by Lisa Fowler
“Chestnut, you’re not the boss of me,” he yells, letting loose of his fist.
“I like being with Daddy,” Filbert says, his eyes turned back to his book. “I’m glad we’re not at home. I like being on the road.”
“You’re just saying that because you’re one of Daddy’s little pets.”
“Well, I’m not his pet and I’m glad we’re here with Daddy too,” Hazel says.
“Oh sure, he loves and hugs on you, tussles the boys’ hair, but he don’t hardly even look my way. The way I’ve got it figured, he don’t even like me.”
“Chestnut, you take that back!” Hazel shouts, running at me, giving me a shove. “Daddy does too like you, and you know it.”
Hazel might still act the part of a baby, but she can pack a punch that’ll make you wish you’d brought something to the party besides your fists.
“Does not,” I say, shoving her backwards with one easy push.
“Does too.”
Another shove.
“I know why Daddy don’t like you,” Filbert says, tossing his book aside, standing, and stretching like he has the answers to all the world’s questions at his fingertips.
I stop the shoving match with Hazel and stare at him. “What do you mean, you know why Daddy don’t like me?”
“He told me.”
“He told you he didn’t like me?”
In less than two giant steps I plant myself toe to toe with Filbert and stare him down.
“Well, he didn’t say he didn’t like you, exactly.”
“What does that mean?” I ask, my heart pounding into my throat and my face getting hotter by the second. I narrow my eyes into a squint and speak through clenched teeth. “You tell me what he said right this minute, Filbert Emanuel Hill, or I’ll knock your lights out.”
“Okay, okay! But back up. I can’t think with you breathing on me like that.”
Filbert takes a breath, and there’s a sneaky, sly sort of grin that pops out on his face. He must have realized it too because he swipes at his face with his hand.
“All he said was that you remind him of Mama. Since he don’t ever talk about her or seem to miss her much, I just figured—”
“Yeah, well you figured wrong!” I interrupt, knocking against him with my stomach.
“Whoa!”
We hear Daddy holler, and the wagon rolls to a stop.
Filbert runs, slings wide the doors, and jumps to the ground, missing the steps completely.
Huh! Good thing he run out before I could get my hands on him.
“Filbert! Mac!” Daddy shouts. “I passed a creek about half a mile back. The two of you take Old Stump and walk her back. Let her rest a while by the water. There was some high grass there for her too. We’ll camp here for now. Hazel, you get the wagon shipshape, and, Chestnut, we could all do with a batch of fresh clothes.”
“Where are we now, Daddy?” Mac asks, leaving his yo-yo for the largest earthworm I ever laid eyes to.
“Oh I suspect we crossed over the Tennessee line some time back.” Daddy rubs his neck and leans over to touch his toes. “I’d say we’re pretty deep in Alabama territory by now.”
Mac, not paying any more attention to Daddy’s words than our horse, sends the earthworm flying into the trees.
“Quit your stalling now, Mac,” Daddy says, “and get on up there and tend to Old Stump.”
With Filbert’s words still stinging my ears like an angry wasp, I shove the dirty clothes into an empty box and head to the creek behind the boys and the horse. It’s not long before I’m slapping wet clothes against the large rocks until my shoulders ache, trying my best to beat the dirt clean out of them. As I scrub and rub them up and down, the stubbornness of that dirt puts me in the mind of Daddy.
Why in the world he run off with us like he did is still such a puzzlement. Every time he opens his mouth and speaks about it he knows he’s lying too, but he sticks to his story like a fat tick on the belly of a hound dog.
I know hating is wrong, especially if it’s your kin, but thinking about Daddy running off with us like he did sets my blood to boiling. Reckon a girl would have to try mighty hard not to hate a man for something like that.
My fingers rub and scrub and my mind fusses about Daddy, and before I realize it I’ve scrubbed the skin clean off my knuckles here against these rocks. There’s blood mixing with the icy waters of that fast moving creek too, so much that it shocks me at the sight. If only I could wash Daddy’s lies off that easy. But I can’t.
