I stuck myself with the pin, bit back a curse, and threw the button onto the bed, wishing I had the good sewing fingers like Abby and Rose—wishing I had a prettier dress. I threw on my quilt jacket to cover the missing button and stuffed my hairbrush into my pocket.
I rushed down the stairs and pulled the pie out of the oven that I’d made for Sunday supper. Grabbing a peach off the kitchen table, I dashed outside to the truck. Gunnar snapped for me to get in.
“Baby Jane should be here any second,” I said, pulling out the brush, tapping it against my leg.
“Time to get,” he warned.
“Not yet.” Patting the peach inside my other pocket, I watched the road, stealing looks at Stump Mountain behind me.
He shook his head and got into the truck.
“Gunnar. Just a few more seconds. She’s working Sundays at the Millers’.” Baby Jane hadn’t missed a Sunday ever since I’d invited her to the Easter Sunrise Service and Egg Hunt last year.
Gunnar’d fussed about her stinking, fussed about her being barefoot, fussed about her being a Stump. So I’d snuck her a pair of my old sneakers, even though they were two sizes too big, and gave her a bar of soap, telling her to wash her dress on weekends and to be sure to take a creek bath on Saturdays. I’d bought an old Bible from Rose for ten cents and Baby Jane kept it buried inside her metal box she had hidden in the woods. Every Sunday morning she’d come flying down the mountain, drippin’ and a’squeakin’, waving her Bible. Always on time, Gunnar’d let her crawl into the back of the truck to hitch a ride.
Today, Gunnar wasn’t having none of it. He slipped his arm out the window and thumped the door twice.
I climbed inside, smacked the hairbrush down between us. He turned the motor over and took off down Royal Road. Then I saw her tearing through the tobaccos. Tiny shouts lifting, her Bible held high.
Gunnar kept driving.
“Pull over . . . pull over . . . Please.”
Gunnar pushed down on the gas pedal.
“Stop!” I cried.
Leaning out the window, I shouted, “Hurry! Hurry, Baby Jane.” I turned to Gunnar and shook his arm. “She’s almost here. Wait up.”
Gunnar elbowed me off and puffed. “ ‘Most men will proclaim every one his goodness: but a faithful man who can find?’ Proverbs 20:6.”
I looked over my shoulder and saw Baby Jane running in the road behind us, flailing her arms, face bright red and dirt-streaked. “And, Mark 12 says to ‘love thy neighbor as thyself.’ There is no greater Commandment!”
“Silence,” he nipped.
“God don’t climb into mean bones . . . No GodPretty in that, Gunnar. Can’t we hold up long enough for her to jump into the bed?”
Hard jawed, he pressed forward, the truck snaking in and out of dying fog as we made our way up the narrow hill to Nameless First Baptist Church.
Gunnar parked in the church lot, pulled his Bible off the dash, and strode inside, leaving me in the truck. Grabbing my brush, I started down the hill for Baby Jane.
I met her at the first bend, limping and sobbing.
“S-sorry for being late. D-d-dropped some of Miller’s eggs this morning and . . . and he got real mad. He wouldn’t let me leave till I cleaned the coop,” Baby Jane cried. “Th-th-then his best chicken, Earlene, took off . . . Found her, though.”
“You eat breakfast?” I asked.
“Ain’t hungry—”
I pulled out the peach and stuffed it into Baby Jane’s dress pocket. “Maybe after church then.”
Hurried, I turned her around and brushed her hair, patted my pockets. I’d forgotten the Hens-and-Biddies ribbon.
Baby Jane fished inside her own pocket and held up a rubber band, small mews whisking through her lips.
“It’s okay, Baby Jane. Shhh, shh . . . Hey, how’s Henny?”
“Sister don’t like her crooked nose. Won’t come out . . . outta the house, or help with chores.” She hiccupped.
“Tell her I miss her . . . and it’s real good you found Earlene,” I added softly, stretching, winding the tight band around her ponytail.
“Earlene don’t like Mr. Miller much, but she always comes for me.”
“Where’s your other shoe,” I said, spinning her back around, noting one of them gone.
“M-m-mean dog came after me back there . . . I threw it at him.”
“Okay, maybe we can find it on the way home.”
“Dog ran off with it.”
