Hardscrabble Road

by George Weinstein

  “A date?”

  “You’d bragged about how well you can drive—take me for a spin.”

  Mama said from the lamp-lit kitchen, “Spin nuthin. Take her to supper, Roger—you got paid today. Don’t she look nice?”

  My complexion turned the same shade as Cecilia’s rouge. She cocked her hip at me and posed, and I stared hard at my feet. “Yes’m. She won’t want to be seen with me.” I wriggled my bare, filthy toes on the floor and rubbed a moist palm over my threadbare overalls.

  Mama said, “Nonsense. Change clothes, put a shine on your shoes, and do town. You’ll forget all about your letter-writer.”

  We’d traded Papa’s old Model B Ford pickup for a newer marmalade-orange Chevy truck. As I shifted it into drive, I apologized to Cecilia for taking so long to get ready. I also asked her to excuse the dusty leather seat, and I told her yet again, “I could just take you home if you want.”

  “Roger, if you say that one more time, I’ll jump out.”

  “OK, sorry. You want to go into Colquitt?”

  “Let’s go to Bainbridge and make it a proper date.”

  “I feel like a field hand taking out the boss’ daughter. Heck, that’s just what I am.” I tried to shoot the wilted cuff of my only dress shirt, but it slid back over the knob of my bony wrist. Cotton twill slacks bunched at my groin and under my rump. Not for the first time around Cecilia I was very aware of my body’s response to her—thank goodness for the dark.

  As I turned onto Hardscrabble Road, heading toward the highway, she said, “If you’re done feeling sorry for yourself, can I ask a question? Who’s ‘your letter-writer’?”

  “Just somebody I met a long time ago.”

  “Why does your mother want you to forget her?”

  I pressed the brake too hard, making us lurch forward in the seat. “How do you know it’s a ‘her’?”

  “Am I supposed to make you forget about a boy? Are you being funny? Or are you, you know, funny…that way?”

  Chet once told me about a town dude who touched another boy while they were swimming; he gave me all the warning signs of what he’d called a “queer.” I deepened my voice and said, “What way?”

  “Roger, who is she?”

  “Just somebody I met a long time ago.”

  Taking the conversation in circles didn’t deter her. She said, “Is she pretty?”

  “I haven’t seen her since we were little kids.”

  She touched my sleeve and said, “But she makes your mother afraid.”

  “Hey, what is this?”

  “I want to know who my competition is.”

  This time, I skidded to a halt on the dirt road. “Stop teasing me.”

  “Teasing is for girls who stop short. Surely you’ve heard that I don’t tease.” Headlights shined through the back window, illuminating her face. She held my gaze with such frankness that I looked away.

  A horn bleated and a rattletrap truck pulled around us. The driver shouted through the passenger window, “Hey, kids, get off the damn road if you’re gonna neck.”

  As the truck sped away, Cecilia laughed. She said, “Sounds good to me. There’s a little trail on the right. Park us there.” When we’d stopped again, she told me to kill the engine. I shut off the headlights too. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I hope you don’t mind the dark.” She kicked off the high-heels and shifted around in the seat, as if tucking both feet under her bottom. “It’s so dark that now you can’t watch me.”

  “Watch you do what?” I had to swallow hard before I said it; my throat had gone dry.

  “You never just look at anybody. You watch. Like a part of you is separate from what’s going on. Detached, removed.” Her cool fingers touched my mouth and then slid over my cheek. Her hand was the perfect shape to cup my face. Pads on the fingers and across her palm fit just right, enfolding me from my birthmark to my jaw.

  The springs in the seat creaked as she slid closer. Her breath warmed my lips. “Don’t watch us together, be here with me. Don’t touch my skin—feel me.”

  I gripped my thighs. If I leaned forward even a skoash I’d be kissing her. I mumbled, “This girl, the letter-writer…”

  “Is she sweet and innocent like you? I know things, Roger. I’m not proud of it, but if I show you, maybe that’ll become ours.” Her free hand traced a widening spiral on my chest. “Take away those bad memories for me. You’re a good boy. You’ll do that, won’t you?” She leaned into me.

  I turned my face into her cupped hand, and her kiss bumped my cheek. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I can’t.”

