At the register, Mr. Parker bagged my stuff, dropped in a sheet of S&H Green Stamps, then leaned over the counter. “Mighty fine casting you gave the Stumps, RubyLyn.” Grinning, he reached past the box of Pall Mall candy cigarettes and tossed in a Clark candy bar. He pushed the bag toward me. “Yes, ma’am, fine Granny Magic for that new Stump baby.”
Behind, murmurs of affirmations and a few snickers drifted my way.
I wondered how much they knew. My face felt hotter than the Red Hots he kept in the candy jar. I gave him change, and whispered, “I don’t have the extra money to pay for the candy, Mr. Parker—”
He fanned away my words and took the money. “Just filled the cola tub.” Mr. Parker nodded, letting me know I could take one.
I bobbed my head, then spied the latest Sears Fall and Winter issue on the counter beside a stack of others. I studied the girl on the cover with her short knit dress, gold jewelry, and perfectly bobbed flipped-up hairdo. I inched my fingers toward it, dying to open the thick pages and see the new slips inside.
“Anything else for you today, RubyLyn?”
“No, sir.” I ran my hands through my unruly hair and murmured thanks.
He reached under the counter and pulled out a box of laundry detergent. “Mind dropping this off at the Laundromat for me?”
I took the box of soap and my bag and exited the back door to the store’s porch and lot.
Rose’s traveling trader was parked in the gravel, a few folks milling about. For a minute I watched the people rummaging through her stuffed boxes stacked neatly in the back of the covered truck bed and the cartons on the ground piled around it.
Crawling around inside the back of the Canopy, Rose looked up and blew me a kiss out the side opening.
I tossed one back, then headed over to Mr. Parker’s Laundromat in the lot behind the Feed’s. I stared past the stenciled letters on the glass door: WHITES ONLY—MAIDS IN UNIFORM Allowed. Mrs. Parker waved me in. “Hi there, RubyLyn,” she said, busy with a stack of laundry. “Set it there, hon. Thanks.” She pointed to the table.
I traipsed back out to the Feed’s lot and plopped down on the shaded bench snugged against the concrete wall and waited for Rose to take a break.
Mr. Parker’s black worker, David Young, came by, picking up litter and emptying the ashcan. “RubyLyn,” he said, smiling. “Goldie was jus’ speaking of you and Mr. Royal the other day. How’s you and Mr. Royal doing out there? He still using that salve Goldie made for his arthritis?”
I missed David’s wife, Goldie. Long ago, when I first came to live with Gunnar, she’d kept his house four days a week, cooking and cleaning. Then he couldn’t pay her anymore and had to let her go. Goldie taught me how to do chores and cook before she left. She still dropped by on occasion to bring a special menthol balm she’d concocted to help Gunnar’s old bones.
“Hey, Mr. Young.” I smiled back. “Gunnar’s almost out of it.”
“Goldie just made a fresh batch. Best ever.” He rubbed his bad shoulder and grinned. “Tell him to stop by for a refill.”
“I will. I’m sure he’ll stop next time he’s in town.” I would’ve loved to go get it myself and say hi to Goldie, but the Youngs lived on Color Row, an old busted sidewalk section with six shacks located in back of the courthouse commons that was for four black families—the only ones in Nameless besides Rainey and Abby. And no white female would be caught dead walking it unless she wanted a whipping for herself or the colored she was visiting. Folks didn’t dare.
I was barely six years old when the preacher took his wife over his lap on the town bench after she’d gone looking for her maid, Hallie, on Color Row. Folks still whispered how the preacher’d pulled up his wife’s skirts and smacked her on her baby-blue satin undies. The jeers and cheers from bystanders were worse than a Bible stoning. Hallie got the same, but weren’t no fancy undies under her skirts to take the bite off the skin slapping, just a pair of raggedy white knickers. And the preacher’s wife never went looking for maid Hallie again, unless her mister went with her.
My stomach growled and I poked inside the bag. Just as quick, I rolled it shut. I’d wait to share the candy fair and square with Rainey.
I reached over to the large metal washtub, brimming with tiny bricks of ice and cold drinks, and pulled out a Barq’s cream soda. I popped off the top with the wall-mounted bottle opener and swigged down a big gulp, and another, letting the icy red liquid sugar numb my tongue, bite my throat. I closed my eyes, savoring. It had been at least a year since I tasted a cola. Maybe this was reward for a troublesome time working the charms. After all, baby Eve would probably grow up and have cream soda and Clark bars . . . maybe every day.