“Don’t worry none,” I said, brimming with enough for both of us. She could slip in maybe once, but sharp-eyed Gunnar wouldn’t let her the next time.
I took the hem of my dress and wiped off her dirty face, wishing I had a bottle of Rose’s perfume to help with the chicken poop smell that stuck to her.
Baby Jane sniffled loudly. “Saved me . . . that the dog grabbed and worried my shoe real good and not me.”
“Sure did . . . Take off that other shoe.”
She pulled it off, handed it to me, and I threw it into a bush.
Another sob escaped her trembling mouth. “Gunnar’ll get me real good, RubyLyn.”
The church organ puffed out soft notes.
“Hush it now,” I gently warned. “Nobody will pay a mind to your feet, unless you’re making ’em by limping into church.”
I plucked a thin stem of yellow-blossomed beggar-tick from the side of the road and tucked it into her ponytail. “There.” I kissed the top of her forehead. “You look real pretty. Let’s go in.” We set up the hill.
She groped for my hand, latched on tight. I looked down and saw that her nails were bitten to the quick, blood-specked from the worries again.
I pulled her over to Gunnar’s truck, and leaning against it, I took a toe to my heel, pried off one shoe, then the other, kicking off the tight, dingy pair of cream patent leathers.
“We’ll be sisters.” I winked and dumped them into the truck’s bed.
“Sisters.” Baby Jane widened her eyes and broke a slow grin. Barefoot, we walked into church together, up to the third row and squeezed in beside Gunnar.
Relieved to see folks coming in behind us and no one noticing, I plopped down, tucked my bare feet under the bench, tugged at my long skirts, and nudged Baby Jane to do the same.
Except to toss Baby Jane a frown, Gunnar kept his nose in his Bible. He didn’t want her here, but yet he complained that Henny, or Henny and the Heathens, as he said most Sundays, didn’t practice His Word. Same as he said about the Crocketts, but a bit gruffer.
Talk was, the fifth row had once belonged to the Crocketts, but Mr. Parker and his wife had claimed it long ago ’cause theirs was splintered and creaky. Folks said that the Crocketts stopped coming after their missus passed. Most hill folk had their own prayer benches made for church. But the tiny building couldn’t fit more than ten small benches inside, five on each side, so Brother Jeremiah suggested Mr. Parker use the Crocketts’ and give a nice church donation instead.
On the bench across from us sat two girls about my age, Margaret and Millie Vetter. They were from the mountain over and sat behind Bur Hancock and his mama. Bur was a looker and one to hook, most girls and their mamas said.
Gunnar must’ve thought so, too, because once in a while he’d stop long enough to chat with him about weather, and even had me bake his ailing mama a pie a month ago.
Erbie Sipes sat a row behind us counting the congregation by clicking his teeth. When he chopped off the last of his snaps, I knew everyone was seated. Brother Jeremiah would start the worship after the hymn. Beside the pulpit, my favorite teacher pumped the old Estey and sang “The Church in the Wildwood.”
Today’s sermon was about forgiveness, enemies, and trespasses—one of Brother Jeremiah’s favorite topics, and one that he delivered with a mighty wrath.
When church was done, Gunnar headed straight to the parking lot, barely nodding a greeting to anyone. I lagged behind with Baby Jane clutched to my side.
Millie Vetter grabbed my sleeve. “Hi, Ru
byLyn,” she said, sneaking glances at my feet. “We heard they’re looking for Carter. Do you think they’ll find him?”
“Sheriff thinks so,” I answered.
“We saw him and his old girlfriend hanging out down in front of the Laundromat a few weeks ago. It looked like his girl had been crying . . . Didn’t it, Mags?” Millie looked at her sister.
“Uh-huh,” Margaret replied. “And I even waved, but he acted like he didn’t see me. Heard they were arguing about one of them Stump girls, too.” She pursed her lips at Baby Jane.
“Baby Jane, go wait in the truck so Gunnar doesn’t see your feet,” I whispered to her. Reluctantly, Baby Jane let go of my hand.
Brother Jeremiah strolled by with a greeting. “Ladies, mighty fine day the Lord’s given us. Enjoy His Sunday.” He tipped his head. We quieted for a second.
“Hey, you wanna come over to our house today?” Millie asked. “Mama’s going to fry up chicken for a picnic.”