  She balled the placket of my shirt within her fist. I thought she would try to rip my heart out. I expected her to slap me or spit in my face, but she continued to hold me instead. She grasped the cloth, not to tear it but to hang on. Tears dripped from her voice as she whispered, “You’re sure?”

  “The one who writes me—I think I need to try with her.”

  “Why not me?”

  “It would be you, if I didn’t know her. Maybe if she wasn’t coming next week, if I knew she’d stay away forever…No, sorry, even if it was—”

  “Forever? You’d wait that long for her?”

  “I…I reckon so. I didn’t know that until today. Now, I can’t stop thinking about her.”

  She patted my cheek and released me. Her crying became louder as she hunkered by my side. I was afraid I’d broken her heart. She said, “Oh God, you could’ve made it so easy for me. Now I have to be brave.”

  I gave her my kerchief and asked what she’d meant. She said, “Hermann told me he’ll wait forever for me. That’s right, the singing POW. He told me today he’ll escape and hide out forever in the woods until I was ready.”

  “I thought he tried to pair me up with you.”

  “He did. He said he knew his love for me was impossible and thought you and I could be happy together. I’d tried to ignore my own feelings. Today, we told each other everything.”

  I took her tear-dampened hand. “So why’d you want to be with me, here in the dark?”

  “Because I could be happy with you. You’d treat me gently, tenderly. I decided that if we became a couple tonight, I could bury my feelings for him.”

  “So if I kissed you and you showed me the things you know, you’d stay with me but dream about him.” I let go of her and crossed my arms.

  “I think so. Are you mad?”

  “You’re darn right I am. Even if I love someone else, I hate it that I came in second place with you.”

  She gave my shoulder a light punch. “OK, Romeo, do you want me or not?”

  “I want you…to be happy. It’s all I ever wanted for you. So that means breaking Hermann out of the prison camp.”

  *

  Following school on Monday afternoon, I told Mr. Turner I had stomach flu and needed to go home. He said, “We’ve gotta get the fields ready for the winter crops, Roger. Can you work half-speed? Hit the outhouse whenever you want, but I need every man out there.”

  I returned to the row where Hermann weeded, and picked up the gooseneck hoe that had belonged to Jay. “You sure they’re shipping y’all home this week?”

  He said, “That is the rumor.”

  “That’s been the rumor every week since VJ Day.”

  Hermann patted his face with his sand-colored kerchief. “If it is true this week, then I will miss you.”

  “You’ll miss Cecilia too. She told me on Saturday.” We started hoeing again, talking to the ground we shaped.

  “You are not angry that I have stolen your girl?”

  “She wasn’t mine to steal. She loves you—it’s you she picked.”

  He said, “Every night I dream that I am locked in a box and shipped across the Atlantic and then overland to Bavaria. Only then, when all is lost, am I released.”

  “I can get rid of that nightmare; me and Cecilia made a plan on Saturday.” Hermann edged closer, still working the soil. I explained that I would bring a horse for his escape with Ceci
lia, but, while I was gone, she’d have to pretend to be me in case her father looked out and did a headcount.

  He argued with me in whispers, but finally said, “Roger, you could go to jail for this.”

  “In a way, would that make me a prisoner of war?”

  An hour before the Army transport would arrive, I watched Cecilia hurry to the outhouse on schedule. I waited a precious minute before clutching my abdomen in feigned panic and running for the two-holer. My knock on the door made Cecilia gasp. She said, “Don’t!”

  “It’s me.” I pantomimed frustration, stomping in a small, angry circle outside the door, and then dashed into the woods behind the privy.

  Cecilia soon joined me, her hair now pinned up so she could conceal it under my hat. I led her deeper into the woods and kicked aside pine straw from Jay’s overalls and work shirt, which I’d hidden on Sunday. She said, “Now I’m not sure about this. A girl can’t get by as—”

  “Believe me, I’ve seen it done. Anyway, you’ll need a disguise until you’re far away from here.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want me? I’m scared.”

  “It’ll work, I promise. You better hurry.” I posted myself as guard while she changed clothes.

  “Roger, I need your help.” Like a model in Sears and Roebuck, she wore only white cotton panties and a conical brassiere. She turned her back and unclasped the cups over her breasts. “Bind me,” she said. “Use the stockings.”

