Snakes and Stones

by Lisa Fowler

  I shake my head, wondering why in the world anyone would want to keep the two apart.

  “What sort of backwoods country folk are you anyway, missy?”

  He slicks back his circus-red hair with his fingers and gapes at me like he’s wondering if the likes of me even ought to be setting foot in a proper store like his.

  I don’t say anything, but his question starts me to thinking back to what used to be my home. Daddy and Abraham—I know it was now—went down into that big old hole in the earth every day of the week. Except Sunday of course. Funny thing though, in the morning, Abraham looked different than Daddy because of his dark skin. But when Daddy and Mister Abraham came out of the mines in the evening, both of them all black and covered head to toe with coal dust, they both looked the same.

  The way I see it, I might be country folk like the mustache man says, but even us backwoods bumpkin country folk got the good sense to know Negros is just the same as white folk, except for the skin on the outside. And the way I got it figured, neither of us—whites or Negros—have got much say in the matter.

  About the time I’m doing my wondering, staring right hard at them signs above the doors, a Negro lady with her arms stuffed with packages steps from behind the one marked COLORED.

  I grab the door and pull it open wider, so she can come on out without knocking the fire out of her elbows or tripping over her feet that she can’t see because of the bundles.

  The lady smiles and gives me a wink and a nod, mouths the words “Thank you,” and hurries through the store and on her way.

  The man with the curly mustache and wiggly belly turns and shoots me a look, like he wants to ask if I understand now that I’ve seen it with my own eyes. But he don’t.

  Good thing too, because I’d be asking him what in the world all the hubbub is all about anyhow. Seems to me I remember the preacher back home saying the ground was level at the foot of the cross. Reckon that applies to crotchety store owners with big clunky shoes same as it does to friendly Negro ladies with arms full of packages, now don’t it? Way I see it that even puts us backwoods country folk on the same ground with the both of them.

  “You got money to pay?” he bellows, jerking my mind away from the writing above the doors and the lady with the smiling face and armload of packages.

  “Yes, sir,” I say, tapping my hand against my pocket so he can hear the jingling of the coins.

  He looks me up and down again and shakes his head.

  “Is this what you’re looking for?”

  He shoves the pack of paper up under my nose and I nod.

  Scowling, he lets go of the paper.

  “Well, yes, sir,” I say, looking at it more closely, “but don’t you have some without the lines, like for drawing pictures and the like?”

  “Oh, drawing paper. Well why didn’t you say that the first time? It’s over here.”

  He stretches and reaches to the top shelf and pulls down a pack of white drawing paper. He holds it up and shows me, raising one bushy eyebrow like he wants to ask if I’m satisfied now, but he don’t.

  “Yes, sir, that’s it. Thank you.”

  He turns to walk off.

  “Sir? How much is it? I mean, how much does it cost?”

  “One hundred sheets for a nickel,” he says. He starts walking away and goes to limping fast, like he’s in a hurry and can’t be bothered with the likes of backwoods country folk like me.

  “Oh, and, sir?”

  He stops in his tracks but don’t even look at me this time.

  “Where are your pencils and crayons, please?”

  He points to a table at the far end of one of the long lines of shelves, close to the front. “Crayons, eight for a nickel, pencils, a few cents more,” he growls. “Kids,” I hear him say to the man standing close. “I’m trying to run a business here. What I don’t have time for are kids and their questions.”

  I shove the paper up under my arm and take off behind him to the front of the store, having to run a few steps in order to catch up, and snatching a pack of sharpened pencils and a green and gold box of Crayola crayons as we get close. I’m aiming to give him my money before Daddy sees and asks why I need so much paper. If he finds out and asks about my plans, he won’t think twice about tanning my backside with a strap.

  I pull the money from my pocket and slap it on the counter lickety-split, my hands sweaty and mouth as dry as a cotton ball in a windstorm. From the back of the store Daddy peers up front and catches my eye.

  There’s no doubt about it, I’ve been caught.

  “Would you put the paper and pencils into a sack for me, please?” I ask, fearing my plan to get out of the store fast is about to be squashed.

