“You should have told me. I’ve promised to join two of the teachers,” said Fern.
Jeb blinked, his hand resting atop the breast of the jacket that held Gracie’s letter. Mr. Harrison excused himself.
She held up her sack and said, “We’re eating out on the back steps. You can join us.” Her tone was flat.
Fern sat next to the other two women on the steps. The shade reached across the steps but not down to the bottom step, where Jeb took his seat. He turned a bit to engage the women in talk, but they talked mostly to one another. Fern finished up a ham biscuit.
Jeb could not wait any longer, so he got up and said, “Something’s come up, Fern. Maybe later today, sometime, we could talk?”
The two teachers glanced at Fern. One said, “I’m done.” She got up and the other teacher followed her back into the building.
“I didn’t mean to break up the party,” said Jeb. He climbed the steps and sat down next to her.
Fern rolled up her lunch sack. “I was expecting you yesterday.”
Jeb wanted to rebound from his momentary lapse in courage, to tell her that he got tied up in church matters, sick people to see. “I know” was all he could think to say.
“Are we in trouble, Jeb?”
“Not in my book,” he said.
“Tell me what’s going to happen, if the tide’s going out on us.”
He imagined how things would be if he handed her the letter, how matters would turn around. She would congratulate him as she should have done in Oklahoma City. They would kiss and start packing. He had trouble forming the words. “Fern, I got a letter from Gracie.” He pulled it out of his jacket and handed it to her.
She snapped open the letter and read it. She looked at him for a long while without saying anything at all. Then she said, “He’s coming back. Gracie’s coming back. Never did I expect it.”
They both stared into the woods. Green pecans clung tightly on the limbs, ready at any moment to burst open.
She looked at him and he felt a chill, as though it were the first time she saw him. “You’re going to Oklahoma City, Jeb. I see it in your eyes.”
He didn’t like the flatness of her tone, the way she left her name out, the funny way she looked away and coughed.
“Stop talking like that, like this is about me. I’m not me, Fern, anyway, not the way I am when we are us. I’m not going without you.” He made it clear so that she would not misunderstand.
She wrapped her arms around herself like winter had moved in.
“I belong in that pulpit, Fern. Can’t you see it all unfolding? It’s the hand of God. I’ve never known it to be so obvious. Not ever have I seen it so clearly like this. When God drops His hammer, it’s done.” He clapped his hands in the air. A breath seeped out of him. It felt good to let the words spill forth, lay out the obvious. He waited for her to say anything that would soften the tension between them, watched the way the bow on her dress lifted as she swallowed hard.
“He’s cruel, then.” She lifted from the steps and fled into the school.
An early autumn wind blew and several nuts dropped from the trees.
The shade receded. The sun shone down brightly where she had been sitting.
Angel dreamed that someone came up on the porch. The unwieldy drum of shoes rattled the windows in their casings. The house shook and then fell still. The cool air blowing in from the open door sent dust swirling across the floor. Angel came awake, thinking the door had been sucked closed. She opened her eyes. Edwin Abercrombie was standing in Claudia’s bedroom watching her sleep. She jerked up, spraddle-legged on the mattress.
“Did I startle you?” he asked. He smiled down at her.
“Claudia’s not here.”
Edwin stopped smiling. “Does she have to be? I mean, we can talk, just the two of us, can’t we?”
She slid off the bed. Edwin was between her and the door. “You smell like whiskey,” she said.
“I’m not drunk. Just a little mellow, wanted some company. Don’t you get lonely for company staying over here all day?” He stretched out his hand and leaned against the door frame.
“You should leave.”
“Can’t you be civil, girl? I heard you was a Christian girl, brought up by a reverend. Did I hear wrong?”
Thorne sighed in her sleep from the mattress right outside the bedroom door.
“What about ‘love thy neighbor’ and all that?” he asked.
“Mrs. Abercrombie wouldn’t want you over here like this,” she said.
“Momma’s gone off to a quilting bee.”
Angel backed up, her thighs hitting Claudia’s bedpost. “Look, Edwin, I don’t like you and I don’t want you here.”
