“I’ll never forget when you first sang for me,” I tell her, remembering the day I followed her with my wagon of pecans and a three-legged stray dog named BoBo.
Mabel steals a fan from a passing child and starts to hum the tune of “Sometimes I Feel Like a Motherless Child.” Her voice still soothes me.
“How in the world am I supposed to make it in Colorado without you?”
“You’re ready, baby girl.” She kisses my cheek, then turns me toward the shade and says, “But first, there’s somebody I want you to meet.”
Mabel leads me to the magnolia, where her friend moves to join us. The woman looks familiar, but I can’t place how I might know her. I’m guessing she’s in her sixties, about as old as Mabel but with a bit more wear and tear. Her hair is braided, and she wears a simple cotton dress with a faded floral pattern. She reaches to tuck a loose strand of graying hair behind her ear as I say hello.
“I hope it okay for me to come.” Her accent is not much different from anyone I know in Mississippi, a slow drawl with soft consonants and long-stretched vowels, but even in this opening sentence I hear a definite sprinkling of the Choctaw tongue, with a missing verb and a sharper clip to her speech.
“Millie, this is your grandmother, Oka.” My heart nearly stops at Mabel’s words. “Remember I told you she was my friend from back home?”
Of course I remember. This is Jack’s mother, a woman I’ve wanted to meet ever since Mabel told me she was alive and well in Willow Bend. I hadn’t known anything about her until I moved in with the Millers. It’s just one of the many blanks Mabel filled in for me after Mama and Jack died. “No such thing as coincidence,” Mabel once told me, and after so many pieces fell together, I’m inclined to believe she’s right.
I smile at Oka. “I’m so glad to meet you.” An understatement, to say the least. Mabel grins proudly, knowing how much this means to me.
Oka moves slowly, touching my hair, my face, then my shoulders. When she finally wraps her arms around me, I don’t want her to let me go. I am drawn to her in a way I’ve never been to anyone, and I can’t help noticing all the ways we are alike. The color of our eyes, our hair, our skin—darker than Bump’s even though he spends every day in the sun. She bites her bottom lip and pulls back, closing her fists against her side, perhaps to keep her hands from shaking.
Mabel steps behind me and holds my shoulder. There may be children playing and fiddles tuning, but I hear nothing but the rush of my own blood as it pumps boldly through my chest, a deep, tense echo of being.
“How ’bout we move to a table?” Mabel suggests. She motions for Oka to take a seat, and I follow suit. I’ve never been allowed to share a table with Mabel, her skin a shade too dark for that. But today, I make the rules.
“I always want to meet you,” Oka says. “I was …” She pauses and shifts her eyes to a group of children throwing pebbles at trees. “I was afraid.”
“I didn’t know about you,” I explain to Oka, leaning with my elbows on the table the way Diana never allowed me to do. “Not for a long time.”
The silence stings, as if neither of us knows how to bridge the seventeen years that sit between us. I turn my attention to Janine, who is now leading all the kids in a silly rendition of “Bump and Millie sitting in a tree. K-I-S-S-I-N-G.”
Oka speaks again. “I always care about you, Millicent.” It is strange to hear someone call me by my given name. I can’t shake the sound of Jack’s voice: “The name fits. She ain’t worth a cent.” I try to remember River’s voice instead. “Millicent means strength.”
I struggle to match this real-world Oka with the grandmother I’ve imagined. The only clue I’ve had about her is a faded photograph and a letter written when Mama married Jack. But the letter was so formal, with perfect grammar and polished penmanship. I hadn’t expected her to use such broken English. I have so many questions. So little time.
Bump returns before I can ask anything at all. He passes a plate of barbeque chicken to Oka and another to Mabel. “Bump, this is my grandmother, Oka. Jack’s mother,” I say. Oka watches Bump cautiously as he greets her with a warm smile.
I whisper “Thank you” as he leaves to find tea. He makes three trips, serving the women, and then bringing cups for himself and for me. Mabel and Oka soak up the special attention. I figure they’re thinking the same thing I am, how Bump is so different from Boone and Jack, the violent men Oka and I have known.
