Then the car was stopped and the engine shut off. She heard his door open and began to try to find the door handle on her own side, but his hands were on her. She cried aloud as he dragged her into the backseat, “Help me! Somebody help!”
“Scream all you want to, Honey. Ain’t nobody gonna hear you out here.”
Violet felt his hands pulling at her clothing. Her jacket came open, and she reached up to hit him again. He pinioned her easily with his strong left arm, then reaching out, grabbed the top of her dress. With one motion he tore it away, and terror, like a cold wind, pierced her.
Almost all hope left her then. She was alone with a wild beast of a man in an abandoned place, but Violet had courage. He was still holding her arms pinioned. She wrenched loose and with her left hand she jabbed at his eyes. He uttered a cry of rage, and for a moment dropped his hold and reached up to grab his eyes. He cursed, but Violet forced open the car door and stumbled away into the darkness. Bushes and vines grabbed at her and briars scratched at her legs and tore what remained of her dress, but she plunged ahead. She was strong and hearty, and fear was an added spur. Behind her she could hear him yelling, and for a time could hear him crashing through the bushes. But he was a town man, she could tell, and was not familiar with the woods.
She ran until her breath was raw in her throat, then she stopped and leaned against a tree, trembling at every nerve. The cold bit at her as she listened hard. Nothing. Then she began to weep silently, putting her hands over her face. She felt dirty and defiled at the touch of the man’s hands. She pulled her coat together, but he had ripped the buttons off. As she made her way through the woods, she held it together with her hands.
The cold numbed her face and she looked around, straining to see through the darkness. Faintly she heard a car start, and for a time she stood there not knowing what to do. Then she made her way through the woods back toward the road. When she got to the narrow road, she thought she was at the wrong place. The car was gone, and she walked down the road not knowing what she would do if she saw it, whether to run back into the woods or not.
Suddenly she remembered—My suitcase! It’s in his backseat. Frantically she ran down the road peering through the murky darkness, but could see nothing. Back and forth she went, uncertain of the spot. Another wave of fear rushed through her. Not like when the man had been pulling at her, but fear of being alone in a strange place with no money, no clothes—nothing!
Her legs began to tremble with exhaustion and her stomach was knotted up. She looked up and saw that a few feeble stars gleamed through the clouds overhead, but it was a moonless night. She began to walk along the road, clutching her coat around her, tears running down her face. She had never felt so alone in her whole life, and she tried to pray but could not think of any words. She’d said her ritual prayers since she was a child, taught them by her mother, but now they did not seem to be enough.
Finally she made it back to the main road and looked up and down it. There were no lights from the south. Far ahead she saw lights, but they were the lights of a disappearing car. She plodded slowly along and finally the darkness closed in on her completely. Groping her way to the side of the road, she sat down with her back against a huge tree, and as the wind moaned through the branches overhead, Violet Ballard put her face on her arms and struggled with fear.
A FRIEND
The woods that night had been a nightmarish place for Violet. At dawn she had stumbled along the road while weariness dragged at her and the cold numbed her. Finally, she had seen a shape looming to the right and had found a chimney—all that was left of a house that had been burned to the ground. Off to the back of the chimney, however, was what had been a feed bin used to store corn. It had a top that lifted and she had crawled into it seeking relief from the piercing cold. It had been relatively warm inside the bin and she had stayed there, falling asleep. Finally, through the cracks of the warping lumber, the sun touched her eyes and she had crawled out stiffly, hungry, and totally confused.
The road led on, but she had no idea what lay before her. Surely there would be someone in the next town who would help! Then she thought of the rough tramps who passed through constantly and doubt filled her.
For thirty minutes she walked down the road, clutching the mackinaw to her breast. The dress, she saw, was hopelessly ripped and she had no needle, thread, or even a pin to put it together. Her face burned as she thought of the terrible experience. Maybe if I go to the police, she thought, they’ll help me get my money back. But the idea of going into a strange town and seeking help from the police was so foreign to her thinking that she put it aside quickly.
