GodPretty in the Tobacco Field

by Kim Michele Richardson

  I screamed.

  A shot rang out, deafening. I raised my head as best I could. Beau Crockett stood on the porch with a .20 gauge shotgun, the worn stock hitched tight to his shoulder.

  “Got her, Pa!” Digit said smugly, as if he’d tackled a bear.

  “Get on up here, boy,” Beau said to his son.

  Digit scrambled away and hopped up onto the porch.

  Pulling myself up, I grabbed my purse and wiped the grass from my face. Half-bent, I took a breath and raised my palm. “Got business, Mr. Crockett.” I squinted up at him, the morning sun stretching its face, casting bands of pinkish orange across him and stain-darkened boards.

  He touched his swollen nose, crooked, and parked to the side from the break. “Ain’t got no business over here with the Crocketts, gal,” Beau said, spittle draping his greasy beard. “Get on back to your likes.”

  I reached inside my dress pocket, pulled out the church key, and threw it onto the porch. The brass bottle opener landed near his dirty boot. “Come for a meeting,” I said as big as possible.

  Old man Crockett stood there a minute staring, then jutted his pointy chin to his son. Digit shot me a mean glance before slipping into their cabin.

  His daddy slowly waved the gun, nudging me to climb up the porch.

  When I landed on the last step, Crockett slapped a hard grip around my neck, pulled me up, then shoved me against the wall.

  I crumpled to the floor, coughing, rubbing my neck, the back of my head hurting.

  Crockett swung his boot, kicked my sore leg. “You got one Kentucky second to tell me what kinda meeting you is calling, gal.”

  I sucked in a loud yelp and tried to stand.

  Crockett kicked me again.

  I cried out as the blow landed to my side.

  “Half second left ’fore ya never see another.”

  “Land,” I squeezed out, clutching my side. Then louder, “Land!”

  Inside, Digit pressed against the slits of a tattered curtain, peeking out the dirty window.

  Beau pinned a suspicious gaze to my eyes, took his fist, and banged on the pane behind him, rattling glass. He set the gun beside the rocker, then plunked himself into it.

  I stayed put on my knees, waiting for the nerves to climb into my bones.

  A few seconds later, Digit opened the door, came out, handed his daddy two bottles of Falls City beer, and ducked back inside.

  “Git on with it.” Old man Crockett pointed to the opener I’d thrown and then to the empty rocker beside him.

  I crawled slowly over to the church key lying near his feet and picked it up, pulled myself up, and limped back over to the rocker.

  Crockett handed me a beer, and with fumbly fingers I opened it and passed him the church key. He popped off the cap, dropped the bottle opener at his feet.

  Smacking his lips, he lifted a dirty jar off the board and poured his beer into it, then reached for the salt shaker on his other side. Shaking the salt into the glass, he tried to waken the piss-tired liquid.

  The sun heated the morning, stickying my dress as it burned off last night’s chill.

  Crockett took himself a mouthful, smacked his lips again. “That’s the hymnal I never get tired of opening.” He kicked at the church key and bottle caps littering the floor in front of him, stretched a leg, then studied me a second, and said, “Better not be wasting my good beer, gawdammit.”

  I took a long drink of the warm beer. Coughed. Then choked down another. Beside Gunnar’s nasty herb mix, this was my first drink of alcohol, and surprisingly, I liked the slight hum it fed my tummy before it took hold of my head. What would Gunnar think of that? Probably compare me to my drunk daddy.

  I pushed the thought away and stretched a shaky hand and took another swig. One more big gulp and I set the bottle down beside the rocker. I opened my purse, fished out the deed, and snapped it in front of him. “Five acres for five hundred dollars,” I said. “And it’s all yours.”

  He snatched the deed from my hand, rubbed his potbelly as he looked it over. He worked his mouth up tight and spit at my feet. “Worthless, ain’t got the living years behind ya to sign it,” he growled, and kicked another cap into the yard, scattering up a warbler sipping from a muddy bootprint.

  “I will in a week when I’m a married woman.” I tucked my feet under the rocker. “Just need a down payment—fifty dollars now so I can marry real quick.”

  “Marry! Who’s gonna marry a nigger lover?” He guffawed through his rotting teeth. “Got ya a coon bastard coming now that you’ve spent my boys, that it?”

  I put my hand to my belly and glared back my answer.

  “White whore witch,” he sneered, raising a fist.

  “I’ll sell it to you now.”

  He lowered his arm.

  “If I stay, Gunnar’s gonna marry me off to the jailer, and the land will be his. I need to leave quick.” I ran my hand over my belly.

  “Don’t know,” he said lazily, “that scorched land just don’t seem as good as it once did. . . .” He took another swallow of beer and rocked.

  “As good as it ever was. Even better. The ash will fertilize everything.” I forced my back into the rocker, rocked, too.

  Burping, he stuck out his thin lips, scratched his whiskered neck with the lip of the glass. “Tired land—”

  “Rich soil. Four hundred, Mr. Crockett, and I’ll sign it right over in seven days.”

  “Two hundred.”

  “It’s worth three times more.” I shifted in the rocker. “Royal land’s the best around these parts. Three hundred.”