As we eat, I watch Oka from the corner of my eye, trying to learn everything I can about her in the short time we have together. I note the way she struggles to use a fork, how she prefers her tea without sugar, and how she makes the sign of the cross before she eats. Catholic. We’ve barely finished our meal when Bump’s father stands and taps his fork to a half-empty glass.
“Let’s bow our heads,” Mr. Anderson begins, and everyone follows his lead. He starts by asking God to be with us as Bump and I begin our new lives together. Then he prays for our success on the ranch, that we won’t see a repeat of the dust bowls, and that the cattle won’t get black leg. Then he ends with words so tender, I struggle not to tear up again.
“When times get hard,” Mr. Anderson says, “as they will, and when marriage becomes strained, as it will, and when Kenneth and Millie are so desperate they want to give up and walk out, may they find strength in You, Lord. May their faith draw them back to one another, and at the moments when they need it most, may they remember the love they feel today.”
Chapter 4
By three, we’ve tied down everything we can fit into the back of Jack’s truck. Bump’s father checks our tires. “Don’t forget the new restrictions. You’ll need to stay under thirty-five,” he says, reminding us to conserve rubber. “I’d hate to see you two get pulled over.”
Mr. Tucker gives Bump a set of keys. “Did you pack some spares? Bound to have a flat or two on that stretch.”
“Yes, sir.” Bump nods. “Got three, actually.”
“Smart.” Mr. Tucker seems proud. “Last chance to change your mind.” He passes a plump sack of money through the driver’s window.
I give Bump an “Are you sure about this?” look, half hoping he’ll take this opportunity to stay here, in Iti Taloa, with Camille and Mabel and Janine and Mr. Tucker. Or that we’ll move to the Delta and help the Andersons farm their way out of poverty. Or that he’ll convince Mr. Tucker it’s crazy to start a cattle operation so far from home. Especially on the tail of the Depression and the dust bowl, let alone in the middle of a war. Half of me wants to jump out of the truck and shout, “What on earth are y’all thinking? Betting it all on a couple of desperate kids!”
“You’ll need this.” Mr. Tucker hands me a letter signed by Governor Johnson, along with a temporary X tag for fuel. “Got special permission for you to exceed your weekly ration. Fill up as much as you need until you get there. I know you won’t abuse the privilege.”
“What kind of bribe did this take?” Bump teases.
“No bribe,” Mr. Tucker insists. “The governor just wants to see the ranch succeed, so we can bring all that money right back here to Mississippi.”
I fold the letter and tuck it under a sack of sandwiches Mabel has prepared for us. Mr. Tucker bangs his thick fist on the top of the truck’s roof. “Three years,” he says. The keys click together in Bump’s hand, a reminder that time is ticking.
Bump slides the key into the ignition and pushes the starter button. The black 1939 Ford truck we inherited from Jack roars to life. With that, Bump drums the steering wheel with his rough hands, and says, “Here goes nothin’.” From what I can tell, he is completely sure everything will work in our favor.
I’ve always wanted to leave this town and set off on some grand adventure, but as the engine turns, a deep fear spins inside me. Sharp and heavy, it slices away the joy and tells me I’m not ready for this. There’s too much on the line.
I try to silence my doubts and remind myself how lucky we are. But the truth is, I am still struggling with my new reality. Not only that we are taking a big gamble with a three-year time line, but also the fact that I am now married, one half of a We. What will it mean, this belonging to another?
I rub the ring looped around my fourth finger, a shiny symbol of infinity. It’s hard not to imagine how Bump thinks of me now. Is it my duty to love and to obey, as the preacher said? Does Bump expect me to surrender and submit, like Mama?
“Awful quiet,” Bump says.
Everyone is waiting for us to pull away. I take a deep breath and send the words out quickly, before I swallow them down. “I guess I’m just thinking I’m not the kind of girl to obey, in case you don’t know that about me.” I smile, trying to ease the blow.
