by Lisa Fowler
The night breeze blowing in off the waters gives a welcome break from the sweltering heat of the day. Even a just-beginning woman like me gets tired of wiping sweat. After all, Mama says wiping sweat just isn’t ladylike.
I run from storefront to storefront and from wooden pole to wooden pole, nailing up flyers faster than I ever have before. I don’t see hide nor hair of the sheriff or the store owner, but every step I take I look over my shoulder for the both of them—and for Daddy. Running every step of the way back to the wagon, I’m hoping I can get back to my cot before Daddy’s back too and notices I’m gone.
I’m almost out of the town when suddenly I see Daddy.
But he don’t see me.
Least, I don’t think he does. I jump behind a large grove of bottlebrush shrubs in full bloom with its spikes of bright orangey red. No way I can let Daddy know I’m here, so I stay back between the blooms, out of sight.
But, what in the world is he doing?
Still dressed in his black show suit, he walks past the Beaumont Bank and Loan, and Frannie’s Fabulous Fish House, toward the end of the street, and he’s not walking slow. Matter of fact you might say he’s racing against himself. But where is he going, I wonder.
I stretch my neck and inch around the side of the bottlebrush for a better look. Hard to see in the darkness though. The only other building I see is a two-story on the edge of town—a beautiful white Victorian with shutters painted a washed-out cabbage sort of green and black rocking chairs lining the porch out front. I strain and squint and barely make out the sign:
BEAUMONT’S HOME FOR WAYWARD BOYS
He ambles up the steps, and knocks. He don’t turn around to see if anyone’s looking, and I reckon by that, this isn’t the first time he’s done something like this. But why would he knock on their door?
He’s set my mind to jumping with way more questions than answers. Why would he visit a home for wayward boys? Does he know someone here? What do wayward boys need with elixir? And just what in the world is a wayward boy, anyway?
The door opens slowly and an older lady with white hair and glasses steps onto the porch. Daddy shakes her hand and then I see him pull something from his pocket and give it to her. I can’t rightly tell what it is, even though I’m stretching my neck and squinting my eyes like I do when I’m swimming underwater in the ponds back near the coal mines.
After just a short while, the lady dabs at her eyes with a handkerchief, and then goes back into the house. Daddy turns to leave.
I’ve got the good sense to know I’d better hightail it back to the wagon fast as my bony legs will carry me, but if I leave now he’ll see me, no doubt.
No way I can let him know what I been up to, but I sure would like to know the same of him.
I jump back behind the bottlebrush until he’s past. And still I wait. I can’t start too soon for fear he’ll hear me and turn around quick. Best I wait, least until he’s had time to get back to camp.
Sneaking in close to camp, I see Daddy working around and hitching up Old Stump. I make my way to the back of the wagon quieter than a calico stalking a blue jay. Just as I think I’ve got it made and got back before he spots me, “Oh!” I holler, running smack-dab into the chest of Mister Abraham.
“I’s sorry. Didn’ means to skeer you, missy. I thought you’s in de wagon already.”
“Um … no, Mister Abraham, but I’m going in now.” I take the steps two by two. “Mister Abraham,” I say, “please don’t tell Daddy you saw me out of the wagon, all right?”
“I ain’t sees nutin’, little lady.”
“Where you been?” Filbert asks, through a sleepy yawn.
“Nowhere. Now go to sleep.”
I plop back on my cot and stare through the window at the night sky. It seems no time at all before the wagon rocks from side to side as Daddy and Abraham climb on board. We jerk backwards and I give a sigh, knowing we’re on our way out of town and on to Houston.
But I don’t sleep.
I can’t, not when this gnawing, sick feeling is planted firm and growing roots in my stomach.
My mind goes back over the last few days but stops when it comes to the part where I stole the money from the store. I still can’t believe I done it.
Mama says be sure your sins will find you out. Nothing left to do now but wait for that to happen.
Until now, the worst thing I ever done—besides Daddy’s lies, and slipping up and telling Hazel I hate her of course—is pushing Davy Johnson into Miner’s Creek. But I had to do it, on account of he was pestering me, pulling my hair, and calling me names in front of the rest of the kids at school.