  9

  THE BLACK BOOK KNOWS THE TRUTH

  Before Daddy makes his way to the front of the store, I point to the front doors and mouth the words “I’ll be outside.”

  He nods and smiles, and I reckon—for now at least—I’ve got away with the first part of my plan, paying for the paper and the pencils and crayons.

  I can’t wait to get back to the wagon and set it all into motion.

  I open the door, and just as I set one foot outside, I feel Hazel slip her hand into mine, following me through the tall double glass doors. We lean against the large picture window, waiting on Daddy and the boys.

  Just as I figured, it’s not long before Hazel breaks into questions.

  “Whatcha got in that sack?” she asks, letting loose my hand and standing on her tiptoes.

  “Paper, pencils, and crayons.”

  “Whatcha gonna do with them?” Her eyes are dancing like a ballerina twirling on a fancy music box.

  “Draw.” I turn my back to her.

  “Can I draw too?” She pulls at my sleeve.

  “No.” I shove the sack up under my arm and cross my arms over my chest.

  She pulls my sleeve again, and I glance over my shoulder at her. Giving me the most pitiful puppy dog look I’ve ever seen, she pokes out her bottom lip, then suddenly crosses her eyes and sticks out her tongue.

  I can’t help but laugh.

  “I need all of this paper, Hazel. Maybe next time, all right?”

  For now she’s hushed, and before long Daddy and the boys come from the store with more than any of them can carry. I take one of the boys’ bags and hide my sack inside it so Daddy doesn’t ask questions. We head back to the wagon and then we wait.

  As a matter of fact, we wait three days, more time in one place than we’ve been in a while. I’m not sure exactly what we’re waiting for either. It don’t seem from his actions like Daddy’s in a hurry to do a show here.

  At breakfast, Daddy begins the day by making an announcement.

  “I’m going into town alone today. Chestnut, you watch out after the babies.”

  “Can I come?” Hazel asks.

  “No. I need to go alone. I’ve got errands to run and I need to get my jacket repaired for the next show. I won’t be long.” And off he goes into town with his torn jacket slung over his arm and not so much as a glance back at us.

  I’m glad he’s gone. Now that I’ve got the paper and pencils I needed, I can work on my plan to get back to Mama. I don’t want him to see me drawing, but I do realize now that if Daddy’d seen, he’d probably have thought this paper was for teaching the young’uns, so maybe I didn’t need to hide it so carefully.

  Sometimes I miss school—all of the questioning and the smell and feel of the books. Reckon though I’ve got more schooling in my head than some kids back home will ever have. Most of the kids I knew had to quit school to help their family around the farms. But I still miss it. For two years all I’ve had to keep the learning fresh in my brain are the books Daddy’s picked up along the way in yard sales and even in the missionary’s ragbags. But those books aren’t mine. I have to use them to teach the babies.

  Sometimes I want to tell Daddy how I feel. But before I get the chance he’s spouting out words saying there’s more to learning th
an what happens in the classroom. He says knowing how to get along with people is just as important as listening to a teacher recite facts all day long.

  Pretty words. Fancy words, but the way I see it he’s just making excuses to keep from going back home where we ought to be.

  “Stay close and don’t go running off,” I holler to the triplets as I take the wagon steps two by two and skedaddle inside to work. I can hear them outside, running, playing hide-n-seek and chase, so for now at least, I know all is well.

  Searching through Daddy’s bag of personal things, I find his little black book where he writes down important stuff like how many bottles of elixir we sell, how much money we make, and which town we’re going to next. He makes sure he keeps his black book hid from us so I know I’d better work fast.

  In the afternoon, by the time Daddy gets back, I’ve drawn up twenty flyers, complete with a picture of our wagon and the name of Daddy’s elixir on the side. Beneath the wagon, in big clear letters, I’ve added the final important touch: Heading to New Orleans, Louisiana! Looks pretty good too, if I do say so myself.