Claudia called from the front of the house. “Anyone home?”
Edwin turned around and said, “There she is! Claudia, your little sister and I were just having a talk. You asked me to meet you here, five on the dot.”
Angel walked quickly around Edwin and met Claudia in the front room.
Claudia dragged in, holding a small bag.
John came awake and jostled Thorne. He showed his momma his cornhusk doll and ran straight into her, holding the doll in the air and flying it all the way into his mother’s arms.
“I’m glad to see you,” said Angel. “I was starting to worry.”
“What’s to worry about?” asked Edwin. “I was keeping your little sister company until you got home, Claudia.”
Claudia thanked him, her voice wrung out from the day.
John wanted to know the contents of Claudia’s bag.
“It ain’t much, but look what Momma got us, babies.” She pulled out a bag of peas, some bacon wrapped in butcher paper, and coffee. She said to Angel, “I told the boss man I had to keep my babies fed and he give me a small advance, enough to get us through to Friday.” She hauled out three bright red apples and two potatoes and showed them to John.
Angel took the peas to the kerosene stove, rinsed them, and put them on to boil. She turned on the back burner to heat water for coffee. She could not stand to look at Edwin for another minute.
Claudia eased out of her work shoes. Slaughterhouse blood had dripped onto the toes. She held up her bare feet, grimacing. Her toes were red from standing on her feet all day. She glanced at Thorne, who was up from the floor, hand in her mouth, staring at her momma. “Momma worked her hind end off today, little girl.” She told Angel, “They got me wrapping meat.” She drew out a beef shank wrapped in paper. “Ain’t but a half pound. It’s all they’d give me.”
“Good enough for stew,” said Angel. She hurriedly shook coffee out into the top of the coffeepot.
Edwin was still standing in the bedroom doorway.
“What was it you wanted anyway?” Angel asked him. “Claudia’s tired and we’ve got work to do. No time for company.”
“Angel, be polite,” said Claudia? “I asked him over.” She asked Edwin to have a seat, stay for coffee. She set John on the floor and got up. “I look a mess.”
“Want to go out for drinks, Claudia?” he said. “Nothing else, I swear.”
Claudia laughed. “Angel, would you look! Edwin’s blushing. You shy, boy?”
Edwin laughed too.
“I could go for a drink,” said Claudia. “I think I deserve one.”
Angel shot her a look.
“Not long, though. Angel’s been at it all day with these two.” Claudia didn’t look at Angel when she said it.
Edwin crouched next to Claudia. He picked up one of her shoes and turned it over. He ran his finger through the small hole in the sole. “I know a place can fix these,” he said.
Angel tossed the bacon into the icebox. She sighed, turning on her heels, and glared at both of them.
“He says he can have my shoes fixed, Angel. Ain’t it nice of him?” Claudia asked.
“I’m not watching these two so you can be with him!”
“Don’t talk like that to your sister. She’s took you in and workin
g in a place no woman ought to have to work to feed that big mouth of yours,” said Edwin.
Claudia held her ears. “Y’all stop! You’re going at each other like two cats!”
Angel dropped the potatoes into the sink and threw the knife down. “I’m not staying another minute with him in the house!” She left the house and headed for the pasture. Claudia yelled after her, “Where you think you’re going?”
“Got a cow to milk.” She cut across the pasture. A briar cut into her calf. She yanked it out of her skin and kept running. The two-story barn was in the field, a stone’s throw west of the Abercrombies’ shallow pond.
The cow ate in one of the stalls. Angel checked the udder and found it bloated. She seated herself and parked a clean pail under the cow. A clean rag hung over the stall. She used that to wipe the teat. She closed her eyes, remembering how Jeb’s neighbor Ivey Long had milked. She rested her forehead against the cow’s side, lifted her knuckles into soft skin, and then, using her finger and thumb, pulled down on the udder. Nothing came out. She tried again and several more times. Finally she pressed her face against the cow and sighed. She propped her foot against the pail so the cow would not kick it away. Ivey had sung to his cows. She hummed and stroked the cow’s belly and then pulled on the udder again. Milk streamed into the pail. She rotated the fingers until her whole hand gripped the udder, pull, swish, pull, swish. The pail filled finally. She milked until only a bit of white liquid dribbled from the teat.
