by Lisa Fowler
Daddy’s words have sealed it in my mind. I’ve just got to get back to Mama. But, them flyers won’t work ’til I get to nailing them up, so tonight, when the moon is high and the air full of the sounds of the sleeping, I’ll be working on a new plan. Oh, I’ll still nail up my flyers, but it’s clear to me now that there’s got to be more to fixing my family than just flyers.
“All right, Abraham,” Daddy says, talking loud and jerking my mind back from my plans. “If you decide to join us, be at the wagon in the morning at first light. I’ll be happy if you come. I think you’ll find it will be beneficial to us both.”
We walked a lot more, listened a bit, and smelled our way through the streets of New Orleans, with its oven-pulled hot breads and its crispy skillet-fried chickens, wishing there was just some way under the heavens that we could at least taste some of that food them folks is wasting and fixing to toss over into the trash.
On the way back through town all the triplets would say was, “Daddy when are we leaving?” “Daddy, I’m hungry.” “Daddy, can you get us some food?” “Daddy, let’s go back to camp and get something to eat.”
Poor little things, they can beg all they want but Daddy and me both know the truth. There ain’t enough food back at camp to fill up the belly of one person, much less five, and now Daddy’s gone and talked to Abraham about coming along with us.
It don’t pay much but it would give you a roof over your head and an occasional meal, he said. Huh! Occasional is right.
I’m as mad at my Daddy as a swarm of wasps shut up in a canning jar, and I can hardly wait to get back to camp to open up on him. My anger is raging and I’m not going to be quiet about my feelings this time. The way I see it he’d better hang on to his hat because I’ve got more than one crow to pick with my daddy before this night is through.
15
SNAKE!
Filbert, Mac, and Hazel start up the steps to the wagon, but stop the second I light into Daddy.
“I don’t understand what you’re doing by bringing Abraham on. There’s barely enough food for us now, picking up a few things here and there, bumming food from other folks when we can. How are them babies going to get a proper meal when there’s another mouth to feed?”
I know he could tell by my tone that I was good and mad, but Daddy don’t say a word. Matter of fact, it’s as if I wasn’t talking to him at all. The triplets are standing with their mouths gaped, like they can’t believe I’m talking to Daddy this way.
“Daddy, are you listening to me?” I’m trying not to be disrespectful, but realizing with every word that splurts from my mouth my efforts aren’t really working.
He whirls around, cocks his head to one side, and looks me right between the eyes, like maybe I just shot his dog. Without taking his eyes off me, and soft as a canary with laryngitis he says, “Filbert, Mac, and Hazel, go inside the wagon. This is between me and your sister.”
Suddenly I realize by his softness that Daddy must be fixing to unleash his words on me. I swallow hard and take a deep breath, dreading the tongue-lashing that’s to come.
“Chestnut Hill, you’re getting just a little too big for your britches,” he says, slinging a finger toward my face. “It seems to me like it hasn’t been long since we had this talk and now here we are again, going down this same rocky path.”
“Daddy—”
“Just hush.” He touches his finger to his lips and shakes his head, but Daddy’s not seen what I have.
“But, Daddy—” I gasp and then slap my hands over my mouth.
“I said, hush.”
Moving only my eyes I give an exaggerated stare toward the ground hoping Daddy will follow where I’m looking.
Finally, he sees it and freezes. Crawling across his shoe is the biggest copperhead I’ve ever seen in all my twelve years of living.
“Don’t. Move.”
He needn’t worry. I’ve got way too much fear inside.
I remind myself to breathe and then quietly let out the breath as the snake crawls off his shoe and underneath the bushes, in a moseying, meandering sort of way. We both let out a long sigh.
“That was close,” he says.
“Yes, sir. It was.”
“Chestnut, come over here and sit down with me.”
He motions to the large log beside the fire. Fearing his words nearly as much as another snake, I sit and stare into the fire.
He waits a long while before he speaks; matter of fact I’m beginning to believe all he wants is my company. I couldn’t be more wrong.