Shoving the clean, wet clothes back down into the box, I plop it onto my hip and cart it back to camp where I hang the clothes over tree limbs or lay them flat out on the rocks to dry.
When I get back I see that Daddy’s cooking up a pan of taters over the open fire, and the thoughts of a bite or two causes my anger to cool just a bit. After all, with all the room the hunger’s taking up in my belly, reckon there ain’t as much room for the irritation. With only one panful among us, there’s never enough to fill a body to the top, but I don’t mind saying that what there is tastes mighty fine.
Before long, late afternoon becomes early evening and the popping and snapping and sparking of the fire begins to feel like contentment—almost as much as the warmth of one of Mama’s well-worn quilts in winter. I listen for a while at Daddy’s reminiscing over the last two years on the road and all the places we’ve been in this old wagon. He describes the towns and lets the triplets guess the names and their states.
After a while I tire of their game and pretend not to listen. Instead I stare at the fire and let my mind wander back to home and to Mama. Where is she now? What’s she doing and is she missing me as much as I’m missing her?
The wood smoke that’s circling draws the late-evening gnats, and when the fireflies light up the sky like flickering candles, the triplets’ eyelids begin to droop. When there’s more yawns coming from their mouths than words, Daddy says, “Time for bed, young’uns. Tomorrow’s a new day full of surprises and possibilities for us and the show.”
Following the triplets up the steps and into the wagon, I stop on the top step and give a nod to Mister Moon, the same moon up in the sky that Mama’s seeing back in Kentucky. I smile at the thought of it and before I step inside, I whisper, “I love you, Mama. I miss you.”
The inside of our old wagon quickly fills with the sounds of the sleeping. With my fingers laced beneath my head, I stare out of the tiny window at the top of the wall into the night sky. I watch the stars twinkle, feel my eyes getting heavy and finally give in to sleep wondering what Daddy meant when he said “Tomorrow’s a new day full of surprises.”
5
BEING NOSY
Slim? Slim Hill, dat you?”
It’s not a voice easily recognized.
“Abraham?” Daddy shields the morning sun from his eyes with his hand and squints. “Abraham, my friend, goodness, what’s it been … four, five years now?”
“At least dat, maybe more,” the stranger hollers, running toward the wagon to meet Daddy.
The triplets practically fall over the top of each other trying to be the first to get close to the new man in camp. Still not sure of who he is though, I snatch them back and block them from getting any closer. They struggle but it seems like there’s more curiosity over who this man is than a desire to break free my hold. They gawk and stare but at least they keep their wonderings to a whisper.
Daddy and the man shake hands and then go to slapping each other on the back like they’ve known each other for years. They may be friends—now that I look closer he does seem a tad familiar—but the first thing I notice is that Daddy seems to be putting on airs, pretending to be something he’s not. Makes me wonder just how close their friendship really is if Daddy has to pretend to be his charming self.
“Come on, let’s jaw over a cup of swamp water,” Daddy says, motioning Abraham closer to the morning fire.
Keeping out of sight, I try to size him up by his looks. Mama always says you can ne
ver be quite sure what’s in the can until you pop off its lid, but I’ve got the good sense to know that you can tell a lot about a person from the feeling you get in your gut the first time you lay eyes to them.
He’s a small man, much smaller than Daddy, with short curly hair the color of dandelion fluff. From his looks he’s an awful lot like us; he’s missed more than a few meals in his lifetime. He’s dressed in a striped brown suit, complete with matching vest, tie, and clunky derby hat.
“So, Abraham, how’ve you been?” Daddy asks, slapping the man on the back again.
“And where in the world are you headed so early in the morning, dressed to the nines like you are?”
Abraham lets out a groan and lowers himself onto a large rock by the fire. “Oh I’s been fine,” he says. “Since I left de mine, my breathin’ much better and I feels like a new man. Doctor say all I need was to get de coal dust out my lungs. Dat stuff will put de healthiest of man in de early grave.”
Daddy nods and smiles.
Abraham’s talk of the mines jingles my memory like the church bells on a Sunday morning. It’s then that I remember him from back home.
“I gots a bit o’ business here in town,” Abraham says, swigging a sip of coffee. “When did you leave de mines?”