She hefted the pail and milk sloshed onto the barn floor. Angel carried the milk all the way back to Mrs. Abercrombie’s house, with not much care for what spilled or what stayed in the pail. She carried the milk pail onto the back porch. The cat leaped out of the window onto the slatted floor. She put the animal out and latched the back door. The milk would keep for a bit while she made a telephone call.
Mrs. Abercrombie came into the kitchen holding a box of food she’d brought home from town. “Would you look! You’ve already got that cow milked. Aren’t you a caution.” She opened her pocketbook and drew out two bits. She pressed the coins into Angel’s hand. “You keep that now and don’t let that sister of yours take it.”
“I won’t, ma’am,” said Angel. She thanked her. Edwin had not shown his face yet, so she ran into the pasture. She watched the house until the sun went down. Edwin and Claudia came out onto the porch, laughing and hollering for Angel to come back. Angel kept hidden behind some scrub. Edwin got in his car and left. A sulphurous moon came out.
Mrs. Abercrombie came out onto her porch to rock. Angel ran up to the picket fence and yelled for Claudia. Claudia came to the door red-faced. Mrs. Abercrombie called politely to Angel and wished her a good evening. Angel wished her well and then asked Claudia, “Did you need me? Were you calling for me?”
Claudia slammed her door shut.
“Brains of a rabbit,” said Mrs. Abercrombie.
10
IT’S HIGH TIME YOU TOOK UP WHERE YOUR sister left off. Crying buckets won’t do you any good, Ida May. She’s done too much for you. I’ve got to see to church matters and you can’t lollygag behind, you can’t. You help your brother this morning. I’ll be back after I see Mrs. Honeysack.” Jeb was to arrive at her house, according to Freda Honeysack, for breakfast bright and early. The ladies’ Tuesday quilting bee cooked up breakfast for the preacher. Jeb stirred a pot of mush on the stove for the little ones who had to stay behind.
Willie came in to him and said, “I want to show you the streambed first.” His upper lip was wet. The boy had already been down to the creek. His hands rested on his hips and his shoulders jutted forward. He was panting and smelled like the creek, a whiff of algae and tadpole. He kept shaking his head and saying, “I never seen it like this.”
Jeb told Ida May to keep her hands from the burner and not to poke her finger in the butter.
The first day of September was no better than August. The hard blue sky, the hot dry air was for the tolerant. Overnight a wind had come up and sifted silt onto tree leaves and the hood of the truck. Jeb followed Willie down the dirt path. The creek bank smelled rotten, like low tide to the tenth. The stream was languishing. It yielded only a trickle of water. Willie ran up and down the bank, straining to see the hope of green flickers in the shallows, a fin breaking the water’s surface. No such luck. Jeb took the upstream path. The water had shriveled to puddles in some places, not a good drink for a hunting dog. He knelt near the spot where the waterline had receded. Willie whistled. He found a handful of fingerlings, three huddled in a pool.
Jeb toed a fish bone. The large stones mothering the streambed were mud-caked. The banks cracked in rivulets. Sheets of dehydrated algae turned pale in the shade.
“Never, ever. Have you ever?” asked Willie.
“She’ll be back in the spring,” said Jeb. “Sky can’t hold back the rain for good.” He was sorry for the boy having lost his fishing hole.
Willie slogged up the path home, sag-shouldered.
Ida May stood in the doorway in a flour-sack slip. She closed her fist up tight, holding a button, she said. A dress was draped over her arm. “Willie, sew on the button for me,” she said. She tried to give it to him. “Jeb won’t, he won’t.”
Willie ignored her and collected his fish hooks off the kitchen table. “You got to do for yourself now, Ida May.” He put the hooks into a cigar box.
“You fishing or not?” she asked.
“Can’t, can I? Creek’s dried up.”
“Good, see now, you sew it on.”