I sat my bottle down, smoothed my hair, trying to hand-curl myself a bottom flip like the girl on the catalog page.
Rose walked up to the bench. “I could cut it in a city style,” she offered.
“Gunnar’d have my head if I ever did.” I blushed and pulled out my fortune.
She chuckled and laid a pad of paper beside me. My eyes lit. “Another sketch book . . . Rose, this is great. I’ve nearly filled up the other.”
“Just got back in town from picking up Mr. Parker’s order up in the city and getting my stuff. Figured ya might need some more of your own paper. Maybe make yourself some pretty pictures or something fancy like what’s on them book covers even.”
“That’d be swell. Forty whole pages—clean, too,” I said appreciatively, fluttering the thick art pad.
“Well, it’s got a couple of pages missing, so I couldn’t sell it.”
“Are you sure, Rose . . . it looks brand new?”
“It’s yours, honey.”
“Thank you, Rose,” I said again, stuffing it down into my bag and pecking her cheek.
“Welcome, kid. Three more weeks till the State Fair.”
I picked up my fortune. “I can’t wait to be gone.”
“Just be ready to leave out about three a.m. on the eighteenth.”
“Sure will.”
“That’s a pretty one, kid.” She tossed back her long, flowing neck scarf, bent over to get a closer look at my fortune-teller. “You sure can draw.” She pointed to the flap with the picture of the barn. “City folks pay a lot for this folk art. Once, I even saw a painting of an outhouse for sale in a city store window.”
“Outhouses.” I wrinkled my nose. “Folk art?”
“That’s when artist folk like yourself and me make beautiful stuff out of simple things . . . like this pretty fortune ya made out of ordinary tobacco paper—like my daddy’s barn you painted for me on the old plank of his barn wood.”
I remembered how much of a fuss she’d kicked up showing it off to everyone. How she shocked me by hanging it above her mantel.
“And like the musical spoons you carve from wood,” I said. Rose had been making music spoons since before I was born. Something she taught herself long ago. She’d make her instruments from blocks of Kentucky Coffeetree wood, carving out two long, joined handles for the bottom, fashioning smooth heads for the tiny split wooden cups at the top—pretty spoons for slapping against the hand or leg. Folks swore that Rose’s Kentucky bones were the best for clapping and snapping out a fine tune.
“Uh-huh.”
“Folk artist.” I liked those words, and I liked that we shared them.
“And”—Rose raised a finger—“folk artists like yourself need good paper. Lots of new places to visit, too, so you can be inspired.” She lingered over the fortune-teller and licked at gossip. “Heard tell about the new Stump baby. You claiming it would be a girl and grow up rich, folks been a’saying.”
Shrugging, I flicked at lint growing on my dress. “Never claimed nothing. And I wish folks would forget about Lady Bird Johnson and all that. Need to claim my own destiny out of here.”
“Now, honey, ya know small towns don’t ever forget. Folks like to think of you as the next Granny. You get your small-town tag when you’re young.”
“One day
I’ll get a proper one in the city,” I grumbled, “and not from a town that can’t even tag itself a name.”
“That you will, kid. Just don’t stray too far.” She brushed a fallen bang off my forehead. “Speaking of stray . . . stop by the Canopy. I have a coloring book with chickens. You might want it for that little one that’s always following you.”
Remembering, I dug inside my bag and pulled out the ribbon. “Done spent my money on this, Rose. It’s going to be so beautiful in her hair!”
“Ah, a print of a Hens-and-Biddies plant. Perfect for lil’ Baby Jane.” She admired it a minute.
Nameless’s deputy sheriff came out of the back door of the Feed & Seed and scanned the lot. Frowning, he rubbed his thick mustache and took hold of Rose’s sleeve, and said, “Have you seen the Crocketts?”
Rose handed me the ribbon, and I placed it carefully back into the bag. “No, Deputy,” she said, somewhat startled. “Is something wrong?”
Deputy looked at me sitting on the bench and stepped in front of me. “Crocketts is wrong,” he whispered to Rose. “Sheriff saw Carter Crockett assault his girlfriend.”
“Again?” Rose grimaced. “Is she okay?”