“Let me ask you a question,” he says. “And I want you to think before you speak. Have any of you young’uns ever starved to death? Oh now, I don’t mean gone to bed hungry—I know you’ve done that—but I mean gone without food so long you’ve gotten sick or one of you has died?”
“No, sir.”
He clears his throat and stares into the fire. “Have you ever seen me sit down to eat and not share with you or the triplets?”
“No, sir.”
“Have you ever known me not to take care of your needs? Now not your wants,” he turns to face me, “but your needs. You do know the difference, don’t you?”
I swallow hard. “Yes, sir, and no, sir, I haven’t.”
“You haven’t what? Mac, get back in the wagon right now!” he hollers, never turning to look back over his shoulder.
How does he do that? How does he know what’s going on behind him without looking?
I shake my head. “No, sir,” I say. “I’ve never known you not to get us what we need.”
“Yes, so what in the world makes you think I’d start now? Why, all of the sudden, do you think I’d allow a stranger to come in here and take food out of the mouths of my babies?”
I shrug, but still, in my heart, I’m not convinced.
Then Daddy does something a might curious—something he hasn’t done in years since Mama left—or I should say, since he stole us away.
He puts his arm around me and pulls me close.
I don’t know whether to jerk away or cry, but I reckon now’s not the time for either, so I sit still as a tree, and let him hug me. But I don’t hug him back. I can’t. No way I can let myself care about him.
Then, with his arm still wrapped around my shoulder, he takes a finger and pushes my chin up so’s we’re staring nose hair to nose hair. He talks so softly, and for the first time in a long time I get a funny feeling inside—a funny feeling that maybe I’ve been wrong about him caring for us after all.
“Chestnut, you four are my children, and I’ll do whatever I have to do to take care of my children. There might not always be as much food around as I’d like for there to be, and it might not always be what you would want to eat, but you haven’t starved to death yet and I’m not aiming to let you starve to death in the future. Now, you and I both know we’re not like these city folk—caring only for ourselves and never being concerned with the needs of others. We Hills are always open to sharing what we’ve got with others, aren’t we?”
I nod, suddenly feeling as small as a fairyfly.
“You know the same as me that the only thing that matters in this old world is what we can give away to others. And Abraham is an ‘others,’ isn’t he?”
“Yes, sir.”
I know he’s right—about the caring for others that is—but in my heart I don’t think his words are matching up with what I know to be true about him. He’s all about the money. He’s not concerned about taking in Abraham—even if he is an old friend from back home—sharing our food, and giving away to others. All he cares about is what that banjo-picking man can do for him, to put more money in his pockets.
My words say, “Yes, sir,” but not my heart, where it counts.
“Now, get on up in that wagon and climb into bed.”
He smiles, and before I can stop myself, I smile back.
“Yes, sir.”
Now, I’ll be the first to admit that when he wants, Daddy can be a charming man, full of
eye twinkle, fancy words, and tender feelings. But that don’t sway me. Mama says the proof of how much someone cares is in the way they treat you. Stealing young’uns away from their home, leaving their mama pining away and worrying says more to me than Daddy’s words ever could.
So, when the air is full of the sounds of the sleeping, by the light of the kerosene lamp I draw up more flyers with the next town listed in Daddy’s black book: Beaumont, Texas. When I’m done, I snatch up Daddy’s hammer, fill my pockets with his nails, and shimmy off away from the wagon and back into town.
Strangest thing I ever did see too. Seems like the only ones asleep in the big, old city of New Orleans is my kinfolk. I walk—and run—by more eating, drinking, entertaining places than I ever seen in my life, wishing in my mind I could stop a while and paint the likes of it all, but I’ve got no time for that. I run fast as I can from street light to street light, nailing flyers to every pole in town and on the way, to keep my mind off my fears, I think about getting back to Mama.
