dog.
"Only when I went back with my mother a few times. I was so little I don't know if I can find her place now."
"I went through Athens on my way north from Miami," he said. "Only thing I stopped to see was the son of the tree that owns itself."
I had seen that tree, I thought, though until now I had completely forgotten it. I must have been so young. His triggering of the lost memory amazed me.
"I know that tree," I said, giddy. I liked his strong presence as he sat close enough that our knees touched, and I softened at his Australian accent that sounded so exotic and new.
He smiled at me. "Was it far from your mother's old place?"
"Within walking distance," I said, remembering more and more. "She grew up in a house near South Finley. I had forgotten how close the tree was. My mammaw took me to see it when I was, oh, five or so? I still remember running around it until I was so tired that I wandered off to a nearby gazebo to rest."
He laughed, his white teeth gleaming under the hazy moon.
Nostalgia rushed at me, shared with this stranger.
"Honey," he stated, "If you can't find your mother, I want you to know I'll lend an ear if you want to talk about it."
Despite the heat, I felt a chill up my spine, one of newness and desire. Nobody had ever regarded me with a term of endearment, except for my mother, and she didn't count.
"I am not too worried. I'm already expecting the worst."
"Just sayin', you know."
After that, I felt those old feelings surface that had come about in bits and pieces throughout my life, not for Joe, but for various ranchers' sons and school boys. They may have made me mushy inside, but I never followed my feelings. And it was a good thing because once I got to know those guys, none were as appealing and mysteriously wonderful as I had first thought.
So far, Caine seemed different. I had started getting to know him, and upon each word he uttered, I melted. I might as well be a teenager again, I thought, with these crazy chemicals and hormones coursing through my body. I figured he didn't feel the same, though, and was just a nice guy drifting along with us.
Fran and Leo had taken us all in. Along with Elena and Daniel, they provided the core of our group, picking up us others like a surrogate family. I felt beholden to them. Though they were isolated people in manner, they were each genuinely caring. Not one to toss a man out, but to help lift him up. They took us drifters all in: me, Caine, Joe, Mei, Buddha, and even Floppy.
"The moon is as still as the night," Caine said. "What I wouldn't do for a good buster right now." He paused and then clarified, "That's a wind."
I chuckled. "A buster sounds good." I felt warm. I wished for him to touch me, and I began dreaming that we were snuggled together by a cozy hearth fire during winter. Would I go back to Idaho with the crew? They said the winters were still cold higher up, snow still fell, wolves still howled, and at least one bear roamed the forests there.
I swallowed hard. Felt light-headed. But drove on through the night.
As dawn emerged later and the small rumblings of Kristy and the others scattered through the wagon, I noticed that Caine had fallen asleep. I elbowed him. "Wake up, mate," I said mimicking his tongue.
"Aren't I a crook," he mumbled, waking to an already sweltering day beneath the steamy sunrise.
"Don't worry. I would have let you know if something came upon us in the night.
"I'm still a drongo for falling asleep on you." He wiped a sweaty bunch of hair out of his eyes.
"Not so," I said, being honest.
He asked me to stop the wagon, so he could take over the wheel. I agreed.
The old South that rose around us as we drudged through Mississippi onward to Alabama was not the land I remembered. We still stayed away from cities. The rural acreage spreading beside the road was no longer filled with tobacco, co
tton, corn, or anything else. We came across smaller horticulture along the way, family plots of tomatoes, green beans, and survival food. It seemed similar to how Fran had described her garden on the mountain. Heat had caused the land to dry up more than it used to be, though the moisture in the air was still horrible, bringing with it swaths of gnats, mosquitoes, and flies. The soil was not good for growing much these days, not in big amounts. In many places, the land looked like it had separated it was so dry. And water sources were not clean anymore. If you didn't know how to filter out your water and clean it, you would not survive and neither would your plants.