“Yeah,” Deputy said. “Got a warrant for his arrest, but he’s missing and so is his rifle. He’s a dangerous cuss. Soon as I nab him, I’m hauling him into the can for a long sitting spell.”
Chapter 11
Fearful for Henny, I hurried off to go find her.
In front of the Feed, folks were already gathering, buzzing about how Carter Crockett was missing and wanted.
I walked home in a cloud of dread. Three times I came to a full stop when I thought I heard something in a passing cornfield, and again at the fork in Royal Road, and then again over in Devils Bone, the creek on the other side of the road that circled and snaked around our property and out past town.
When I came to the tobaccos, Ada Stump popped out of a tall row, munching on a tomato. Seeing her red, wet face like that, almost jumped the bumps clean off my flesh. I knew she’d stolen it from Gunnar’s vegetable garden. I scowled at her as she brushed bits of tomato off her cheek and ran off before I could ask after Henny.
Almost home, Rainey rounded the bend startling me again.
“There you are, girl. Gunnar sent me after you,” he said, black brows knitted tight, taking my bag. “Did you hear—they’re looking for Carter? The sheriff was just here asking if we’d seen him—”
“Henny . . . Where’s Henny?” I burst.
Rainey snuck peeks behind us before moving in close to pat my back. “Just a broken nose, Roo. She’ll be fine.”
I sagged against him, relieved she’d be okay. “The sheriff said he had his gun.”
“Probably gone off to drink with the raccoons till it dies down. Let’s go. Gunnar asked me to collect you and see you safely home.”
Lightning rumbled in the distance. He looked behind us first, then hugged my shoulder. “Come on, girl. It’s going to storm.”
It did. For the next four days a hard, whipping rain soaked Nameless, leaving me with little to do other than to watch the tobacco grow in between taking care of Gunnar and the house. Gunnar paced the porch with his old Stevens 12 gauge double-barrel shotgun, on the lookout for Crockett or any of his kin.
Days of rain left the paint blistered on the old clapboard and then the downpour gave way to a drizzle. I couldn’t see Henny, and worse, I missed Rainey.
On Thursday evening, Rainey came by with a bag full of cucumbers and a newspaper rolled underneath his damp shirt. Gunnar was up in his room, tucked in with the Bible, when I spotted Rainey crossing the field. I grabbed my quilt jacket and hurried out the front door and met him on the porch.
“Ma wanted me to bring these by,” he said, setting down a soaked bag. Cucumbers burst through and rolled out onto the wooden boards.
“I’m glad you made it over. Seen Henny or anyone?” I lit one of the hanging kerosene lanterns. Rainey took off his hat and shook the wide brim. He slipped out of his oilskin jacket and dropped it on the rocker.
“Nuh-uh. Take this, Roo.” He pulled out a newspaper tucked under his shirt and handed it to me.
“Gunnar’s been missing his news. Thanks,” I said, holding it up to the light of the lantern, peeking at the latest edition of the Mountain Sentinel News. “Me too.” I thumbed through its six pages and stopped at an article. “Says we might finally be getting a mobile library to visit Nameless.” I perked.
“They’ll need a good working bus to tote anything up and down these hills,” Rainey said.
“Here’s the almanac for today, says so here, Thursday, August 7.” I pointed it out to Rainey. Fair fishing, Castrate farm animals, Cut firewood, Set out potatoes and turnips, it read. “You know Gunnar’s really taken to those cukes of yours.”
“Ma said my papa ate the pickles for breakfast.” Rainey laughed low.
“Caught Gunnar just the other day having one with his morning coffee.”
Rainey put back on his hat, stooped to pick up the cucumbers, and stuffed them into my laundry basket on the porch. “Ma said to tell you she’ll be by with her sewing stuff soon as she can. She’s still working on the Parkers’ drapes.”
I folded the paper and placed it atop the cucumbers, and said, “That’ll be great. I haven’t seen a soul. Sure wish I could see Henny.”
“Henny’ll be okay,” he said.
“Are they still looking for Carter?”
Rainey scratched his chin. “I haven’t heard or seen any of the other Crocketts around here lately . . . Land’s quiet, except for one of the little Stump girls, soaked, playing along the creek line, looney kid. But Sheriff’ll catch him. Don’t you worry, Roo.”