Seems to me that there’s only one way I’m going to get that happy-ever-after home I want, and that’s by grabbing the bull by its horns. The way I see it, if Mama can’t come to me, I might just have to leave Daddy and run away to get back to her.
16
STRANGERS MOVING IN AND STAYING
Morning brings a new but familiar voice around the campfire.
Filbert, Mac, and Hazel jump off their cots and spring out the door with all the energy of a herd of three-legged kangaroos. Me? Well, it was all I could do to get my eyes to open after the long and tiring night I had, running and sneaking through downtown New Orleans like a rabid fox on the hunt for its next bite.
“Morning, Mister Abraham,” I hear the triplets say in unison.
“How are ya’ll?” is his reply.
Stumbling out the door, I join them around a big fire in the middle of camp.
“Chestnut, Abraham’s come to join us. Aren’t you going to speak to him?”
“I’m sorry, morning, Mister Abraham,” I say, still wiping night grit from the corners of my eyes.
He and Daddy are sipping coffee and laughing like all the miles between them never happened. I’m not glad he’s come, but now that he’s here, reckon I might as well make the best of it.
There’s nothing much to do in the early morning light but sit and stare across the campfire. It’s here, hugging to the warmth of the popping fire that I get my first real, up close look at Abraham.
He’s scruffy, with rough-looking whiskers across his chin and halfway up his face, which I had noticed before. And he’s got the whitest, straightest teeth I ever did see in my life. He’s stooped and bent at the shoulders, and I suppose now that I see him clearly and can think through it all, it must be from many years leaning over the banjo and plucking. His hands are knobby and twisted and tremble a bit when he reaches, but his voice is soft and welcoming. And he smiles—the sort of smile that makes you want to trust him with every secret you’ve ever had.
“Mawnin’, child,” he says, nodding.
“So is it true, Mister Abraham?” asks Hazel. “Are you really going on the road with us?”
“Dat’s all right wit ya’ll, ain’t it?”
“Yay!” Hazel hollers.
“You bring your banjo?” Filbert asks.
“Sho’ nuff did, child. Right over dere,” he says, pointing to the banjo propped against the trunk of a tree with one crumpled brown paper sack beside it.
“Can we sing with you? Can we sing something now?” Mac asks.
“All right, young’uns,” Daddy says. “Don’t bombard Abraham with your begging. There’ll be plenty of time for singing once we get on the road. Come on, boys, help Abraham get his things loaded into the wagon. We’ll break up camp and be on our way.”
For the next three weeks, we bump along, Abraham sitting by Daddy, strumming and picking on his banjo as we ride. And there’s singing, lots and lots and lots of singing, with Abraham taking lead and the triplets harmonizing right along. I pat my foot in time with the music and hum along just as soft as a cockroach scatting from sunshine. I can sing as good as the rest of them—maybe better—but there’s no way I want Daddy thinking I’m happy enough to have the music in me.
I spend my time working on my new plan and drawing—landscapes mostly—but not of Louisiana land, or even Texas, but of Kentucky, with its cornstalk-green hills and rolling meadows that stretch out for miles, dotted like a face of freckles with wild strawberries, furry dandelions, and dragonflies, just the way I remember it all.
When Daddy finally pulls the wagon into Beaumont, Texas, we’re all more than ready for a rest from the road.
Abraham and Daddy—frightfully happy to have another man along—hop from the wooden seat up front and begin to set up camp. Mama says jawing at young’uns all day is the fastest way to make a grown person’s brain turn to mush. Reckon Mister Abraham being here will help Daddy get rid of his mush.
“We gonna do a show here, Daddy?” Mac asks, not bothering to stop running and chasing Hazel and Filbert ’round and around the wagon.
“Yes. Yes, I believe we will.”
Daddy props his hands on his hips and bobs up and down on his toes. He looks around slowly, then stretches and yawns. “No time like the present to try out the new act, isn’t that what you say, Abraham?”
“Sho’ nuff do, Slim. Sho’ nuff do.”
