by Pamela Morsi
But it was not that his father lacked interest. He allowed his son as much freedom as Jesse chose to take. Still there were times when he questioned his son's ability. That time was now.
Onery was worried that Jesse would make a mistake, a mistake that might hurt him and somebody else. Jesse's palms were sweating. He worried, too.
He swallowed the lump of fear that had settled in his throat.
"I'd need to get a tree that'd burn pretty clean," he said.
A long, thoughtful pause followed. His family waited patiently.
"Don't want to get nothing that's soggy or sappy," he continued. "The wood should have a smooth grain that would split easy."
He glanced toward his father for assurance. The old man nodded.
"A red oak'd be good," Jesse said. "If it was close to another tree and neither could get a good spread going. It'd be a shame to waste a red oak otherwise."
"That's the truth," his father agreed. "But what if you can't find no red oak in close quarters?"
"Then I'd fell a hackberry," Jesse answered. "It burns near as clean as the oak, splits easy, and don't make nothing better than firewood."
Onery Best gave his son a big approving smile. "Eat up, boy," he said. "A man what earns his own living needs to get plenty of vittles in him."
Chapter Five
The heat from the fire of the big black wash pot popped sweat out on Althea's brow. Her arms ached from the constant stirring of the wooden wash paddle. Wringing out the dripping garments and hanging them to dry was no easier. Wednesday/washday was her busiest of the week and offered some of her hardest tasks. But she didn't mind it, really. In fact, lately the workdays seemed to go faster than expected for Althea.
It was strange, the mere fact that there was another person at the place made day-to-day progress and accomplishments seem bigger and better. Truly, it surprised her that his presence was so unobtrusive. It was not as if she pretended he was not there. She was very aware of him. Too much aware. The thought came to her and she pushed it away quickly, not willing to even give it a perusal.
The last of the wash, the bedclothes, were gently boiling and the fire going low. Althea glanced up from her laundry kettle to check on her son.
Baby-Paisley was playing with the chickens. Henry, the old rooster, was now sporting a bandanna around his neck and from the shape of the stick the little boy held in his hand, Althea speculated that the old bird had just robbed a train or busted into a bank. Her son was gallantly bringing the cock to justice. She smiled. Soon enough the responsibility for this farm would be his. She wanted him to enjoy his little boy days as long as they would last.
With a light heart she let her gaze roam the homestead for a moment until she stopped to watch Simple Jess. He was over in the fallow cornfield near the house. She hadn't had an idea about putting in a crop last year. Orv and Tom had offered to do it for her. But she'd turned them down flat. As she'd turned down all their offers for assistance. She hadn't wanted their favors. She hadn't wanted their presence. It was funny that having Jesse there wasn't intrusive at all.
Except, of course, for Baby-Paisley. That child was determined to dislike Jesse and disagree and dispute every word that came out of his mouth. Of course it was hard for the little fellow, she thought. Baby-Paisley was used to adults who knew things and could be depended upon. It must be a little threatening to see a grown man whose mind was not whole. The brain-weakened were peculiar and different, almost as if they were always strangers.
Jesse was familiar, and yet he was not. He looked like the Piggotts, but he might as well have been from another mountain entirely for as well as he was known.
What did she even know about him? Althea thought quietly for a moment. She knew about his kind, but what did she really know about him. The feebleminded could not think. Everyone understood that. But she knew that Jesse did think. She often watched his brow furrow as he did it. The feebleminded were only oversized children; little boys in the bodies of men, that's what folks said. And yet there was nothing about Jesse Best that made one think of him as a child. It was all strange and confusing. How much more so must it be to her son? There was no way that Althea could explain Jesse to Baby-Paisley. She couldn't quite grasp it herself.
With a sigh, she leaned against the wash paddle and watched the ripples of strength in an endless rhythm, as Jesse moved the big long scythe back and forth, cutting the withered old cornstalks and the tall grass that had grown up around them. The field would look much better cleaned up, she thought. She'd thought several times to clean it up last spring. It was the first thing a person saw when they reached the homestead and its neglect gave a bad impression to any who passed this way. She'd decided to let it go, however.