He called me a “slick-headed, liver-lilied shack poke” because I wouldn’t let him cheat off my paper in Mrs. Warren’s second-grade class.
Mama said I should have overlooked it—said sticks and stones was only thing that would hurt me and that names never would.
That’s the only time I ever remember Mama being wrong, bless her heart.
Them names Davy Johnson called me did hurt. They hurt my feelings down deep. Still stick with me to this day too, and I reckon they always will.
After that, weren’t nothing I could do but push him over—head first—into Miner’s Creek. He screamed and whooped like he was drowning, yelling, “Help! Help! I can’t swim! Somebody, save me!”
Reckon he might have drowned too, except I hollered over and told him all he had to do to save his sorry hide was stand to his feet and stop swatting at the water. Oh, he knew in his mind that water weren’t deep enough to drown in, but he said he couldn’t swim. He was thrashing around in there like a fish out of water. Still makes me smile to think about it today.
I’ve done loads worse than that now though and I’m not proud. But when I take that money to the train station, lay it down and buy my ticket, and get back to Mama and a loving home, I know she’ll know what to do to help me set things right.
I’ve done a lot of thinking on it too.
What if Mama doesn’t come looking for us?
Oh, it’s not that she don’t want to, I’m sure, it’s just that she’s not got the money to get on a train and go from town to town to town to find us.
And maybe she’s not able.
Maybe she’s so sick with worry she just clear ain’t able. She probably took to her sick bed on account of the way Daddy done her—stealing her young’uns and running off with us like he done. That’s all right though because I’m going to get to her sooner rather than later. I’ll make it all right, you’ll see. We’ll get back on the train—together. She’ll dress up in her prettiest dress, fix her hair like the fancy ladies in the downtown shops, and we’ll come together to rescue the triplets.
Then, when he lays eyes on her, Daddy will run to meet Mama, scoop her up in his arms, and tell her how sorry he is for snatching us up and carting us off like he did.
Mama will smile and tell him, “Of course I forgive you.” She’ll say, “I love you, Slim Hill,” and he’ll say, “I love you, Mavis,” right back at her.
They’ll hug and kiss right there in the middle of the street with the whole town looking on. Some folks might even clap. Then Daddy will wrap his arm around Mama’s shoulder and grab up the triplets with the other arm. Mama will wrap one arm around Daddy’s waist and the other around me. We’ll walk down the street to the train station like a normal, happy family. Then, we’ll all get on a train and head back to Kentucky.
Daddy will take all the money he’s saved from selling elixir and buy Mama a new home, and all of us—Mama, Daddy, Filbert, Mac, Hazel, and me—will live just as happy as we can be, all the rest of our lives, right there in the hills and hollers of good old Kentucky.
And those are the thoughts I go to sleep on as Daddy and Abraham and Old Stump drive us out of this town, and far away from all the troubles that are here.
21
GRITTED TEETH
The next morning, while we’re camped just outside of town, somewhere between Beaumont, Tex
as, and Houston, it’s the wind whistling through the cracks in the wagon that wakes me from my sleeping. I yawn and stretch and run my fingers through my hair.
The triplets are still sleeping the sleep of the innocent.
I say let them lie.
Stumbling out of the wagon, the first thing I see is Abraham, drinking coffee and pulling dirt and sand closer to the edges of the fire. The wind’s whipping around something fierce and the sky’s so dark it looks more like early evening than morning.
“Mawnin’, little lady,” Abraham says. “How ya’ll are dis mawnin?”
“Morning, Mister Abraham. I’m okay. Where’s Daddy?”
“Aw, he done goed into town,” he says, reaching to pick up his banjo. “He be back soon, don’t you worry.” He stares at the sky and scratches at his whiskery chin with his gnarly fingers. “Hope he git back afore it storm, though.”
“Looks like it might be a bad one.”
“Sho’ nuff do,” he says. “Sho’ nuff do. You wants a cup o’ java, little lady?”
“Java? What’s java?”
Abraham laughs. “De coffee dere,” he says.