Jeb took the dress from Ida May. “Let’s ask Miss Josie to give you a button-mending lesson. She won’t mind.” He thought that having one less female underfoot would take off some of the load. He was wrong.
Ida May closed her eyes and slumped down in a kitchen chair. He wanted to thrash her. “You needing this for school Monday?” he asked.
“The other dresses is too small,” she said.
Willie backed out of the room. “Don’t look at me like I’m the one to do it.”
“Freda Honeysack will help out. I’m going to her place this morning.” He took the button and the dress and promised to bring home a plate of food. “Eat your mush for now,” he told them. “Ida May, help your brother do up the dishes after.” He grabbed his brown jacket, for looks.
Ida May lagged behind him, stopping on the porch.
Jeb drove away. He would not give her the satisfaction of a look back.
Women covered Freda’s porch. They were all dolled up in Sunday things, silk flowers pinned on dresses and hats. Josie stopped him on the steps and asked after Ida May. Jeb showed her the dress and the button. She took it and told him, “I’d best stop by and see to her and Willie. I heard they’d be joining Angel soon in Oklahoma.” Her lips trembled. “It’s good they’ll be back with family,” she said. Her eyes were wet. She stroked her lashes with one finger. “I know you do what’s best for the Welbys. Never a thought for yourself.” She covered her mouth and said twice, “Excuse me.”
“Ida May’s a mess over her sister,” said Jeb. “She’d take kindly to a visit.” He commandeered a route around the women.
Freda burst out of the kitchen, her face happy. She set out a plate of eggs. The table was spread with a tablecloth on which sat a bowl of oranges. Will got a good deal on those oranges, she said. “We didn’t plan nothing big,” she kept saying. “But enough.”
Freda was the best of the deacons’ wives. Not once had she raised sand, not the whole time he’d known her, not like some of the other wives. She was a rock. Will told her all the time they’d still be married in heaven. Freda worked as hard as a man, could sit at Will’s side and put down a rug at the store or nail up a new shelf. Will could not do without her.
“You didn’t have to do all this,” said Jeb. “Why the big to-do?”
She talked about this, that, and the other. It had been too long since Church in the Dell had done something for their preacher. The offerings were down, she said, but that wasn’t news. J
eb followed her back into the kitchen. She closed the door behind him. “We heard you might leave,” she said. “Not everyone has heard. Don’t think they all know out there. But Will heard.”
Jeb thought first of Fern. She would never tell a deacon, but in a weak moment, a teacher or two. “Who said?”
“A little bird from up north.”
That changed things. “Philemon Gracie,” said Jeb.
“He sent Will a letter and apologized for hooking you up with that Oklahoma bunch. He’s proud for you, Jeb. Do you really want to live in Oklahoma? I can see Fern doing that, her family being up there. Is she happy? I guess she would be. We should have taken better care of you.”
She had no business knowing ahead of the others, especially not Fern. But the look she gave him, the simpering glances, were hard to take. “I’m not taking the Oklahoma church,” said Jeb. It was the first time he said it aloud. The decision was made this morning. He was up all night. Fern had not been to see him since the last afternoon two days ago when she walked into the school and left him on the back steps. She’d not ever go back to Oklahoma. He’d not go without her. He started the letter to Gracie to let him know. It was on his desk. He only needed to sign and post it.
“Does Fern know?” asked Freda.
“I’m telling her today.”
“You can tell her now: Josie invited her. You look surprised. Reverend, is everything all right?”
Jeb pushed open the kitchen door. The parlor was filling up. Fern stood in the doorway, holding her hat in her hands. Josie was bending her ear about the wedding. Bernice told her how she liked her in brown, how well her shoes matched, and that hat, how it flattered her blond hair. Fern pretended to listen, glancing once at Jeb.
Bernice kept waving her hands to get the women into their chairs. “Come in, Reverend, join us.” She put Jeb at the head of the table, Fern next to him.
Fern was quiet, giving the churchwomen the talking rights. He started to tell her how glad he was to see her. But if she gave him a look, the women could all read one another. Fern was smothered with wedding talk.
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