She didn't care much what people thought and the ground would be covered with snow soon enough.
Immediately her thoughts came together and she realized the futility of Jesse's effort. She sighed loudly and shook her head. Jesse was wasting his time cleaning up the field when there were important things that had to be done. She needed firewood and she needed her hog butchered. And her hired hand was employing himself with a useless task.
She fought back her annoyance. Of course she couldn't expect Jesse to know what had to be done and when to do it. He was simple. It was her task to tell him what to do and see that he did it. He might look like a strong, dependable man. A person might forget that his silence was not thoughtfulness. But he was, after all, simple.
Determinedly she set her laundry paddle aside and began walking out to the field. She'd need to keep a closer eye on him and set out his tasks each morning at breakfast. She didn't know what she'd been thinking of, just letting him decide what ought to be done. He had a strong back and a willingness to work. Those things, however, would be wasted if he didn't receive the proper guidance and direction.
"Jesse!" she called out to him. "Jesse, come here."
His scythe stopped in midmotion and he turned toward her curiously. He braced the heavy tool upon his shoulder as if it were no more than a cane rake and headed toward her. He moved easily, with strength and grace unexpected in such a large man. He was smiling at her. Glad to see her. It was a beautiful smile. A smile that made one apt to forget that he was no ordinary man.
The heat of the day was on him and his cotton homespun shirt clung to the thickness of his muscled chest. Slightly disconcerted by the sight, Althea determinedly forced her gaze up to his bright blue eyes that looked down on her inquiringly.
"Jesse," she said firmly. "It's foolishness for you to waste your time cleaning up this field." She heard the strident tone in her voice and deliberately tried to moderate it. She wasn't angry at him. And she didn't want him to think that she was.
"All of the grass and brush in this field will be covered in snow in another month and no one will even be able to see it."
"Yes, Miss Althea," he agreed, nodding. Clearly he did not understand the meaning of her words.
"There is plenty of real work that needs to be done, Jesse. And I've hired you to do that work."
"Yes, Miss Althea. You're trading the dogs for my work," he said.
"Yes, I'm trading you the dogs. But I need real work, Jesse. Work that will help me."
"Yes, Miss Althea."
"You see, Jesse," she said, remembering to speak to him slowly and softly, hoping that he would be able to understand, "I'll need winter meat stores and firewood. Those are things that I can't get for myself. I'm counting on you for those things, Jesse. That's why I've offered to trade you my dogs."
"Yes, Miss Althea."
"So you should be gathering up wood and splitting it," she told him. "Or building the butchering platform for that hog."
He nodded. "I'm going to fell a tree for you, Miss Althea," he said. "There ain't enough brush around here to do you for the winter. I picked out a good sized hackberry up on the far ridge for you this morning. I thought I'd wait until next week to cut it down. Most of the leaves ought to be off of it by the
n and it'll be less trouble to drag down the mountain."
"Oh," Althea said, startled. "That sounds like a good idea. That sounds like a very good idea. A whole tree? That's a lot of firewood."
He nodded in agreement. "And you may need it if the winter turns out to be a bad one," he said.
"Yes, I suppose that's true," she admitted. "Now about the hog—"
"I was wanting to ask you about that," he admitted, interrupting.
"We will need to butcher the hog. You were right to ask," she said. "I know you are probably fond of the animal, but it was raised to put meat on the table."
Jesse's brow furrowed in puzzlement. "What I was thinking to ask, Miss Althea, was if I could bring my family's hogs over here and we could butcher them all together."
Althea's eyes widened.
"Butcher them all together?"
"I know you don't like folks about much," he said, surprising her with his perception. "But it takes lots of lumber and time to build up a butchering platform and it seems kind of like double work to build one here and another at our place. Besides, it's heavy work, ma'am, dipping a hog. I don't expect we could do it by ourselves. If you're willing, Miss Althea, I could just drive our hogs over here and we could do everybody's butchering all in one day."