“Oh, no, thank you.”
I sit across from him, cross-legged on the ground, trying to smooth the night bunnies from my hair with my fingers. I stare at Abraham, thinking what a kind face he has, but wondering why I can’t remember him well from before.
“Mister Abraham? May I ask you a question?”
“Sho’ nuff, little lady. Ask away.”
“If you was a friend of Daddy’s, how come you never came to our house?”
Abraham eyes the sky.
“I mean, it can’t be on account of you’re … well … because you’re a …”
“You mean on accounts of de color o’ my skin, missy?”
He smiles.
“Yes, sir. I mean, no, sir. I mean … well, it’s not like we didn’t have Negros around our house. Mister Rusko who lived about a mile from us came and helped Daddy put in a fence one time and Mama asked him in for lunch, but you … I mean … well, Daddy says you was his friend from the mines, but I don’t ever remember you coming around.”
Abraham plucks at his banjo and swallows hard. “Well now, dat do make a body wonder, don’t it?” He doesn’t look up from his stringing but clears his throat. “S’pose you gots a right to ask yo’ question and s’pose dat question d’serve an answer. But some things … well … s’pose some questions just not that easy answer. Reckon you’d just have to ask yo’ mama about dat one.”
Again he starts to pluck on the strings, humming softly to the tune he’s playing.
Staring off into the distance, I see the tiny town. Seems as though unless there’s more that’s hidden, I can see the entire town, end to end. Nice to be in a smaller town for a change.
“Mister Abraham, may I ask another question?”
“Sho’ nuff, you ken, missy.”
“Do you like being with us? I mean, do you like being with Daddy?”
He stops plucking, lays his banjo to the side, and pours another cup of coffee.
“Oh, yes’m. Yo’ daddy a fine man.” He winks and smiles and looks so convincing it almost makes me believe what he’s saying.
“Why you ask dat, little lady?”
“Well, awhile back, there was a store owner acting like he thought Negros was, well, um …”
“Don’t be a-skert. You ken say it to ol’ Abraham. It won’t hurt me none.”
I swallow hard then take a deep breath.
“Well, like they was different or something.”
“Some say so,” Abraham says, nodding.
I look at him, sipping his coffee, rubbing his hand through his dandelion fluff hair and across the lengthening whiskers on his face. He stares way off, like he’s looking into the future—or maybe even into the past. His hands are knotty and twisted, but his skin’s as smooth as Hazel’s.
He looks to the sky, with its fast-moving elephant-gray clouds and thunder rumbling not so far off in the distance. The wind’s picking up too, whipping the tall grasses around, snapping the smallest dead branches from the trees, sending them hurling into our camp.
“Maybe I will try a cup of that coffee,” I say, halfway hoping it will calm the shakiness I’m beginning to feel inside.
“Now you talkin’,” he says, winking. He fetches a cup and hands it to me. I take it, gently bumping against his fingers as I put my hand around the cup. As I do I watch him, just to see his reaction.
He smiles. “You ever touched a Negro, little lady?” he asks softly.
I shake my head and stare at the ground, feeling my face turn all the hot, steamy reds of embarrassment at the thought of him knowing what I done and why.
“What you think?” he asks. “Do it feel different from yours?”
“No, sir,” I say, glancing at him then looking away quickly.
We sit together without talking, the wind swirling and the sky growing darker by the minute.
“So, why all the fuss, Mister Abraham—about keeping Negros and whites apart, I mean? If we’re the same except for the color of our skin, why do folk make such a ruckus?”
“Can’t rightly say, missy. Maybe someday it be different, but not now.”
He picks up a long stick and scratches around in the fire, then clears his throat to speak, his voice quiet.
“Now den, ken I’s ask you a question, little lady?” He takes another sip of his coffee.
“Yes, sir.” I place the coffee he’s poured for me to my lips but don’t sip, the smell of it bitter and unpleasant.
“What you got ag’in your daddy?”
“Sir?”
“I means, why you don’t like him?”
