Simple Jess

by Pamela Morsi

  Althea began pinching off biscuits into the pot. Her brow furrowed. How much could a little boy like Baby-Paisley understand about simplemindedness? She wasn't at all sure how much she understood herself. Perhaps it was safer to merely discredit his mistaken impressions rather than explain facts she wasn't really sure of.

  "That's not true, Baby-Paisley," she said.

  "Is too," the little boy insisted. "He's gotta be mean. I'm the man of the house, Mama. I gotta keep you safe. That Simple Jess, the devil stole his mind and now he ain't right in the head."

  "Where on earth did you hear such a thing like that?"

  "Gobby Weston told me," Baby-Paisley replied. "And Gobby knows everything."

  Althea shook her head. She wanted her son to have his little friends. But the bad thing about friends was that they always seemed to know so much more than parents. "Gobby Weston isn't as smart as you think," she corrected him. "The devil doesn't steal anybody's mind. And Simple Jess wouldn't hurt us. He's a nice man. I want you to be very nice to him. He's going to be here working for us every day until the winter comes."

  Baby-Paisley didn't look at all pleased at the prospect. Althea put the oven pot full of biscuits in the ashes at the edge of the fire. She wiped her hands on her apron and reached up to one of the hooks above her head to retrieve the side of bacon that was hanging there.

  "Are your bedclothes dry this morning?" she asked.

  The little boy's face flamed bright red. "No, Mama," he said very quietly.

  Althea suppressed a sigh of disappointment. She smiled brightly at her son, as if it really didn't matter.

  "Would you drag them down here for Mama, honey?" she asked as she slapped the bacon onto the sideboard and began to slice it. "It'll just take me a minute to hang them on the line and they'll be dry as a bone by afternoon."

  Baby-Paisley nodded. His cheeks were still pink with embarrassment as he hurried to bring the evidence of his little accident down the ladder.

  Althea turned back to her cooking. The thin, neat slices of bacon she laid lengthwise in the big cast iron skillet. She refused to get mad at her son about his accidents. She knew he was trying. He hated to wet the bed, but it just kept happening. Althea had even taken to getting him up in the middle of the night and walking him to the hobblebush near the front porch, but it hadn't really helped.

  "It just takes time," she assured herself. He was only three and a half. Lots of children still wet the bed at that age. And most of them, she was sure, got a switching for it. She certainly had. And the switching hadn't made things one bit better. She wasn't about to treat her baby the way she'd been treated. Not that she hadn't been loved and cared for. She had. Switching was simply the way bedwetting was handled on the mountain. It was the way things were done—just like young widows with farms remarried in a hurry. The old women were right about a lot of things. But Althea didn't think they were right about either one of these.

  Unfortunately, her way with the bedwetting hadn't worked so far either. She sighed. There was something about this problem, this small recurring difficulty, that made her feel that somehow she was not quite as good a mother as she wanted to be. She was the only parent that Baby-Paisley would ever have. She had to be very good at it.

  * * *

  Jesse called the dogs by name. Old Poker, Sawtooth, Runt, and Queenie. He knew their histories. Old Poker was the daddy of all of them. Daddy and granddaddy of Runt. He was getting pretty old now. One of his back legs stiffened up on him from time to time. Next time Queenie came into heat, it'd probably be Sawtooth that gave her puppies. Course, that wasn't good. Jesse knew that. It wasn't wrong, exactly, for a sister dog to mate with a brother dog. It was better to put some new blood in stock, but it wasn't wrong with dogs. With people it was different. There was lots of rights and wrongs when it came to mating and people. Jesse didn't know all of the rights and wrongs. But he did know some of them. And he knew that it was wrong for a man to see a woman in her josie if she wasn't his sister or his wife. This morning he'd seen Althea Winsloe in hers and she was neither.

  Jesse closed his eyes and let his mind linger on the memory. Standing in the doorway with that big shotgun in her hand, she'd been real pretty. Her hair was down. It was real long. He hadn't known that. It hung down the front of her josie and kind of curled around those . . . those big round places that he tried not to think about. Her . . . her round places were really round. And they had points on the end of them. He could see the points through her josie.