“Let’s see now, I suppose it was …” Daddy scratches his head and looks up at the sky like he’s grabbing onto the thoughts of some wise man who’s gone on before. “Probably about three and a half, maybe four years now,” he says. “Matter of fact it was about six months after you left the mines and moved away that I lost my job. The new owner tried to save a buck or two by cutting back on the number of foremen.” Daddy rolls his eyes and rubs at his forehead like he’s trying his best to rub away the worry lines.
“No matter though,” he adds. “I guess you could say getting away from the mines changed my whole life. I’m not quite sure I can say that it was for the better, but—”
Daddy stops in the middle of a sentence and hangs his head—makes me know in my heart he’s thinking about Mama and how he stole us away from her, even though he don’t come right out and say it.
“So, what exactly is Slim’s Powerful Franciscan Healing Elixir?” Abraham points to the side of the wagon and smiles. From the sly sort of twinkle in his eyes I suspect he’s come across some of Daddy’s shenanigans before today.
Daddy snickers. “Well now, you know what they say: I could tell you, but if I did I’d have to—”
“I gets it,” Abraham says, but I notice right fast that he’s not snickering like Daddy. In fact there’s a sudden uncomfortable sort of silence between the two of them, and only the sound of coffee being sipped until Abraham starts in again.
“Tell me, Slim, how is dem babies o’ yours?”
Daddy tops off his cup with some hot coffee. “This you are not gonna believe,” he says. “Chestnut, come on out here. Filbert! Macadamia! Hazelnut! Come in close. I want you all to meet an old friend.”
The triplets break my hold and run toward Daddy, circling him like three pesky puppies. I know he called my name too, but still I stay back, near the corner of the wagon.
With his chest puffed out half a mile, Daddy pulls Hazel over in front of him, the buttons of his shirt practically popping with pride. Mama says pride is that feeling that runs up and down your spine right before you fall flat on your face. Once you hit the ground, the only thing left is to pray to die from the embarrassment of it all. From the looks of things I reckon my daddy’s fixing to have to pick himself up from the long, hard fall of a lifetime. And then he turns, like he’s looking around for me.
When he lays eyes to me he motions me over, but still I stay back, figuring any friend of Daddy’s can’t be of much use to me. Anyway, if Abraham was really Daddy’s friend, Mama would have seen fit to entertain him. She never did.
And since when does Daddy have friends anyway? I’ve never heard talk of him having any friends.
Still, Daddy nods and smiles, and Filbert and Mac shake Abraham’s hand.
“My goo’ness,” he says, “dese ain’t de triplets is dey? Why, they sho’ nuff jes’ about growed up. Dey was what, three or so de last time I saw ’em?”
“Believe so,” Daddy says, smiling like he’s the cat that’s choking down the canary. “They’re seven now, you know.”
“Well they sure is fine-looking childrens, Slim. Yes, sir, dey’s fine. Good thing dey don’t much looks like you, though.”
They laugh, and Daddy nods, but I know in his heart he don’t mean it. The way he struts around and works the crowd, I know he thinks he’s the finest-looking man this side of the pearly gates. Mama must have thought so too—once upon a time, that is.
Abraham’s eyes leave the triplets as he leans around Daddy to lay eyes to me, standing by the edge of the wagon. He smiles. “Dat’s not your Chestnut,” he says, looking back and forth between me and Daddy.
“Yes. Yes, of course it is. Come on over here, baby. It’s all right, don’t mind Abraham. He’s known of you children since you were born. Don’t you remember seeing him around the mines?”
I shrug, but seeing him up close seals my recollection of him now. Daddy used to walk into and out of the mines with a Negro man every day. Reckon from what Daddy’s saying, that man must have been Mister Abraham.
Abraham stands, and removes his hat.
I hang my head and stare at my shoes.
“Oh, Slim, she be de spittin’ image o’ her mama. So perty, and all growed up,” he says, still looking back and forth between Daddy and me.
I turn to walk away but not before I notice that suddenly Abraham’s not smiling.