When water and air changed, when land changed, the culture transformed too. From my visits here when very young, I recalled how you could walk into a city and hear comforting southern accents. People would come right up to you and offer something hospitable: a glass of sweet tea or kind words. The architecture of buildings and landscapes were rooted to some long-ago settlers and their big ideas. I thought of the old tree that owned itself. If Caine and I could find that tree that owns itself I bet I could find my mother's old house. A few times Fran and I had reminisced about our young memories of the South—and how it was odd we were looking for mothers who had perhaps gone crazy, leaving us like they did. The parallels between us were uncanny.
Caine would glance at me now and then, and me at him, though we didn't stare directly. But I caught him at it once, and he also caught me at the same time, and we broke down and laughed.
"How soon before you expect we get to Athens?" I asked him.
"At this rate, not for another couple of days," Caine said solemnly.
Light rose, roadside stands passed by in a blur, and finally it was time to stop the wagon and have breakfast. Then Caine and I were off duty for the day and could sleep before resuming our drive tonight.
We had turned off on the old Natchez Trace Parkway to head up to the reservoir, and Caine steered toward a road near a wash drainage from Costas Lake, northwest of Tougaloo. We drove through a small town that had an old courthouse with pillars supporting its Georgian structure and an entrance loggia built for air circulation in the great southern heat. Nobody was about now, not here nor in town, lending an eerie feel to the morning. Maybe it was too early. Caine went northward toward the reservoir, where we stopped the wagon beneath a bald cypress from which flowed endless tendrils of Spanish moss.
"Was hoping for a bath," Caine said.
I nodded in agreement. His arm wrapped around my waist, causing my body to feel faint and all the blood to rush downward.
"Last night would have been a good chance for us to really talk," he said. "Guess I was plum beat."
"We have all the time in the world," I reminded him.
At the edge of the lake, I noticed a dam off in the distance. I knelt down and took a water sample. Very low in coliforms, I noticed, but something nearby still smelled like death.
That's when Caine put a finger to my lips and then pointed across the lake to a home with wood smoke trailing from its yard. We went back to find the others and let them know we weren't alone.
It was decided that the Daniel and Leo, who were like the leaders of our group, would trek over there and find out who was living there. The rest of us emptied our dirty clothes into the lake to wash them, meanwhile putting old rags over our mouths and nostrils to keep out that nasty odor emanating from somewhere nearby.
I caught sight of Fran throwing up behind an oak tree, another from which the moss flowed, and went over to see if she was okay. "That smell," she whispered. Then threw up again.
I grabbed a rag, dipped it in the cool waters of the lake, and held it to her forehead. She was burning up. I didn't know whether it was from fever or ambient heat. "Come on to the water, Fran. You're too warm."
She followed me, and we dipped our toes into the water. I'd tested this section too—seemed clean. But whatever that smell, whatever it might be, if it were draining into the lake, we'd get sick. Fran confirmed my results; the lake was not perfect but clean enough to immerse ourselves. Fran and I removed our clothes and bathed, scrubbing our hair and skin. We wrung out our old clothes and hung them on the side of the wagon to dry. All the time, we watched around the lake until the men grew distant and then disappeared altogether.
We started a fire and fished up a few crappies from the lake for breakfast. Our dried apples from Idaho served as a complement to the meal. Feeling full, clean, and tired, I lay down to stare up at the ring of trees above me and got lost in the ever-humid sky that would not turn blue due to the haze—more like a sour apple color. I thought of Leo and Daniel, wondering who they would meet at the cabin. An old lady who would do no harm? An axe murderer? Backwoods rednecks who would shoot them?
But they returned soon enough and said that there was a young family at the house who'd been cleaning out the lake best they could. The smell?
"Man of the house shot up a bunch of bandits yesterday over yonder. He left them to die, so that's what you're smelling," explained Leo. Where he pointed wasn't far away. He said, "They are up on a hill opposite from where anything would drain into the lake. Guy figured they would get picked clean from scavengers and the smell would go away soon enough."
I shuddered. Caine came over to gaze at me and say, "I see you got cleaned up."
"The lake feels good," I responded.