  Jesse opened his eyes and ran a hand nervously through his hair. He was getting hard down there again. He'd got hard that morning in the cabin. He'd kept himself facing the hearth 'til it eased off, but he'd been hard as a stone. That's why a man shouldn't see a woman in her josie, because it made him hard.

  Even when he was keeping his gaze on the fire, he could still smell her, Althea Winsloe. He knew the fragrance of her anywhere. He recognized it as easily as he did her name. He could also smell the clover stuffed bed ticking she'd been lying on. She'd been lying on that bed wearing nothing but her josie.

  Jesse swallowed. Miss Althea was a nice lady. She hadn't meant to make him feel that way. She probably didn't know nothing about how a man felt. But she smelled so good, and he'd seen her round parts real clear, and he just couldn't help but get hard about it.

  Jesse blew a deep breath through his mouth like an overworked mule and turned his attention to the hounds that circled him excitedly. He needed to think about something else. He needed to think about something else right away. It wasn't right for him to be getting hard about Miss Althea. She was nice to him. She was going to let him earn Paisley's dogs. He'd wanted his own dog for so long now. It was like a dream that he might have one. Now Miss Althea said he could have four. And not just any four, the best four on the mountain.

  He stooped down and began running his hands along the necks and ears of Old Poker, looking for ticks. Ticks were a nuisance to anybody. They could be deadly to a dog if they lodged in a place he couldn't get to. The old hound liked the attention and stretched leisurely as Jesse searched him over.

  "Hey, Sawtooth," he said, crooning a little to the other big male as he sent Old Poker on his way. "Let me check your ears, boy. I ain't gonna hurt you lest I have to."

  Sawtooth was a durn good dog. That was Jesse's opinion. He was the one that had faced the bear Jesse'd killed three winters ago. He'd been hardly more than a pup at the time, but he was a good tracker even then. And he was brave, a real brave dog.

  For his bravery, the bear had slung Sawtooth against a tree. It should have killed him, but the dog was damn lucky. The tree'd smashed his mouth up pretty good and broken most of his teeth out. But he'd lived. And the bear didn't. That was hunting. You took a risk. If you won, you got to eat and to tell about it for years to come.

  The meeting with the bear had given Sawtooth his name. It also gave him a face that seemed to be perpetually in a snarl. But Sawtooth was a good dog. And there was no meanness to his nature, which sometimes happened to a dog that'd been hurt. He was a strong, brave hunter and Jesse would be proud to own him.

  "Come here, Queenie girl," he called out to the redbone bitch. She'd kept her distance from him, but came eagerly when he called her. She licked his hands, obviously tasting the venison that still lingered. Rolling over on her back, she let him scratch her tummy.

  "Good girl, good girl," he praised her as he used his big hands to scratch and caress her. She had more than her share of fleas, but she was free of ticks and her ears and gums looked healthy.

  Runt, who was little more than a puppy, was jealous of the attention Queenie was getting. He kept pushing his way next to Jesse. Trying to get Jesse's hands to scratch his own ears. But Jesse made the excitable pup wait his turn.

  "We're going huntin' real soon, girl," he promised Queenie. "I cain't today, 'cause Miss Althea's got work for me. But real soon we'll be out there a-chasing." He grinned broadly down at the dog. "Do you think you can run me down a fox,
Queenie?" he asked. "Yes, I suspect you can. I suspect you can. I just got to get Pa to go with me and take his gun."

  Runt finally got his chance. Jesse petted him as he looked him over. He was still at that stage where his legs were longer than he could easily manage and he was too excitable to be much good at tracking. But he had good lines and good blood. It would be a pleasure turning him into a hunting hound.

  Jesse let him go and rose to his feet. He glanced around the homestead, allowing himself the time to take it all in. He couldn't think as fast as other fellows. But he could figure things out if he was given enough time. It was a big and fine place. Maybe the best farm on the mountain. It was familiar to Jesse. He had been here many times. But not since Paisley had died. The place had looked better before Paisley died.