“Speakin’ of your wife …” He clears his throat and turns back to the fire, looking like he might be searching for words. “Slim,” he asks, in a voice suddenly low and serious. “Jes’ where is your Mavis?”
6
MIND YOUR BEESWAX
Daddy ignores Abraham’s question and soon their morning talk spills over into late afternoon, but even Daddy can’t stop the questions forever with a simple changing of the subject. Abraham asks Daddy again, and this time he looks around us young’uns like he’s waiting for Mama to pop out from the wagon after hearing her name another time or two.
Daddy, his face as washed-out as the morning ashes after a late night’s fire, doesn’t say a word. He just shakes his head, and for the first time in as long as I can remember I feel a might … well, I reckon you could say I feel a might sorry for my daddy. Reckon it pains him something fierce to have to tell an old friend he’s snatched us up and run off with us without Mama knowing about it.
No way I’m leaving now, so I just sit tight and hold on fast to the smooth log beneath me.
Maybe, just maybe, for once I’ll learn the why of it all. Mama always says if you want to learn the facts about something, keep your mouth shut and your ears open. She says the Good Lord gave us two ears and one mouth for one reason: so’s we could listen twice as much as we say. Right at this minute my mouth is closed so tight even the tiniest of gnats couldn’t make its way past my lips, and my ears are peeled back and listening sharper than a mountain lion with an empty belly.
Daddy clears his throat, then pokes a stick into the fire and stirs it until the sparks dance and disappear into the low-hanging branches of the trees, the smells of wood smoke and bitter coffee hanging low and circling around the camp.
I fold my arms across my chest and strain to hear Daddy and Abraham’s conversation above the triplets’ whoops and hollers as they play a rough and tumble game of chase around the wagon. Patting my foot against the dry, packed dirt, I stare into the fire wishing I had the paints and the time and the smarts to put this scene to canvas; me with all the hot cayenne reds of my anger toward Daddy, him with the buttery yellow of his cowardness from stealing us away mixed in with the stormy-water blues of his embarrassment over Mama not being around when his old friend asks about her. And then there’s Abraham. I’ve not yet come up with the colors to descri
be Daddy’s friend, so for now I’d just paint him as neutral, like the stringy, eggy-white cobwebs of a dewy morning or the tans of the turtle doves that coo on top of the fence posts as Old Stump clips along at a slow, got-no-where-to-go sort of pace.
But the truth of it all is that I can’t wait to hear the tale Daddy’s going to tell. Seeing as how he’s an expert at lying, I just know this one’s going to be a doozy!
“Chestnut,” he says, “why don’t you take the others inside and work on their …”
Mama says interrupting adult conversations is bad manners and something a proper Southern lady would never do, but I reckon if I don’t make an exception just this once, Daddy’ll hem and haw and search for words until the evening sun puts itself to bed. After all, that’s what liars do isn’t it? Stumble and stammer around for words?
“Reading,” I say, my arms folded and brow worked into a wrinkle. “You want me to work on their reading?”
“Yes. Reading. That’s good.”
Daddy’s forehead is wrinkled and scrunched up like he’s puzzled or nervous. He lets out a long sigh like he’s relieved I come up with the right words.
Huh! Saved his sorry hide is what I’ve done, and he knows it same as me.
I turn and stare a hole right through him as I steer the triplets up the steps and into the wagon.
“Chestnut’s not only their big sister, Abraham, but she’s been their teacher these last two years that we’ve been on the road, taking what she’s learned from her schooling and seeing to it that the babies are learned in proper. She’s taught them to read and got them ready for school—when the time comes for us to settle down that is,” Daddy says.
“Go on inside,” I say to the triplets, maybe a little proud but even more surprised that Daddy would say a good word about me to a friend. To my way of thinking though it’s gonna take more than one good word to get him out of the fix he’s in with me.
“Pull out your reading books and I’ll be along in a minute,” I say, but I’ve got no intention of going inside. Not without some answers to my wonderings.
I stop, halfway up the steps and wait, barely taking in air. I’ve got the good sense to know this man’s going to talk about my mama, and I want to be around to hear every word he has to say. I move as far back on the steps as I can, so as not to be seen by either of them.