Twenty minutes later, she came to a creek that meandered across the land. A wooden bridge arched over it and she looked down, suddenly reminded of how thirsty she was.
She left the road, walked down to the creek, knelt down, and pressed her face against the water. She had done this many times at the many creeks in the mountains near her home. The water was so cold that it numbed her face and tongue.
“Water’s cold, ain’t it?”
Violet was so startled that she jerked back and scrambled to her feet. There, underneath the bridge, sat a man. He was wearing a cap pulled down over his face and ears, and by the look of his ragged clothes he was evidently a tramp. Fear shot through Violet. She was alone and this man was huge! He had to stoop as he came out from under the cross members of the small bridge. “Creek had ice on it this morning—jest a skim.”
Violet saw that he had a youthful, round face and innocent-looking blue eyes, but he was so big that he seemed to dwarf her. His bare hands, which he took out of his pockets and blew on, were the size of small hams. She began to back away and, without speaking, headed back to the road. “Won’t be no wagons for a couple hours,” the man said. “My name’s Bailey.”
Violet reached the road and looked back and saw that he stood there watching her. The fact that he made no move reassured her, and she took a deep sigh of relief. At least it was daylight now, and she was not in the woods. Surely he wouldn’t try to harm her. “What wagons?” she asked.
“Farmers goin’ to town. They’ll usually give a feller a ride.”
Violet looked down the road, but it was barren—no cars, no wagons, not even a farmer riding a mule. She shivered violently as the cold wind whipped about her, despair filling her heart.
“Say, you look cold. I’d better catch up a fire.” Without turning to look back at her, the huge man called Bailey walked along the creek, picking up sticks as he went. The creek bent in a curve and she lost sight of him for a moment. Standing there alone, she didn’t know what to do. She held her arms across her chest, shivering. She kept watching where the man had disappeared and soon she saw a thin tendril of smoke arise from where the creek bent. It grew larger, and suddenly he appeared, motioning. “I gotta good ’un!” he yelled. “Come get warm!”
Violet hesitated. She looked down the road again, then forward. Nothing was there. I’ve got to get warm, she thought. Surely he wouldn’t bother me in daylight.
Cautiously she went alongside the bridge and followed the creek to the bend. It was only twenty feet away and the tramp already had a good fire going. He was breaking large chunks of a dead oak, and she noticed he snapped them as if they were nothing. She moved close to the fire and held out her hands. It caused her jacket to fall open, and she flushed and pulled it together. It was awkward, but he paid no attention to her. Finally, the fire was roaring and she huddled close, letting the warmth seep into her.
Looking at her with his large, round eyes, Bailey said, “What’s your name?”
“V–Violet, Violet Ballard.”
Bailey thought this over. His lips moved as he framed the syllables and he nodded. “That’s pretty,” he said, then he moved away without a word, leaving her there. Violet was startled at his sudden disappearance, but he was back soon, carrying a blanket roll. He unrolled it and pulled out a pot and two cans of beans. Carefully he arranged two of the
burning logs so he could balance a blackened saucepan on them. He reached down and dipped a little of the creek water into the pan, then pulled out his pocketknife. Removing the tops of the cans, he dumped the contents of one into the pan, then the other.
All this time he had not said a word, and now he sat down and watched the beans carefully. There was something odd about his silence, something that troubled Violet. She asked timidly, “Did you stay under the bridge all night?”
“Yep, I did. It got cold. Started to make a fire once, but then I didn’t.”
He sat there watching the beans until finally they started to bubble. He rummaged through his bedroll and said, “I ain’t got but one spoon. We’ll take turns.” He took one of the cans, emptied half of the beans into it and handed it to her, along with a worn spoon.
“I couldn’t take your breakfast,” Violet protested. The beans smelled good, and she was very hungry.
“Go on—eat ’em. You look hungry.”
Violet took a spoonful of beans, which were very hot. She put them in her mouth gingerly, after blowing on them, and then chewed them. “They’re very good,” she said, swallowing. “Thank you very much.”