  The cabin was on a little bit of a rise and was shaded by a big broad elm. The rest of the clearing was as near flat as highlands ever got. Sitting in a dip on the east side of Marrying Stone Mountain, the ground was low and black and good for growing. The whole yard was surrounded by a split rail fence, seven ties high. It was in pretty good repair, but Jesse reminded himself to look it over real careful. A bad fence was bad farming, everybody knew that.

  The barn door was closed. Jesse suspected that if Miss Althea hadn't put in a crop, then it was probably just about empty. The cow was roaming freely, ripping at the grass and ignoring the few old hens that scratched around her. She had yet to set up a bellow. Miss Althea must tend to her milking late in the mornings.

  The hog pen was pretty clean. The one full grown hog watched him, snout snugged to the rails. He wasn't puny, but neither was he fine. Still, the hog would have to be scraped and butchered before cold weather set in.

  The garden plot was a big one and well kept. Clearly, Miss Althea was good at raising food. Of course, there was nothing much left there this time of year except for a few tomatoes and peppers and a big patch of pumpkins. But Jesse knew with certainty that her root cellar was probably full to bursting with tubers and preserves.

  The smokehouse looked deserted. She needed meat. And the hog destined for hanging ham wasn't going to be near enough.

  "Yes, we're a-goin' hunting," he said to himself as much as to the dogs. "Rabbits, squirrels, possums, a deer would be nice. Yep. I'd sure like to get Miss Althea a deer."

  He glanced back toward the house. It was a broad, sturdy cabin with a wide porch, a real pine floor, and tin shingles. It was a fine house. It was tight and dry and spacious. The best on the mountain. A much better house than the one his own family lived in.

  Althea Winsloe was a lucky woman to have such a place. No wonder she'd married Paisley Winsloe.

  He hadn't liked Paisley very much. He'd been nice to Jesse back when the fellow had been set on courting his sister Meggie. But mostly he'd been nice to Jesse when nobody but Meggie could see him. When other folks was around, he didn't act like Jesse's friend. Jesse knew what it was like to have a friend. Roe, his brother-in-law, was Jesse's friend.

  Maybe it wasn't right to speak ill of the dead, but Jesse thought that Paisley Winsloe was the only friend that Paisley Winsloe had ever had.

  Course, maybe Miss Althea had been his friend. They were married and had a baby after all. That was pretty friendly.

  Roe said that covering a gal, a gal that was really yours, that it was a really special kind of friendship. Roe knew a lot about that kind of thing. He'd covered some gals back in the Bay State before he'd met up with Meggie. He said that with them others it wasn't too much. But when a man covers a woman that's his wife and that he loves, it was different.

  Miss Althea had a baby, so for sure Paisley must have covered her. That's what married people did. And if the noise from Roe and Meggie's bed was any clue, they did it pretty regular. Miss Althea probably thought real friendly of her husband.

  In his mind, Jesse could almost smell the sweet, subtle fragrance that was Althea Winsloe, and he remembered again how she'd looked in her josie, so round and womanish and with those points.

  She'd been a married woman. She'd probably kissed Paisley and hugged him and let him look at her parts, all her parts. And when he got hard, she'd probably let him put his thing inside her.

  Jesse closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He was hard again. And he suddenly hated Paisley Winsloe.

  Chapter Four

  Althea was perfectly dressed, her hair neat and her apron around her waist as she carried the damp bed linens to the clothesline. The sheeting and quilts were no big chore, really. But the clover stuffed tick was getting more than a little worn from its almost daily airing in the sun.

  She draped it all across the cotton clothesline with unthinking precision. All the corners hung exactly even. And she actually took a step backward to assure herself that it was straight before securing the pieces from the breeze with wooden peg pins.

  That done, Althea glanced across the homestead clearing. She saw her son, egg basket on his arm, searching out the secret roosts of the old hens. And in the distance she saw Jesse. He'd apparently found the milking gear and had tied Ol' Bessie to the fence. Had she thought of it, she'd have warned Jesse that the old cow was likely to kick. Now it seemed unnecessary. The often cantankerous old cow was standing complacent and unconcerned, chewing her cud, as Jesse, a total stranger, relieved her of her morning milk. Althea smiled, shaking her head in astonishment. Jesse did seem to have a way with animals.