  I’m aiming to nail them to every post in town, right before the wagon pulls out and before Daddy figures out what I’ve done. If Mama’s looking for us same as I’m looking for her, she won’t have to hunt. From now on before we leave every town, I’m aiming to nail up flyers notifying her of where we’ll be next. You can bet your bottom dollar I’ll do my part to help her track us down.

  The way I’ve got it figured I’m as good as home and wrapped up safe in Mama’s loving arms!

  10

  SHOWTIME!

  Come on, Chestnut! You’re being a procrastinator. The day’s a-wastin’,” Daddy yells, smacking his fist against the side of the wagon. “Folks are gathering in town and we’re on the move. Time to look alive, girl!”

  We’re usually up before the dawn, but for once I’ve had the pleasure of sleeping late. I rub the night grit from my eyes and swing wide the tall wooden wagon doors, staring straight into the thinning spot on the back of Daddy’s head, the morning sun shining on it like a spotlight. Mercy, he really ought to wear a hat, and somebody should tell him.

  It won’t be me.

  I gather the triplets—already up and playing like cowboys—into the back of the wagon and straighten their clothes for the show as best as I can.

  Lingering aromas of burnt wood and charred iron skillets sunk deep into the leftover bonfire hang low, circling the camp and practically starving me to death. Daddy jumps onto the wagon and guides Old Stump slowly away from camp and down the road into town.

  What I wouldn’t give for just one more bowl of last night’s yellow-eyed beans. The triplets need it more than me though. After all, they’ve not got their growth yet, and I do. Still, just once I’d love to have all I can eat of something. Anything.

  Once we’re in the heart of town, Daddy hops from the wagon and weaves like a bobwhite in an open field, trying his best to see if anyone’s watching. He hops back up on the seat behind Old Stump, opens the door, and leans in cautiously.

  “Be careful now, Chestnut,” he says. “Folks across the street are stirring. Don’t let them see you. Remember to swing to the back of the wagon before you jump off.”

  It’s been more than three years now since Daddy lost his job and conjured up his get-rich-quick scheme. And in the two years we’ve been on the road I’ll bet I’ve heard his “Be careful now, Chestnut” speech at least a million times.

  He meets me around back, already dressed for the show.

  “Tie my tie, Chestnut, baby. My hands are shaking worse than a newborn calf in a hail storm.”

  I reach up and take the stiff black strings of his new tie between my fingers and begin shaping them into a bow. After two years of this you’d think he’d have his nerves under control.

  He looks me in the eyes and smiles, but I look away fast and swallow hard. Just for a second I think maybe he’s not so bad. And then he has to go and ruin the moment.

  “Baby, you’re so pretty,” he says. “Why, you know, Abraham was right. You are the spitting image of your mama. I’ll bet you look just like she did when she was twelve.”

  I don’t look at him.

  I can’t.

  If I do, I might start to care about him more than I want.

  Anyway, I’ve still got Filbert’s words about how Daddy don’t like me because I look like Mama still knocking away at my brain.

  After a bit Daddy starts in again, but this time he don’t finish.

  “With that dark-as-night black hair and them big chestnut-brown eyes …” His words trail off and he rubs my cheek sort of gentle-like. “Those freckles that jump across your nose just like hers. Aw, she was a looker all right.”

  It’s right then that it happens, same as always. His mind changes gears just as fast as if a conductor had flipped a switch at a railroad junction, as if a train was headed down one path and suddenly was flung onto another. With his “You’re so pretty,” and “Chestnut, tie my tie,” then all of a sudden he flips his own switch and goes off in another direction. His face loses all expression. His smile’s gone and the tone of his voice suddenly cross. He looks way off like he’s recalling some past memory he don’t want me to know anything about.

  “But I suppose I can’t get my mind on her now, can I?” He shakes his head fast. “No use crying over spilt milk, right?”

  Oh, I know what he’s doing. He’s getting mad, letting bad memories work him up for the show. There’s a look in his eyes that’s suddenly wild and unruly, like an animal pacing in a cage.

  “She’s made her bed,” he says, shoving a balled fist into the air. “Let her lie in it!”