  “What? There’s no time for this.”

  “I just thought of it. My chest ruins the disguise.” Without waiting for my response, she stooped to pick up her nylons. The profile of her full, pale breast nodded below her arm. She held the toe of her stocking against her left breast and passed the nylon over her right. “Come on, now, help me flatten myself.”

  Trembling with excitement and shame, as well as the knowledge of time running out, I pulled the sheer nylon taut under her arm, drew it across her back, and passed it back to her. We used both stockings, and I’d tried hard not to steal another peek at her bosom.

  She covered herself within Jay’s shirt. Working to fasten it, she made slow progress. “The buttons are on the wrong side,” she said. “I’m used to them on the left.”

  I shifted from foot to foot, saying, “Come on, come on.” I pushed her hands away and secured the bottommost buttons, my quivering fingers mere inches from her panties.

  “You don’t need to protect me anymore.” She stepped into the overalls and worked on tightening the straps. The overall bib covered her like a breastplate.

  “I’ll come back with Dan. See you at the shed.” I pushed my hat onto her head. “Go, before I’m missed.”

  Trotting out to the field, Cecilia kept her head bowed, face hidden under the wide straw brim. I bundled her clothes, circled through the woods to the shed, and left them atop a small wicker suitcase she’d readied. Glancing at the sun every few minutes, I ran home.

  For the first time and probably the last, I was happy to see a stranger’s car parked beside our truck. In the field, Nat and his son Ennis waved as they worked on preparing land for winter vegetables. I hurried alongside the house, hearing Mama’s laugh from behind the bedroom shutters. A man said, “I’d better be going,” in a familiar voice, which propelled me faster toward the barn.

  Dan snuffled when I entered. On Sunday, I’d practiced settling his saddle and other gear, working with him over and over, so he was patient as I went through the motions again. I hung a bag of feed and two filled canteens from the pommel, and led Dan out of the barn.

  Footsteps and voices echoed from the house. I jammed my foot into a stirrup and swung atop Dan. He broke into a canter that soon became a gallop as we roared down the dirt drive. When I glanced behind me, I saw the door of the man’s green Studebaker Champion swing shut like a wing closing. I screamed at Dan to hurry. The last thing I wanted was for one of Mama’s lovers to stop me for a chat.

  Dan carried me onto Hardscrabble Road. When I glanced back again, the Studebaker had turned in the opposite direction, but closing on me was the Army two-and-a-half-ton truck, come to take away the POWs, maybe for the last time.

  I passed the Turner’s driveway and spurred Dan to a cow-track farther up the road, which would lead to their old shed. I heard grinding gear-changes as the soldier made his turn. Dan balked at taking me down the overgrown path, but my time was running out. In my best Papa-imitation, I said, “Dan, giddup.” Dan glanced back at me, but his legs had already obeyed.

  Cecilia waited for me outside the shed with her traveling case. Beside the door, her father’s awful, smashed hand bobbed in its fruit jar: a paperweight holding down her good-bye note. I secured Dan’s reins to a tree, and we listened as the truck rolled back down the drive.

  She took my hand when brakes squealed at the intersection with Hardscrabble Road. “It didn’t work, I know it didn’t. He’s gone.”

  A distant voice was followed by a whole chorus of louder exclamations, and she began to cry. I whispered, “Don’t be afraid…it’s all right. We can try again tomorrow.”

  She threw her arms around me, weeping against my shoulder. I murmured, “Don’t worry. It could be anything.”

  “It’s singing, Roger.” Her sobs now mingled with laughter. “The Germans are singing.”

  As the truck roared away from us, I understood the voices briefly before the sounds faded away. They sang in English, “I need no shackles to remind me, I’m just a prisoner of love!”

  Careful footsteps in dry leaves announced Hermann before we saw him. He scanned the woods and ran to us, heedless of the noise. Cecilia wiped her eyes and gave him a long, hard hug.

  When they continued to rock in each other’s arms, crying and murmuring, I told Hermann that he’d better get changed. I ushered him into the dim shed where Cecilia had left a pair of her father’s overalls and a work shirt that she’d swiped. Soon, he brought out his uniform, neatly folded. I said, “How does freedom feel?”