“Don’t worry.” Bump laughs. “I already know.” He leans over to kiss me, and I let his lips meet mine. “Besides,” he adds, “I ain’t one to want a girl who obeys. I only want a girl to kiss me. Want you to kiss me, Millie. Every morning. Every night.”
And with that, Bump honks the horn and steers our pickup away from the cheering crowd. I am all twists and tangles, waving farewell. Bump’s nieces and nephews chase our tracks until the road tugs thin between us and their shadows bend in the sun.
Behind us, the church bells ring. The same church bells that have chimed every hour throughout my childhood. The same ones housed in the steeple where it all happened. A hollow, haunting reminder that they know the truth. They know my secret, and my husband doesn’t.
I don’t know if I’ll continue trick riding, or if I will ever again perform with Firefly in front of cheering crowds. I don’t know if the trees will sing in the Rockies, as they do in Iti Taloa, or if the dirt will be red, or if the creek beds will be heavy with clay. All I know is, I do not want my husband to know Bill Miller held me down beneath those steeple bells and cracked my core. I do not want that event, that one brief moment, to enter into our marriage.
We’re barely out of town before Bump eases my worries. He’s good at that. He turns up the radio and welcomes the hopeful harmonies of the Benny Goodman Orchestra. Singing along with a static-laced Helen Forrest, Bump hits every note and invites me to join him. I give in, and sing along: “I’m riding for a fall again; I’m gonna give my all again. Taking a chance on love.”
Bump doesn’t seem to mind that I’m way off-key. He only wants to have me with him, which is exactly where I choose to be. After stopping to fill the gas tank and to grab boiled peanuts and root beer at the Arkansas state line, we ride in silence for a while. I let my body bend into Bump’s and feel the steady rhythm of his pulse as the nose of the truck pitches up and down across green hills.
“I wonder if the mountains will be as high as I imagine.” I close my eyes and picture slim silver spires stretching into sky. I slip right into sleep and dream of two mountains, side by side. They are stuck in place, unable to bend, and hardened by forces much greater than either understands. Within reach of each other, they try to touch. The sun rises. Sets. Rises. Sets again. Two proud beacons of belief, green with the birth of spring, too young and hopeful to understand the sorrows to come.
I wake to Bump asking, “Sleep good?”
“I did,” I confess. “Want me to drive for a while?”
“I got it,” he says. “You were talkin’ in your sleep.”
“Was not!” My face feels four shades of red.
“Sure were.”
“What’d I say?” Please don’t let him find out this way.
“Never gonna tell.” He smiles. I exhale.
“Tell me!” I nudge him.
“You kept sayin’, ‘Come with me, come with me.’ Now what I need to know is, who do you wanna come with you?”
“Don’t be silly.” I pat his leg. “I was dreaming about mountains.”
“Sure you were.”
“No, really. You ever wonder if the mountains get tired of being stuck in place?”
“Never thought much about it.” Then he adds, “Mama used to say faith could move mountains. Even just a little bit of faith. Small as a mustard seed.”
“You believe that?” I am not convinced.
“I do.” Bump says this without hesitation. As if nothing could ever weaken his faith.
I pull his rough hand into mine, move it up against the wild thrums of my heart, and say, “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For bringing me with you.”
“Never planned it no other way.” Bump leans his head out the window to look up at the darkening sky. “Need to find a place to stay the night. Any ideas, Mrs. Anderson?”
We are surrounded by humble hills, swelling and falling in deep, green waves. There’s not a single light in the distance. “We have a tent, right?”
“You betcha!” Judging by the grin on his face, you’d think I’ve just told him we’ve won the war.
It may not be the honeymoon most girls dream of, but if I am going to face this night with my husband, I can’t imagine any place I’d rather be. Someplace private, peaceful, away. I need to figure out who this new Millie Anderson is, and how much of this marriage situation I can handle. One quiet step at a time.