He did not answer, and she finished the beans in silence. When she handed the spoon back, he ate the rest of the beans out of the saucepan, seeming not to notice that they were bubbling with heat. Then he washed out the pan in the creek, put it back in his blanket roll, and only then did he turn his attention to her. There was a halting in his speech. It seemed as if he had to think carefully about whatever he said. Soon Violet realized that he had a hulking body, but somehow he was very slow in the mind.
“Thank you very much,” she said. “I’d better get up on the road.”
“Ain’t no need of it,” Bailey said. “We can hear a team coming from a long way off.” He held his hands out over the fire, squatting on his heels, and asked, “Been on the road long?”
“Not too long. Have you?”
He looked at her in surprise. “Oh, I’m always on the road.”
“Don’t you have a home?”
“A home?” He looked puzzled over that and shook his head. “No, I ain’t got no home. Ain’t had one in a long time.” He brightened and said, “I got a watch, you want to see it?”
“Yes, I’d like to.”
Bailey reached his massive fingers into his shirt pocket and came out with a large gold watch. “Look at that! Ain’t that a hummer?”
“It’s very nice. Where did you get it?”
“It belonged to my pa—at least I think he was. Look, the back comes out!” Carefully turning the watch over, he showed her the inscription. She read aloud, “To Ronald A. Bailey, for faithful service, Missouri Pacific Railroad.”
“Is that you, Ronald Bailey?”
“No.”
“Is that your father?”
“I guess—I don’t know. My ma said he was. I never seen him though.” He turned the watch over fondly, rubbed it with his thumbnail as if it were some sort of talisman, and then put it back in his pocket. “It’s all I had when I left home—that and a dollar bill. Ma couldn’t keep me anymore, so I left and went out on the road.”
He spoke cheerfully enough and changed subjects abruptly. “There’s a tater field back down the road. You sit here and I’ll go see if they left any.”
Violet sat by the fire, adding wood from time to time, and soon he was back, his pockets bulging. “I found lots of taters,” he said. “We can bake ’em. I could eat about a dozen of these myself. How about you?”
“I’m still hungry,” Violet admitted. “If we put some mud around them and put them in the hot coals they won’t burn so bad.”
He looked at her with admiration. “You’re smart,” he announced. “Show me how.”
Violet had done this on hunting trips with Ray and Logan. Soon six of the potatoes were lightly coated with mud and she showed him how to build a hot fire over them. They took over an hour, and he was anxious. “I’ve got some salt,” he said. “Let’s eat ’em now.”
When she agreed, he pulled one of the potatoes out, juggled it with his hands. “Hot!” he grinned. He opened his pocketknife, split the potato open, and handed her the spoon. “You use the spoon and I’ll use the knife.”
The white hot flesh of the potato was delicious and Violet ate two of them. Bailey ate the other four and grinned and patted his stomach. “Good!” he said. “I’d better go get some more to take with us.”
“Take with us?”
He stared at her. “Well, you’re going down the road, ain’t ya? We might as well go together.”
His innocence struck Violet. “You don’t even know me.”
“Sure I do!” Bailey nodded earnestly. “You’re Violet and I’m Bailey.” An uncertain look crossed his face. “You don’t want to go with me?”
Suddenly the fear of being alone struck Violet. She looked at the babyish face of the big young man and said, “Bailey, haven’t you noticed that I’m—not a boy?”
“Course I noticed. You think I’m dumb?”
“No, not at all, but you didn’t say anything.”
“I guess I know a girl when I see one! What’s that got to do with anything?”
Violet started to explain, her face flushing. “Well, sometimes, Bailey, men—they want to bother young women.”
Bailey stared at her as she explained, then shook his head. “I’ve seen some of that.” He looked down at his hands, his fingers almost as large as small bananas, then he looked up at her. “Are you ascared of me?”
Violet swallowed and looked right into his eyes. “You wouldn’t hurt me, would you, Bailey? You promise?”