Daddy’s come to life again. He’s smiling and patting Abraham on the back and there’s a spring to his step that only comes when he’s doing a show. He jumps around the wagon, stacking wood, brushing Old Stump, and even joining in a game of chase with the triplets.
He unbolts the door to the side of the wagon where he stores the elixir and runs his hands across the bottles, turning each one of them so’s the labels all line up and face the front. Then he lets the lid down on the bottles extra careful like and throws the bolt across. He smacks himself on the chest, like he’s telling all the world he’s mighty proud of what he’s done, and lets out a long sigh.
“All right, Abraham, let’s go into town for a bit, sort of check out the prospects while we gather supplies. We’ll just leave the fire until we return, hmm? Chestnut, you and the babies come too, but you remember to hang back away from the rest of us.”
Daddy’s talking fast.
And loud.
Too loud for my morning headache, and I notice right off it don’t take Daddy long to get back into the same old routine of acting like I’m not one of the family. But no matter. I’ve got my brand-new plan in mind.
Maybe, just maybe, I’ll become a jumper and jump onto a passing train heading back to Kentucky. Or maybe I can find someone in the next town who’ll let a strong girl like me work for them for a while—just until I can save up some money for a bus ticket. If the flyers don’t work, I mean.
I tag along same as usual, and when we get to the general store, I scatter.
The triplets handle everything they see, as usual, causing me to come close to dying of fright right there in front of them all.
Abraham and Daddy are loading up supplies.
“Excuse me, sir,” Daddy says to the man behind the counter. “Where do you keep your nails? Seems I’ve misplaced mine. Used to have a box plumb full but I couldn’t find a one of them this morning. I suppose I’ve let them spill out somewhere along the way.”
Daddy’s babbling on and on with his words, trying to make best friends of everyone he meets.
The man behind the counter takes money from the customer beside Daddy and then slides the bills into the cash drawer. He leaves the cash register door wide open and moves from behind the counter, showing Daddy to the nails.
As they walk to the back of the store I take a quick look around.
There’s not a soul in sight. Daddy, Abraham, and the man are clear to the back of the store. Triplets are leapfrogging and chasing each other, not paying a flea’s bit of attention to me, and there’s not another customer anywhere in sight.<
br />
If there ever was a chance, it’s now.
I move quick, but quiet, inching my way behind the counter and keeping my eye on the man with Daddy and Abraham the whole time.
He never turns to look. None of them do, and Daddy’s keeping him occupied, just like if we’d had the whole thing planned.
I scoot close beside the cash register and snatch a fast look at the money. Paper money! They’s more of it in that drawer than I’ve ever seen in one place in my life. I reach for it quick as a flash, but lose my nerve and jerk my hand away empty.
All of a sudden and quick as a flash my head’s so full of thinking that it hurts.
Stealing is wrong and you know it. Don’t do it. The Bible says it’s one of the big ten don’t-do commandments that the preacher talks about. You’ll go down to the devil for sure if you steal.
Funny thing is though, quick as them thoughts come to me, a whole other set slides in right behind, pushing them out of the way.
But you need that money to buy a train ticket to get back to your mama. Girl being with her mama’s not wrong. Girl going back to where she was when she got snatched away from her home’s not wrong. Stealing’s wrong but only if you don’t have a good enough reason.
Chestnut Hill, get to moving!
You’ve got a good enough reason!
17
MURDERING KIN
Right then and there, behind that counter in the front of that general store, the devil takes me over completely, mind and body.
I reach up and grab the biggest old handful of money my bony hands will hold, and then I shove that money all the way down into the bottom of my pocket. Moving fast, I skedaddle from behind the counter and slip away, trying as best as I can to act like I’ve not done one thing wrong.
My heart’s beating into my throat, my mouth is parched, and my hands are sweating like the outside of a glass of ice in the summer sun. And I think for sure my knees are aiming to quiver and vibrate and wobble clean out from underneath me at any second.
All I want to do is run!
Run from the store and never show my face in this town again—or anywhere else for that matter.