Soon, we find a field of wildflowers and pitch the tent near a lake. Bump gathers a bundle of clovers. “For my bride,” he says, with a kiss. The water shifts from the color of smoke to a dark green moss, as the slim banana moon lends little light. I lean back to watch the stars swim in the black ocean above us.
“No rain tonight,” I say.
Bump looks up and smiles.
The songs of spring peepers, crickets, and owls give rhythm to the rapid wings of black bats scooping bugs from above. All is peaceful. Balanced. Lovely. He is not Bill Miller, I remind myself. I am safe here. With the man I love.
Bump spreads a blanket for us in the tent and crawls back out beneath the stars. I’ve started a small fire, more for light than for heat, and unwrapped the sandwiches Mabel tucked in the truck for us. “Ham or roast beef?” I hold out the choices, hoping he’ll choose beef. He does.
“Maybe we should save supper for later,” Bump says smoothly, setting his sandwich down and removing his hat.
My body tenses. I unwrap the ham and take a bite. “I’m starving,” I say. I don’t know how much longer I can stall him. We sit under the stars and eat, but Bump can’t keep his hands off me. His excitement is building, and I am running out of excuses to avoid going into the tent.
He hurries to finish his sandwich in three bites. “There. Done!”
I can’t help laughing, but I continue to chew slowly. As I finish my own supper, I collect the clovers Bump gave me and begin tying stems together to make a crown. When he reaches for me again, I say, “I’m exhausted.”
“Well then, we’d better not waste another minute.” Bump lifts the cloth flap of the tent and shifts his eyebrows, an invitation for us to move inside.
I can’t match his excitement. I want to, but I’m still stuck, somehow, in the steeple, when Diana’s husband locked the door behind him and forced me to the floor beneath those bells. When light bled through red stained-glass windows, and I bled through my torn yellow dress. When Bill Miller pushed himself hard into me, calling out my mother’s name, Marie, Marie, Marie. Afterward, he stood, fastened his pants, and said, “Don’t be late for supper.” Then he turned the lights out behind him, leaving me there alone under the holy spire.
I sit all night in silence, not knowing how to leave the steeple. How to move past the pain and the shame, but knowing I will not leave this church as the same weak girl who entered. I carve a promise into the steeple-room floor. “Never again.” And then I wait, in darkness, until I find the strength to climb down those same steps that took Bill Miller away. I don’t leave the church, though. Instead, I step into the quiet sanctuary.
I slip i
nto the baptismal waters, angry and broken. Desperate for a sign that God does exist and that I’ll have His help getting through this.
And then it happens. A miracle. The sun rises and the light shines through the stained-glass windows onto the wooden cross. I hear the voice of God, and I know, I know, I am not alone.
I leave the church and meet the band of gypsies. Babushka wraps a red scarf around my head and says I am no longer yellow. “Red now,” she tells me. “Krasnaya. Strong.”
And by the time Mabel helps me sneak my suitcase out of the Miller home, I know what I have to do. I join the rodeo crew to compete in the Texas Stampede. I will survive. I will prove to Bill Miller, and every man like him, that I will never be hurt again.
Bump moves back to where I have rooted myself to the ground. He begins to unbutton my dress. Right here, under the moon. The fabric falls against my shoulders, as Bump kisses me down the center line between my ribs, leans me back into the grass, and rubs his hand gently across my bare stomach.
A trace of Bump’s breath mint hits me, and I try to block the Sunday smell. A trigger.
Bump’s hands move below my waist and explore me. I am numb. He moves down, kisses my knees. He slides off my shoes, one at a time, kisses my feet, moves his fingers between my toes.
I pull myself up and place the crown of clovers on my head. I hear a voice, my own voice, before it was taken from me. I am a girl in Sweetie’s limbs, wearing clovers in my hair to protect me from Jack’s wrath and Mama’s distance. “I am brave,” the young child in me tells herself. “I am strong.” I answer, in the silence of my own thoughts, “Yes, yes. I am in control.” I enter the tent with my husband, and I choose to give myself to him, praying Bill Miller won’t get in the way.
Chapter 5
When Mountains Move Page 3