He regarded me with dark eyes, removed his shirt, threw it over his shoulder, and went to clean up. Meanwhile I couldn't keep my eyes off of him.
Caine and I took a nap in the back of the wagon that day and woke up across the border in Alabama, where Daniel had driven us parallel to the south side of the Alabama River. He had followed signs to the Sevenmile Island wildlife area, where we stopped for supper and a swim. Fran felt better, and her forehead was no longer hot. For the first time since that storm near the Mississippi River, we felt a cold front coming from the northwest, which dropped some rain over us. We collected the rain, swam in the river, but not all the way to the island, and then made a big pot of beans with jerky, onion powder, and dried cilantro. I got my notebook to draw the scene, my focus being Floppy, who lay down next to Fran when she offered him a bit of meat.
"This is food for the gods," said Buddha. He sat cross-legged on the grass by the river, drinking the soup with his porky hands wrapped around a pewter mug.
Leo laughed and said, "Pork and beans was made from God himself if there is such a thing."
We all got a good laugh. Even Mei smiled and ate more than usual.
Later, when Caine and I climbed aboard the driving seat of the wagon, we proceeded to enjoy a night where the haze had broken, the humidity had abridged, and a half moon hung from the sky like a pendant surrounded by star gems.
"This is the kind of night to be on the wallaby," he said. He was a young stud of a man and at the same time a wise old sage who had experienced life in numerous places but kept going back to his native tongue.
I inched closer to him. "Maybe tonight we can talk more," I whispered.
His warm hand rested on my bare knee. "Lady," he told me, "I could talk to you all night."
Talking, I thought, with a coy grin. Yes, there were things we could do all night, and talking wasn't the only one.
The magic of the night was like a yellow brick road to the tree that owned itself, a shared memory and experience. Something we could rediscover together. As the night wore on, and we covered ground from science to philosophy to more on our childhoods, we were hushed once by Elena who said we were being too loud. After a quiet laugh, and feeling like teenagers who were keeping the rest of the camp up all night from our mesmerizing life-affirming observations and closeness, we felt closer than ever.
We had come in to Athens near the 403 and then headed straight east on the 78, still avoiding the highways, finding backroads instead. Our wagon had held out amazingly well. We made our way into the city via West Broad Street, and passed a broken-down lobster restaurant and a pawn shop. The green, steamy day sweltered beneath
a rigid sun, which hid behind clouds. Along the street we didn't see anyone at all, just packs of dogs roaming the city that was overgrown with weeds and wildflowers. We tied up Floppy inside the wagon.
There were cracked sidewalks and magnolia trees. We drove past churches with no followers, schools with no children, and used car lots with no cars except those that had run out of gas right there. Wild foliage had overgrown funeral homes, breweries, grocery marts, bike shops, hotels, delis, and cafés of all ethnicities. Finally, before an old hotel, we turned south onto a dried and fractured street where an old cobblestone path intersected with South Finley. Everything here was overgrown with wildflowers and kudzu.
There in the center of the street, near a decrepit, yellow mansion and on the other side from my now collapsing gazebo, stood the old oak tree that owned itself. Heat poured over us, as we went back into time.
I got out of the wagon and walked over to the tree, feeling Caine behind me. Legend has it that the tree had been a real estate joke, but William H. Jackson enjoyed its shade so much that he left the tree to be protected in his will. That tree had died in a storm, but members of a garden club had planted one of its acorns, which had grown into a new tree that owned itself, now standing here as it had for more than a century before. The white oak once had been full and green but now was dying. I could feel my eyes water. I searched the ground for acorns, but it was too early in the year. I wanted to replant this tree somewhere else, wherever I might settle down after this trip, but no such luck.
For and in consideration of the great love I bear this tree and the great desire I have for its protection for all time, I convey entire possession of itself and all land within eight feet of the tree on all sides.
-William H. Jackson
Caine held my hand and said, "If only someone was still looking after this tree."
I squeezed his hand.
Leo—Chapter 22