  She found herself watching him. His every movement was made with exceptional grace. Her brow furrowed slightly. She'd always thought of him as clumsy and inept. It was an assumption she had made. She thought it to be typical of simplemindedness. But as she watched Jesse from this distance, he was certain and sure. Althea shook her head, somewhat surprised. Just seeing him at work, a person wouldn't know that he was any different from any other man.

  She was distracted by her thoughts as her son began hurrying back toward the house as fast as his little legs could carry him.

  Determinedly, she swallowed the impulse to call out for him to be careful. He was very likely at any minute to trip and spill his basket. But Althea would much prefer broken eggs to injured pride.

  "I foun' lotsa eggs, Mama!" he told her excitedly. "Lots and lots."

  He stopped excitedly in front of her. Althea squatted down next to him and peered into his basket.

  "That is lots of eggs," she agreed. "Shall we count them?"

  He nodded eagerly.

  As she touched each one she said the number.

  "One."

  "One," Baby-Paisley repeated.

  'Two," she continued. "Three. Four."

  Together they counted, Althea touching each egg as she spoke. When she got to eight, a deep adult voice joined Baby-Paisley's at the repeat.

  She and the child both looked up to see Jesse now standing with them. Althea was startled but pleased. She glanced over at her son. His expression could have been accurately described as furious.

  "Nine," she said finally, smiling broadly at the little boy. "You found nine eggs this morning, Baby-Paisley. That is a lot."

  "That's a whole lot," Jesse agreed.

  The child looked mutinous. "It's more than you could find," he snarled at Jesse vehemently.

  "Baby-Paisley!"

  The little boy grabbed up the basket and stomped off to the house.

  Althea, stunned and disapproving, gazed after her disrespectful son.

  "I apologize, Simple Jess," she said to him. "I don't know what has got into Baby-Paisley."

  Jesse shrugged. "That's a whole lot of eggs for those few old hens," he said. "I wouldn't have even looked that long."

  She smiled at him, grateful that he didn't take her son's crankiness to heart.

  "I guess the chickens knew we were having company for breakfast," she said. "Come on inside. I suspect about half of those eggs were meant for you."

  Althea led him to the house. He dutifully brought the milk inside and poured it through the strainer for her before stepping out
to wash his hands in the trough.

  Baby-Paisley was sitting at the table, silent and belligerent. Althea tilted her head toward him slightly and gave him a hard look.

  "Did you wash your hands, Baby-Paisley?" she asked.

  "Yep," he answered shortly, holding them up less than an instant for her inspection. "He doan get none of my eggs," the boy declared.

  Althea's mouth thinned in displeasure. "I'm not proud of the way you talked to Simple Jess," she whispered, hoping the subject of their discussion could not hear. "He's working for us now. You don't have to be afraid of him. He's not going to hurt you."

  "I ain' 'fraid of him," Baby-Paisley lied vehemently. "I doan like him and I'm the man of the house."

  Althea could hear sounds of Jesse finishing up. "We'll talk about this later," she promised her son ominously.

  "Does he have to eat with us?" the boy asked loudly.

  "I can eat on the porch," Jesse said from the doorway. "That's what I do when I work for Mr. Phillips. He says that hired men eat on the porch."

  Baby-Paisley smiled, victorious, and folded his arms across his chest with satisfaction. Althea was tempted not to wait to talk to him later.

  "Absolutely not, Simple Jess," she said. "You come right on in here and take a seat at the table." She gave her son a warning look. "I hope you like biscuits 'cause I've baked up a big batch of them."

  "Yes, ma'am," Jesse assured her.

  Althea filled two tin plates with thick slices of crisp cooked side bacon and set one in front of each of the two males now seated at either end of the gingham covered table.

  "You'd best enjoy this last bit of side pork," she told them. 'There won't be any more until we butcher that hog."

  Baby-Paisley was not concerned. Althea was grateful that her very fortunate little boy knew nothing of going hungry.

  "It'll be cool enough to butcher real soon," Jesse said. "I'll ask my pa, he'll know when exactly."

  Althea nodded at him. She didn't need Jesse's father to tell her when the time came for hog butchering. But there was no need to mention that to him. He was trying to be a good hired hand. She wouldn't fault him for the effort.