  He leaned over his belly and spit off the porch. “Two hundred, lessen ya want to raise that skirt and show me just what else is best about the Royals . . . Eh?” He stretched out his arm, touched my dress. “Maybe we can close this meeting with a fine song . . . might could give you two dollars more for that tune . . .”

  I swiped at his dirty hand. “Three hundred!” I punched the air with a sickness twisting inside. “Anybody in Nameless will take it! And fifty now or I head to town and it goes up two hundred,” I bit.

  “Nobody in Nameless has two dollars to spare, much less two hundred.”

  “Three.” I flashed fingers.

  “Three-damn-hundred!” Crockett boomed, then leaned over and snatched me up by my hair, yanking me back to the splintered floor. “And ya sign your intention on the back of that deed, says I gave ya the fifty and leave it here, gal. And if ya ain’t at the courthouse seven days from now, Gunnar’s gonna find you buried next to a pile of deer bones, ya hear?”

  A scream whistled through my teeth. “Yesss.”

  Crockett gave one more hard tug, burning my scalp, watering my eyes, taking long strands before he finally let go.

  He took another drink, stood, and flicked the fistful of hair at me.

  I rubbed my head. Through blurred eyes I reached for the small nest of hair on my knees.

  Noisily, Crockett downed the rest of his beer. Finished, he tossed the Mason jar out into the mud-caked yard and edged over to the end of the boards. Then the old man unzipped his pants and relieved himself off the porch. He hollered over his shoulder, “Digit, get my gawdamn pickle jar out here.”

  I grabbed the rocker to stand.

  He turned back to me and shot out an arm. “Won’t have it, gawdammit! You stay put. Stay put. I want that Royal land signed over to me on your gawdamn Royal knees!”

  Slowly I pulled myself up, my eyes locking with his dull hazel ones. “Royals stand.”

  Minutes later I was behind the willow oak in our side yard heaving up beer. I stepped over to the old hand pump. Splashing my face, I cooled my neck, took big gulps, and a long drink of what had to happen next.

  Feeling better, I fixed myself some dry toast and ate. An hour later, I grabbed my purse and headed down Royal Road to the town’s bench.

  Chapter 33

  From down the street I watched Erbie Sipes doze on the bench, a crinkled paper in his hand.

 
; For a few minutes, I rolled the First Lady’s coin between my fingers, the silver Kennedy half-dollar glinting in the bright sunlight. I lifted a silent prayer and walked over to the bench.

  “Hey, Erbie,” I said softly. “Can I sit a spell?”

  Erbie raised the brim of his ball cap, widened his sleepy blue eyes. “Morning, Miss RubyLyn. Sure can.” He scooted over.

  “Hey.” I smiled. “Seen any new automobiles?”

  He clicked his teeth. “Two—a fast-looking blue thing that sped through last Friday at three sixteen. License plate, DNY 016 . . . A ’62 Chevy II it was. None this morning, and it’s nearing ten. But on Monday, I saw a green Ford pickup with three baby moon hubcaps . . . The postmistress,” he clicked, “had on her red shoes and took her dinner over at the Shake King at twelve thirty-six . . . Truck zipped righ’ by her in the rain.” His teeth clattered. “Nearly soaked them forty-six white dots off her pretty brown skirt.”

  “Wish I could’ve seen it, Erbie, but I was in Louisville with Rose Law.”

  “Ain’t never been, but Miz Rose is righ’ nice,” he said. “She brings me food.”

  I nodded and pressed the coin into his hand.

  Erbie looked at the silver half-dollar, chopped his teeth together again. “I knows when he died . . . thirty-fifth president”—he pointed to Kennedy—“and I knows when you got this from the thirty-sixth president’s lady. Cold day over in Inez . . . April 24. Sure is shiny.” He held it up, whistled, turning the coin slowly.

  “I have something important I need you to do for me, Erbie. You can keep it for your help. And this”—I fished the money out of my purse and gave him the fifty dollars—“is for someone else.”

  He put the bills in his lap and popped his eyes back to the coin. “Never had me one of these, and this one’s special, I knows.”

  “Need you to go over and bail Rainey Ford out of jail. Give this fifty dollars to Mrs. Blackson at the courthouse. Then take the paper she gives you over to Bur.”

  He clicked his teeth once again. “Rainey. Blackson. Bur,” he ticked off, wadding the money into his fist. “This is a pretty coin, Miss RubyLyn.”

  “Sure is, Erbie. You keep it when Rainey walks out, hear? Tell Rainey to meet me on your bench.” I patted the wood.

  “Who’ll count the automobiles?” he worried.

  “I will, Erbie. I’ve had all my schooling for arithmetic.” I took his hand, squeezed.

  “Every one of them?” he asked, doubting.

  I pulled the shiny red pencil out of my purse that I’d gotten at the fair. “All of ’em.”

  In the first hour, the Tastee Bread truck rolled into town stopping at the Shake King first, then over to the Feed to unload. I marked the bench twice.

  Rose drove by in her Canopy and beeped. I waved and marked the bench again.

  Darla Clark rolled her wagon past. I fudged and counted.