I looked over my shoulder to Gunnar, then back at her. “You ask me that every Sunday, Millie. You know I can’t.”
“Thought maybe you could ask him again,” she said, friendly-like.
“Ask him,” Margaret pushed. “We’re going swimming in the pond, and Bur said he might come by and bring his cousin. Heard he’s just as cute as Bur.”
“Go ask,” Millie urged. “Daddy’s put up a new tire swing, and it’ll be buckets of fun.”
Fried chicken and a cool swimming hole sounded a whole lot better than going back to my stuffy house and the fields. It would be good to get away from my troublesome thoughts, Rainey, the baby-buyers—everything and everyone.
“He’s gotta let you . . . summer ain’t gonna last forever,” Millie pressed.
I stole a sidelong peek at Gunnar. Baby Jane was sitting in the bed of the truck. To feel free for a few hours—free and fifteen would be divine....
“Go ask”—Millie tugged on my arm—“I have me seventy-five cents saved. I’m just dying to see what one of your fortunes will say about me kissing Bur.”
“Not unless I pucker first,” Margaret teased.
“A lot of good puckering there,” I joked, but perking at the thought of money for the fair.
The girls giggled, and I couldn’t help joining them.
I glanced over at Bur, him standing there a little bowlegged, all clean-jawed, in a starched shirt, pressed trousers, talking with Brother Jeremiah, watching everyone out of the corner of his eye. He was a good man who still had that sweet look, the one boys have before manhood and the hills and hardness grab hold. And the handsome looks to boot.
Bur caught me peeking and pulled himself up taller, lit a soft smile.
“Sounds fun,” I said to the girls. “Reckon I can try again.”
I went over to the truck where Gunnar was talking to Erbie. Baby Jane was stretched out in the bed, dozing.
“Uh-huh . . . yessir, fine boots, and nary a pinch walking up the hills, Mr. Royal,” Erbie was saying with a grin.
I looked down at Erbie’s boots and back up at his happy face. Erbie had never learned to drive. He’d wandered all over these hollars and hills mostly barefoot until about seven years ago when me and Gunnar saw him sitting on French’s bench. It was a cold day when we spotted Erbie’s feet hardening to white wax. Gunnar stopped and helped Erbie up. He walked him into the Feed store and sat him in a chair next to Mr. Parker’s potbelly stove.
Then Gunnar went straight out to the back lot and bought Erbie a pair of boots and some thick socks from Rose. Every year since, when the tobacco money came in, Gunnar’d made sure ol’ Erbie would get a new pair.
“Thank you, Mr. Royal,” Erbie said, waving good-bye. Him, thanking him each and every Sunday for seven years.
Gunnar gave him a nod and then turned to me. “RubyLyn, it’s not time to take off your shoes, get ’em back on; we haven’t left His Gathering . . . And are you forgetting your manners again?”
“Yessir, nosir . . . Hey, Erbie.” I waved back.
“Hey, Miss RubyLyn.” He lifted a leg, showed off his boot. “Two thousand five hundred twenty-one stitches in these.”
“That many?” I asked, stepping forward to get a better look. “Those are real nice boots, Erbie. I like the color, too.”
Erbie bobbed his head proudly and waved good-bye one last time.
I turned to Gunnar. “Can I go over to Millie and Margaret’s today? Their mama’s gonna cook a chicken and—”
He grabbed my arm, shoved me to the passenger side. “And you have Sunday supper to fix.”
“There’s ham ’n’ biscuits from last night and some potato salad. The buttermilk pie’s cooling on the counter. Wouldn’t be much to fix yourself a sandwich, Gunnar. You can drop Baby Jane off in the field.”
He looked at me like I’d sprouted an extra nose, then jumped into his truck.
I leaned into the window. “For just a little while,” I pleaded. “Summer’s almost done—”
“I’m done.” He hit the horn, making me jump.
Alarmed, Baby Jane popped up in the back.
I held the curse thickening on my tongue, looked over my shoulder to Margaret and Millie, and shook my head.
Chapter 14
Monday morning roused Sunday’s sinners with sharp raps to the door.