"Yes, well that sounds like a good idea," she said thoughtfully. "It is a lot of work for just one hog. In fact, since I only have the one, perhaps it would be better if you just drove it over to your place."
"I thought of that," Jesse said, leaning slightly closer as if relating a confidence. "But truth to tell, Miss Althea, if we butcher at our house, well—" He hesitated. "If we butcher at our house the sausage making will be done in my sister Meggie's kitchen. If it's her kitchen, Miss Althea, that means she'll kind of be the boss, if you know what I mean."
Althea did know what he meant and indicated her agreement.
"I was thinking," he went on. "That if we butchered the hogs here, why you would be sort of taking charge. I love my sister. Miss Althea, but I'm betting your sausage tastes ten times better than any she could put up."
Jesse's expression was so sincere and so much the truth, Althea found herself laughing out loud.
"What a thing to say, Jesse!"
"I'm not just thinking of myself," he assured her. "Pa and Roe and me, we're used to Meggie's cooking and we don't mind it so much. But you and the boy'd be hard pressed to eat her recipe all winter."
Althea shook her head in delighted disbelief. "I would be pleased to fix the sausage," she told him, genuinely enchanted at the unexpected, backward, and mostly upside-down compliment. "And I'm glad that you've been thinking about meat for our winter."
Jesse's expression turned solemn once more. "Of course," he said. "This one hog won't be enough for the whole winter. I've got snares out for small game. And as soon as Pa's feeling up to it, me and the dogs'll be taking his gun out to try to get you something bigger."
"Why, you needn't wait on your father's good health, Jesse. You can take Paisley's gun if you'd like," she told him.
Jesse's eyes widened. "I could?"
"You hunt with your father's gun, don't you?"
"Yes, Miss Althea," he said.
"You are careful and safe with it, aren't you?"
"Yes, Miss Althea."
"Then you might as well take Paisley's. It could probably use a good cleaning. It's not doing anyone any good over the fireplace."
Jesse smiled at her. It was a broad welcome smile. It was the kind of smile that could make a woman forget that he was simple, not just a handsome, teasing man. "It's good for keeping strangers off the porch," he said.
Althea gazed at him curiously for a moment and then realized that he was making a joke about his first morning at work. She laughed, strangely embarrassed at being reminded of her foolishness and dishabille.
Unconsciously she checked the top button on her blouse to assure herself that it was decently closed. She cleared her throat unnecessarily.
"You are welcome to use the Winchester to hunt game," she said. "But I don't want you wasting any more time here in this field. There is no purpose in cleaning it up. So move along now."
Jesse hesitated.
"Come on now, Jesse," she said. "I suppose you can start cleaning up the smokehouse. There really is no sense in spending more time on this."
Still he hesitated.
"Jesse."
"What about the cow?"
"The cow?"
"What are you going to feed her this winter?" he asked. "There's no hay in the barn and no corn in the crib."
Althea's brow furrowed.
"I thought if I'd cut all the fields as close as is safe for the ground, it might give us enough to keep her fresh through the cold weather." He gestured toward the field around him. "Like you said, it'll all be covered up in snow pretty soon and that cow won't be able to get at it. If I cut it and stack it right, she'll have something to chew on at least. It ain't alfalfa or clover, Miss Althea, but it's grass and I suspect Ol' Bessie will be glad to have it once the ground's covered."
Althea stared at Jesse for a long moment. "I forgot about the cow," she said. Her tone was one of near disbelief. "I forgot about the cow completely."
Jesse nodded with solemn understanding. "That happens to me sometimes, Miss Althea. I have to say things over and over to myself so that I don't forget them."
"You go ahead and cut the grass, Jesse," she said.
"It won't take me but a couple more days to get all of it if the weather holds," he assured her. "Then I'll be felling the tree and cleaning the smokehouse and everything that you're thinking I should do."