Bailey grinned cheerfully. “Why, shoot, Violet—I wouldn’t hurt you—and nobody else will, for that matter. Now I’ll go get some spuds. We’ll take all we can haul with us. There’s a town down the way; maybe we can get something else there.”
Violet sat beside the fire, a lump in her throat. She had been emotionally scarred by the vicious attack the night before—and now this huge, innocent child of a man had restored some of her faith. When he came back, she said, “I’ll try not to be any trouble, Bailey.”
He grinned at her and shrugged his massive shoulders. “So will I, Violet. Look at all the taters I got. Must be twenty or thirty here.” He had stuffed his pockets full and now said, “We better stuff some of these in my bedroll. Don’t you have a bedroll?”
“No, I don’t. I don’t have anything.”
“Aw, that’s too bad. I’ve got two blankets, so let me fix one for you.” He unrolled his bedroll and Violet spotted a brown sweater. She thought of the condition of the front of her dress. “Bailey, could I put on that sweater?”
“Sure you can. It’s way too little for me. A lady gave it to me, but I can hardly get my head through it.”
Violet grabbed the sweater, turned her back and slipped into it. Once it was on and covering the front of the ripped dress, she felt more secure. When she turned, Bailey was carefully arranging some of the potatoes in the second blanket. He tied it with bits of string and said, “Now, you just carry this over your shoulder. There’ll be a wagon along pretty soon. If there’s not, we can walk into town.”
He carefully extinguished the fire and they went back to the road. As they walked along, Bailey whistled in an expert manner. When she commented on it, he said, “That’s the funny thing—I can’t read, but I can hear a song and then whistle it.” He whistled through “Bye, Bye, Blackbird,” and, to his delight, she sang along with him. “Why, that’s plumb pretty,” he said when she’d finished. “I’ve never heard anyone sing as pretty as you.”
As they marched along, he was silent. Finally he said, “I’m glad you’re with me, Violet. A feller gets lonesome.” After another silence, he said, “Most people don’t like me.”
Violet did not want to be counted among those. “I can’t understand that. I think you’re very nice, Bailey.” She looked up then and said, “Look! Isn’t that a town up ahead?�
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He nodded and the two picked up their pace. He had to adjust his steps to hers and once forgot, leaving her behind. He slapped himself in the forehead with his meaty hand and grinned at her. “I’ve got to remember. I’ve got me a friend now who’s not as big as I am.”
“Well, it looks like we’ve got to find something to eat, doesn’t it, Violet?”
“I guess so, Bailey.” Violet was tired. For four days, they had walked along the road and she had grown confident that there was no harm in the huge young man. She’d also discovered that people gave them strange looks. We do look odd, she thought, glancing over at him. Bailey wore shapeless black trousers ripped along one knee, and his bulky coat barely met over his arching chest. She looked down at her own ragged skirt and at her shoes that were scuffed. Her clothes offered little protection from the cold. People looked at them when they entered towns and she soon found out what they thought.
One police officer said, “We don’t need none of your kind here.” He was a tall, lath-lean man with a hook nose and a shaggy cavalry mustache. His eyes fell on Violet and he said harshly, “We don’t need no bad women in this town. Just move on out!”
When they were on the road outside of town, Bailey said, “Why’d he call you a bad woman?”
“Oh, I don’t know, Bailey,” Violet said sharply. “People just think bad things.”
It had troubled Bailey, and he’d asked her several times. Usually he forgot things quickly, but he remembered that sheriff and could not get the incident out of his head. Now as they trudged along, Bailey said, “Look! There’s a camp. Maybe we can get something to eat.”
He led Violet off the road, and she stopped abruptly when she saw a group of six or eight tramps. They were gathered around a fire over which bubbled a pot of stew.
“Nothing for you here,” a hulking tramp said. He had a black stocking cap over his ears and small, mean-looking eyes.
“Wait a minute! Maybe that lady wants something.” The tramp who spoke was much smaller. He had a sharp face like a weasel and hadn’t shaved in some time. “We’ve always got something for ladies, ain’t we, Bo?”
A Season of Dreams Page 4