Abby knocked first, troubling for news on Rainey. She told us she was going to the Feed to work on the curtain material for Mrs. Parker. She’d be sewing there all day and would we tell Rainey if he came home? Before Abby left, she asked Gunnar to write down the name of the hospital Rainey went to, and the number for the State Police.
A few minutes later, I watched the sheriff drive by, heading toward the Crocketts’. Twenty minutes passed and Sheriff pulled up to our house. I was halfway out the door when Gunnar snatched me back inside. Worried about Rainey, I stayed shadowed behind the screen and listened to the men.
Sheriff got out of his automobile, rested his foot on the porch step, and told Gunnar, “Thought we’d let ya know, we found Carter Crockett late last night. He’d set up camp in the brush alongside Devils Bone, and ’bout a quarter mile downstream we found him.”
Sheriff hitched a thumb over his shoulder. “Tucked away back there behind your line on the other side of Devils Bone, he was. Seems he was holing up in an old pup tent. And somehow the boy set it afire . . . I guess he was trying to keep himself dry from all this rain we’ve had.” He shook his head. “That damn tent went up like tissue paper. Hardly nothing left but the metal snaps.”
Relieved Rainey didn’t meet trouble, my thoughts turned to Carter.
Sheriff went on to say, “Me and Deputy figured during it all, he was trying to escape the tent and fell down the bank and busted his head on rock—drowned in them rushing waters.”
Carter . . . drowned. I pressed a hand over my dropped jaw.
The deputy broke in. “We found more than one set of muddy footprints around that camp. Looks like his kin was helping him hide out from the warrant, probably giving him food and all, though Beau Crockett—all of ’em—is keeping it zipped.”
Gunnar shook his head, uttered, “Good Lord.”
“Uh-huh. Crockett buried his boy this morning.” Sheriff grimaced.
Surprised, a tear escaped from the corner of my eye. When I was seven and Carter was eleven, I’d fallen, scraping my knee on a sharp rock in the backfield along Devils Bone Creek. Hearing my screams across the fields, Carter came running. He tore a strip off the bottom of his shirt and used it to make a bandage for me. Then he walked me back to my house, careful to go real slow. Instead of thanking Carter, Gunnar’d just lopped off one of his killing looks and scolded him for trespassing.
I hoped Gunnar would show some sort of forgiveness for Carter’s passing, especially after yesterday’s sermon. But he just rolled his shoulders and mumbled something that sounded mean and cursing.
I wondered about my daddy, what he would’ve said, him with those kind eyes in the photograph.
I wished Rai
ney was home, and I missed Henny, too. I patted the new seeds saved in my dress pocket that I was waiting to give her. I could never stay mad at her too long, easily forgiving her, and frankly I knew she was going to need me after Carter’s death.
Forgiveness. Carter. Carter before the devil took away the good soul he was born with.
When Gunnar came into the kitchen and took his seat, I toasted his bread, and asked quietly, “Should I make a pie for the Crocketts?”
“No.” He snapped up his newspaper, flicked open a page.
“But—”
“No.” He whacked the paper down on the table.
“A dish maybe?”
“Dammit,” he boomed, “you stay clear of biting snakes.”
I slapped the plate of toast down in front of him, muttering I wished I could.
Gunnar ate and read his newspaper. I tried to nibble on my toast, but let it grow cold, my appetite lost on Carter and his family. And I was trying to think up a million reasons to talk to Henny—to find an excuse to go up to Stump Mountain, when Gunnar said, “Since Rainey’s still gone, go get Henny and bring her up to the tobacco to work. Need to dust those plants.”
I jumped up from the table and Gunnar latched on to my arm and pulled me back down to finish my breakfast. When I was done, he pointed to the broom for me to sweep the floor. After I started to pour him a third cup of coffee, he shoved me off to go.
I ran out the door not bothering to grab my shoes, even though Gunnar would have a fit if he saw me running around barefoot. More than anything I needed to feel this last lingering of summer—life—alive—and the living slapping at my feet, pounding up to a beating heart.
The damp grass was cool and sweetly scented. Under a bright blue sky, I spotted blooms and stopped to pick a bouquet of field daisies, bishop weed, and foxglove. When I had a handful, I cut over to the Crocketts’, following the creek, inhaling the breeze-soaked wind, lighting through the switchgrass and green-legged Sweet William.
GodPretty in the Tobacco Field Page 12