"Yes, yes, I'm sure you will, Jesse," she said.
He was smiling at her still. That smile was so genuine and there was nothing feeble or weak-minded in it. His teeth were gleaming white and dimples shone in each of his cheeks, but it was his eyes, his bright blue eyes with their innocent warmth and crinkled corners that held her attention.
"Thank you, Jesse. Thank you very much," she said quietly.
"You are welcome, Miss Althea."
They just stood there across the fence, silent and staring at each other. Althea felt strangely disoriented, as if she were taking sick or losing her balance. Jesse just continued to smile.
Something captured his eye and he looked away. Althea continued to graze at him, observing the perfect curve of his jaw and the bristly blond stubble upon his cheek.
He glanced back at her and hesitated, stopping to look guiltily down at his feet, and then spoke again.
"I don't like to tattle, Miss Althea," he said quietly. "But I think I need to say something."
"What?"
His smile was gone now, his tone one of sincere confession. "Your boy done chased that rooster into the pigsty and he's covered in hog wallow up to his eyebrows."
"What!"
Althea turned immediately to see her son cheerfully cavorting in the stinking mud of the pigpen.
"Baby-Paisley Winsloe! You get out of there this instant!"
* * *
Eben Baxley rolled out from beneath the porch overhang at Phillips Store. He knelt in the damp grass for a long moment and held his head in his hands as he cursed the daylight that seemed to stab like a knife through his head. He'd promised himself that he'd drink less and think more, but the previous evening he'd reneged on his pledge.
"Mornin'."
The word itself was a disagreeable sound. Eben glanced accusingly in the direction of the porch to see who dared to utter it.
Old Pigg Broody sat on a barrel, chewing a mouthful of tobacco and squinting slightly to more closely observe him. Being the object of such scrutiny did not sit well with Baxley.
"You get an eyeful, old man?"
Broody chuckled, too broadminded to be offended and too old to be scared. "Yep, I seen worse, boy. But you do look like you got the stuffin' beat outer ye."
"You should see the other guy," Eben growled.
Pigg laughed out loud
at that. "Ain't nobody seen him. His daddy says he's too beat to get out of the bed. But then that boy weren't much of a scrapper even as a pup. It's a good thing he's taken to reading the law. He's not one that could make justice with his fists."
Eben didn't bother to dispute the old man's words. Oather Phillips didn't have much of a reputation for fighting, but the fellow'd been downright mad last night and Eben had been downright drunk. That was a mix guaranteed to cause an indecent share of bruises and pains.
The taste in Eben's mouth was foul as he half crawled, half stumbled to the well. The creaking lines as he lowered the bucket sounded as loud in his ears as shotgun blasts.
Damn, he didn't want to drink anymore. He was sick to death of it. And just as surely as his mother's naggings to him, drink was to be the death of him, just like his daddy, if he kept it up.
He moaned as he pulled the water-filled bucket back to the surface. His arms ached. His thighs ached. He winced at a stabbing pain in his shoulder. Everything hurt. And he'd been the victor.
He unhooked the water bucket from the pulley and set it on the ground next to the well. He knelt before it momentarily, like a penitent, and then plunged his head beneath the surface. As he straightened he slung water in every direction, but his eyes were wide open now and he felt revived. Gingerly he felt the lines of his facial bones. Oather didn't have much of a punch, but he'd been relentless. Nothing broken, but Eben did feel like the living devil.
He was pressing a tender lip when he felt an unexpected jab from the inside of his mouth. His eyes widening, he checked his front teeth.
"Hell's fire and damnation!" he cursed. Peering anxiously down into the bucket of water, he checked his reflection. He couldn't see for sure, but it felt like half his right front tooth was missing. What remained was like a jagged saw. Eben jumped to his feet immediately.
"You got a glass, old man?" he called out to Broody. "You got a looking glass?"
The old man took the time to send a half jaw of amber spittle unerringly off the edge of the porch.