  “I’m just a prisoner of love, my friend. I give you a lifetime of thanks.” We embraced.

  I held Dan’s reins while Cecilia mounted the saddle, and cupped my hands for Hermann so he could push up behind her. I handed him the wicker traveling case.

  She pointed Dan toward the cow track, working the bridle with one-handed confidence. On the verge of tears again, she said, “Your letter-writer’s a lucky girl.”

  “She doesn’t know it yet. Good luck.”

  Her free hand swept down and touched my face. She said, “I love you too.” A firm nudge from her heels sent Dan back down the path.

  CHAPTER 25

  I burned Hermann’s uniform that evening and buried the buckles and other remains. On Tuesday afternoon, Mr. Turner waved a letter at me and asked if Cecilia had said anything at all about eloping with a boy from school. “Hell,” he said, “I hoped it was you, if it had to be anybody.”

  “Thanks, sir. Cecilia’s special—I’m glad I could sometimes hold the reins for her.”

  While school was in session, some officers had visited with the Turners and questioned the locals who’d worked alongside Hermann. Cecilia’s parents did ask me later in the week if she had become friendly with the missing POW. I said, “She liked the Christmas carols he sang. Honestly, though, I was sure that she and I would start courting. She broke my heart too.”

  The Army patrolled US 27 and the dirt roads, looking for Hermann, as did the high sheriff and his deputies. I noted a Jeep on Hardscrabble Road and a radio car on the highway as I drove to Rienzi’s party on Sunday.

  Rienzi had deceived me. She never told me she had an older sister, who I observed on the porch sipping a Coca-cola as I arrived.

  I waved and parked beside the house before I realized that the young woman in the knee-length skirt and short-sleeved silk blouse was the birthday girl. Rienzi had cut her hair in a pageboy style that swooped in to touch her cheeks. Her face remained a place of gently curving features framing dark, almond-shaped eyes. Her bust an
d hips had filled out, but echoed the same geometry of peaks and slopes.

  Only her voice retained a girlish quality. Her hello didn’t squeak as before but it remained in an upper register, like a bell. My blue cotton tie flapped in the breeze. I pressed it against my starched dress shirt, hand over my heart. Unsure of how to greet her beyond hello, I raised my arms to hug her, dropped them, and repeated the spastic motions while she laughed musically. She leaned in and kissed my cheek before stepping away.

  Ginger and cinnamon-sugar aromas coupled with the tingle on my cheek to make me light-headed. I took a swallow from her cola to lubricate my mouth and throat. “Did you have problems getting here?”

  “I memorized the bus schedules, remember?”

  “I mean trouble with people. Why do you always play this game?”

  “Because you never speak precisely,” she said, smiling. Though I couldn’t see any makeup on her face, her mouth looked redder than before. I wondered if she’d taste like cherries. “It’s fun to tease you. You always puff up like a globefish.”

  “It’s dumb, as you used to say.” I glanced away from her face, afraid that she’d think I was staring, and looked instead at her lovely legs and small feet turned inward. Every part of her seduced me. I licked my lips and said, “So, no one bothered you?”

  “I got a few looks and the bus driver told a Negro lady she could sit beside ‘Tokyo Rose,’ but that was all. It’ll keep getting better.”

  I handed her a small, gift-wrapped package from my pocket and said, “Happy sweet-sixteen. You fit that description.”

  “Thank you.” She poked a slender index finger against my chest. “But don’t start treating me like a debutante.”

  Her grandmother opened the door then, to find me skewered on the end of Rienzi’s close-cropped fingernail. She invited us in for supper and birthday cake.

  We ate and caught up on things we hadn’t bothered to write about. I recited what I recalled from Chet’s latest letter, posted from Richmond. Meanwhile, Jay had toured Nagasaki and described it as a preview of the end of the world. Rienzi told us about going back to regular high school and finding that she had gotten so far ahead while self-studying with her father’s college textbooks that she planned to get an early diploma and move on to the University of Texas. I bragged about my own advanced schoolwork, but whenever I named a course, she’d finished that one and the follow-up subject too. Every time she buffaloed me, I got a little madder. As soon as I simmered down, though, I discovered that she appealed to me even more.