  He beats his fist against the wagon a couple times more, breathes in deep, and then clears his throat. “Who needs her anyway?” he says. “I’ve got all the happiness I need here on the road raising my little nut farm, alone.”

  He’s sweating. He always sweats before a show—even if the air is cool, like it is today. He says it’s his nerves, and that what he needs is a long, slow draw from a big imported cigar.

  Huh! Now how could he afford something like that?

  He sets his black top hat—the one he bought off a magician over in Knox County—onto his head, slips on his long black coat, and turns to go, looking more like a funeral director or even a preacher than an elixir salesman.

  When he reaches the edge of the wagon, he turns back to face me. With a strange, uncommon tenderness in his voice all over again, he says it—same as always, “Chestnut, your mama’s leaving was a bad thing, but she left because of me, on account of I couldn’t settle down and put her in a good home. You believe me now, don’t you?”

  Knowing his words by heart, I nod, but I don’t believe it no more now than I did the first time he said them. Not deep down inside anyway—where it really counts. I know there’s more to the story than what he’s telling, especially since his words don’t match up with my recollection.

  He flashes me a half smile, straightens his jacket, and sucks in a slow, deep breath. He pats himself on the stomach, rocks up on his tiptoes and back down again a couple of times, like he’s revving up a tractor, and off he goes to the front of the wagon, smiling like a Cheshire cat.

  The triplets streak past, caught up in a feisty game of chase.

  “Whoa! Whoa! Whoa!”

  I reach out and grab hold of Hazel by the dress-tail. Filbert and Mac run one more time around the wagon before coming to a stop.

  “Come on now, you three. Calm down. It’s almost time for the show.”

  Reaching way down, I brush the mud off Filbert’s pants. It’s clear to see he spent his morning wading the creek. That boy don’t obey worth a lick. If I know him, he’s shoved a frog in one pocket and a lizard in the other. Reckon they’ll jump out any second now and scare the life plumb out of me, even though I’m halfway expecting it to happen.

  I spit in my hand and do my best to smooth the cowlick in the front of Mac’s hair
, but he jerks away before it’s done. Poor Mac. What God gave him in face value, He took away when it comes to his bottlebrush hair.

  I give my thumb a lick and then wipe a smudge from Hazel’s chin. Mercy, somebody ought to follow this girl around with a rag. She just can’t stay clean. I brush the dust from her dress the best I can, but it’s not easy, especially since she’s wiggling worse than an earthworm in a rainstorm.

  A sudden sputtering causes the three of them to turn and stare with their mouths hung open to their chests. It’s a shiny black Model T, sputtering and coughing down the street like a cat hocking up a windpipe full of mouse whiskers.

  “What are you gawking at? You’ve seen cars before.”

  “Yeah,” says Mac, pointing, “but not ones making that kind of racket. Something’s wrong with that one!”

  His words start my mind to thinking. Here we are in the middle of 1921, just about two and a half years from the end of the big World War, the boys home from fighting and driving around in their fancy Model Ts. Then there’s us, stuck in the olden days, still riding around in a rickety old wooden wagon. And we wonder why folks call us “backwoods.”

  Now don’t get me wrong. As wagons go, ours is a fine one, even though it did used to be a circus wagon. Daddy says they kept animals right where we’re sleeping now. Sometimes I lie awake at night and listen for the ghosts of old lions and tigers—maybe even bears—and wonder what they must have thought of their wagon ride.

  Then there’s Old Stump, our mare. Bless her heart. Mama always says you can say anything you want about a body—good or ill—as long as you put “bless their heart” right along with it. Sort of takes away the hurt of it all, I suppose.

  Anyway, Daddy traded a man our old worn-out horse and ten bottles of elixir for her when we spent a few days over in Memphis. I’d have to think mighty long and hard to know who got the worst end of that deal or why Daddy would trade one exhausted horse for another.

  Old Stump’s lost all the hair off her backside, one of her ears is longer than the other, but she’s as dependable as the day is long. She’s a-fierce tired out of her eyes too, but then why wouldn’t she be, dragging us and our big old wooden wagon in and out of practically every town in the South for the last two years and more?