Abraham’s question is like a wet slap in the face, and I lose my breath for a second at the thought of it. No way I can tell him how I really feel; then again, it seems he already knows.
“It’s not that I don’t like him, Mister Abraham—it’s that he don’t like me. I mean, he’s nice to the triplets and all loving on them, but he don’t act like he wants to be around me, always making me walk ahead or lag behind the rest of the family like he does. It’s like he’s ashamed to have me around.”
Abraham sips his coffee. “Ain’t dat easy.”
“Sir?”
“Ain’t dat easy for a man and a growin’ girl. Yo’ daddy want to love you, but he got his own demons.”
“Demons? You mean he’s possessed with the devil, Mister Abraham?”
Abraham laughs a warm, hearty laugh that makes me feel comfortable in his presence.
“I mean he still think about yo’ mama and how she done him. He know you feel hard at him for dat. Reckon he don’t forgive himself for de way he hurt you.”
I set the coffee cup on the ground in front of the fire.
“Mister Abraham, you’re talking in riddles. Mama didn’t do nothing. It was Daddy who stole us away. Mama went to town, and while she was in the store, Daddy run off with us.”
“You sure ’bout dat?” Abraham asks with raised eyebrows and more questions than answers on his face.
“Well yes, sir; I was there.”
“Maybe you was, but things not always de way dey seem. You think about dat, missy. Jes’ you think. Dat’s all ol’ Abraham say.”
I look into the fire and grit my teeth. What does he know? The only information he has is wrapped up in the lies Daddy’s told him. He wasn’t there, I was, and if Daddy feels bad … well … I reckon maybe he should.
The triplets stumble from the wagon, practically falling on top of each other.
Mac comes out last and stays back, on the top step of the wagon. He’s looking around like he’s trying his best to figure out where in the world he is. He rubs his eyes and squints, leaning out for a closer look. He scratches his head and his chin falls to his chest like maybe he’s just seen a ghost floating by.
“What’s that?” he asks, pointing off in the distance, where the grass reaches up to touch the sky.
/>
Abraham jumps to his feet kicking dirt into the fire, grabs his banjo, and runs with it to the wagon. He places it inside, then grabs Hazel and Mac by the hand.
“Git de udder boy!” he yells to me, wagging his finger toward Filbert. “Follow me, quick!”
Abraham sprints toward town, with Hazel on one side and Mac on the other.
Hazel, the look of a bear caught in a trap on her face, stares back at me and begins to cry. I shake my head “no” but it don’t help. In an instant her face is as red as a strawberry and tears run the length of her round dimpled cheeks.
Mac shoves his hand deep into his pocket. As wild-eyed as I’ve ever seen him, he looks around like he’s expecting to be snatched up at any second by a giant bird and be carried off by his earlobes to another country.
Filbert and I follow close behind. I don’t know where we’re going or why, and I sure don’t know where my daddy is, but I got a sneaky feeling it’s best to do what Abraham says right now, especially since Abraham’s not prone to excitability.
Though the town clock would argue, it’s not daytime anymore, and the winds are moving in and circling like a smoky ring. And worse, it’s beginning to rain.
“Chestnut, what’s happening?” Filbert asks. I hear the fear in his voice and for once I decide that his question is one I’d rather not answer.
Abraham snatches a look over his shoulder, and all I can make of it is the panic in his eyes. Without a word, he scoops up Hazel and plops her on his shoulders, then grabs Mac by the hand again and races on, faster than before. From the look he sees on Abraham’s face, I reckon Mac knows to run as fast as he can, and I pick up my pace, too. I don’t know what we’re runnin’ from, but no way I’m looking back. No way I want to risk being turned into a pillar of salt, like Mister Lot’s wife in the Bible.
“Run, Filbert, run!” I holler grabbing to his hand, but I’m not sure he hears me above the roar of the winds that practically pick us up and sweep us down the street.
Abraham’s far ahead now, farther ahead than he would be if it was just me following after him. He disappears from sight, but when we get closer, I can see that he’s ducked into a store. Least, I reckon it’s a store; the sign out front is swinging so fast and smacking against the bricks so hard that I can’t make out the letters.