It was hard to hold anything but worry in this gray weather. Henny, him, and now my winning crop could die.
As if hearing my thoughts, he looked up at the low, leaky clouds, and said, “Look at this soaking . . . Good thing July was dry. Listen, Roo, tell Gunnar I have to leave earlier than I thought. Got word I have my army physical up in Louisville on the eighth.”
“What—But . . . but that’s tomorrow.”
“Yeah, I’m hitching a ride with Mr. Parker. Wanted to tell you good night ’cause he’s heading out before daybreak and said he doesn’t mind dropping me off on his way. I’ll find a ride back the next day.”
“Sleep there? Where will you stay?”
“I’ll check with the army doctors and see if they have a resting spot for folks like me.”
“Louisville.” For a second I thought about laying my head under all that city bustling and what it would feel like. I imagined those twinkly city lights would be beautiful, just like a star-packed night sparking over Nameless.
“Maybe you’ll see Eve,” I said.
“Who?”
“Eve. That’s the name the city couple gave to Lena’s baby.”
“Ah, maybe so.” He frowned slightly, stuffed his hands into his pants pockets. “I saw Lena heading down to the Shake King . . . she looked pretty sad.”
“I haven’t seen her.” I shuddered, pushing back the thoughts of the birthing. Instead, I said, “Wonder how big the city Shake Kings are?”
“Might be a lot bigger, maybe as big as the Feed.”
“Oh”—I raised a finger—“the store. Wait here, Rainey.” I slipped inside, hurrying upstairs. Across from my room, I could hear Gunnar softly snoring, see the light spilling under his door. Quietly, I went into my room and found what I was looking for.
I returned about a minute later and handed Rainey the Clark candy bar. “In case you get hungry,” I said, flushed.
“You sure?” He pulled his coat on. “I know how much you like them.”
His eyes lingered on mine. Scents of soaking earth, leaves, and warm jasmine pulled into the soft rain, sweetening the porch.
Rainey tilted his head, his face shadowed by the brim of his hat, eyes narrowing. It weren’t no more than a few seconds, but long enough for me to bend into him
and want more. Rainey, six, Bur, five, my fingers had played the paper folds. I hadn’t reached my favorite number. Now, more than ever, I wanted that seven—his kiss—and question.
Rainey leaned closer, smelling like morning rain.
The wind lifted, swirling the hem of my dress, baring my legs.
Five.
His pant leg brushed against my skin.
Six.
A milk moth circled above the lantern, bumping shadows against porch walls, dipping close to the licking flame. Our hands met and I pressed my palm to his and felt the heat in his touch. Silence swelled and spilled into the patter of rooftop rain.
Seven....
Inside, a clatter of dishes snared the unfolding, magpied the wanting. Gunnar was up and rambling around the kitchen.
Rainey startled and tipped back his hat. He sighed my name, and whispered, “When I get back I have an important question to ask you.” Gently, he pinched my pinky finger. “Good night, Roo. Take care of that prize crop and I’ll be back in two days. Two.”
He stepped back and broke the candy bar, giving me part of it. He was halfway down the steps before I could collect my dizzy mind and beg the answer.
From the darkened porch I watched him cross through the tobacco rows until the fog folded in and claimed him.
A few minutes later Rainey’s violin cried across the rain-soaked field into the night as he played “The Wayfaring Stranger.” “. . . I’m just a poor wayfaring stranger . . . travelin’ through this world of woe . . . no sickness, toil nor danger . . . in that bright land to which I go . . . I’m going there to see my father . . . going there to see my father . . . no more to roam . . .” His raw words climbed out of the horsehair bow and melded into the Kentucky skies.
Chapter 12
A muddy rain splashed into Friday afternoon, washing out the crumbly road up to Stump Mountain as it usually did, and with Henny trapped at home and Rainey gone, I needed a distraction.
Thinking about Rose, I snuck out the artist pad and began sketching spoons, stopping in between each picture to soak up a new thought. On each handle of the spoon, I drew a dollar bill. On the next fold I put Rose’s old traveler, its dings and rust, and on the next, more spoons and a smiling Rose. When I was through, I tore it out of the pad, folded it, and then took the fortune-teller upstairs and put it into Mama’s purse for the cure. It would be a good way to thank Rose for toting me to the fair.
GodPretty in the Tobacco Field Page 10