  In the second hour, I circled the bench, paced the sidewalk. What if Erbie messed up? Lost the money? Forgot altogether? I stared hard across the street, wishing they’d come out of the jail.

  A few minutes of that and I plopped onto the bench, exhausted. The preacher rode by in his black Chevrolet.

  Then I saw him. He carried his boots in the crook of an arm, a smile cracked on his dark face. Erbie limped alongside him.

  Quickly, I tucked my hands behind my back for fear of grabbing him in a kiss. “Rainey,” I breathed. “Rainey.”

  “RubyLyn, let’s go home.” He dropped down onto the bench and wedged his swollen feet into his boots, wincing.

  I gave my pencil to Erbie. “Was five, Erbie. Thank you.”

  When we got to Royal Road we slipped into the tobaccos. Rainey said, “Come here, girl,” then gathered me into his arms.

  My eyes filled and soon I was bubbling words. “Land. Marrying.”

  Rainey held me at arm’s length. “Whoa, girl. Slow down a bit,” he laughed. “How did you get me out . . . Gunnar?”

  I couldn’t look at him. “Sold my land.”

  “What?”

  “Wasn’t going to be much use anyhow, what with me in the city—”

  “Dammit, Roo! You can’t sell your land. Gunnar won’t have it! I won’t have it!”

  I thought about Crockett wanting to keep me on my knees. “Lordy-jones! Crockett won’t have, you won’t have, Gunnar won’t have! When, here, I have a mind!”

  “You sold it to Crockett? Oh hell, Roo.”

  “I did. Weren’t no other way. None, and you’d lose everything—us. Figured Crockett got us into this mess, his money best help us out. I’d rather lose land than you, Rainey Ford.”

  Rainey sighed and kissed me. “Thank you. I’ll take you to bigger lands . . . Hell, girl, I will buy you a whole city if I can.” He rubbed his thumb over my cheek, looked at me all serious and quiet.

  I thought about the signature on the deed. “You will?” I asked softly.

  “Sure ’nuff. Soon as we can get you on the city’s courthouse steps.” He brushed another sweet kiss over my mouth.

  “But the money? I only had the fifty for bail. Rest won’t come until I can sign, and I can’t sign the deed until I’m a married woman.” The charged word tingled my lips.

  “My beautiful Roo.” He put his forehead to mine. “Got fifty-two dollars coming from my pay that Gunnar owes me. ’Nuff cash to have us a fine marrying day. A fine one.”

  “But Gunnar—”

  “He won’t know until it’s done. And once we’re in the city together, he won’t stop us.”

  That was true. He wouldn’t let us live in sin. Honor would have him laying permission real quick.

  I looked out at the lost tobacco fields, the sun crackling the burnt grasses. “You’re not safe here. When can we leave, Rainey?”

  “I’ll go home, get some clothes and my violin, and tell Ma good-bye. We’ll catch a ride once we get far enough out of town . . .” He gripped my arms. “Go pick up what you need, Roo, and I’ll meet you in one hour in the back of the Feed lot. We’re gonna have ourselves a swell honeymoon at the Kentucky State Fair, Mrs. Ford!”

  Oh! To have my husband there by my side instead of a nasty Crockett would be grand. I stared up at him.

  He gazed into my watery eyes, and said, “I’ve been waiting for us forever. I love you, Roo. One hour. Okay? Now say good night, girl.”

  “I love you. One hour,” I breathed, kissing him full and with the promise of more. “Good night, Rainey.”

  We hooked our pinkies together, lingered a second and then pressed tight, before we took off across the fields.

  Ducking under the clothesline, I stopped and unpinned the strawberry dress. I’ll need a marrying dress.

  Skipping up the porch steps, I twirled around with the dress. Once, twice, imagining us finally together on the twinkly Ferris wheel and city avenues.

  In mid-spin the screen door creaked open. He caught hold of the fabric, yanking the dress right from my hands.

  Chapter 34

  “What have you done, RubyLyn? What?” Gunnar threw the strawberry dress off the porch and shook me.

  I choked out a cry.

  “WHAT?” he boomed.

  “I—I . . .”

  “Crockett’s been up and down this hollar, spouting off about land—Royal land! You took your land to get Rainey out?”

  “For my—my . . . my husband.”

  “Silence!” He wheeled around, raised an arm.

  I cringed against the wall. “We-we’re getting married, Gunnar. I love him—”

  Gunnar threw back a fist, pumped it twice.

  I closed my eyes tight.

  He barreled his big hand into the wooden board next to my head.

  My legs buckled, sending me to the floor.

  He punched the wall again, anger splintering the boards.

  I dared to flutter my eyelids.

  White-lipped and red-faced, he swung open the screen door and disappeared inside.

  Piling down hard air, I sat huddled to
the wall until I steadied my breathing. I have to get my stuff and get back to Rainey. I crept inside and ran up to my bedroom. Slamming the door, I crossed to the bed, shook loose the case from the pillow, and began stuffing it with Daddy’s tin box, Mama’s purse, and my brush and a clean dress.

  Minutes later he kicked open my door. I saw the shotgun at his side.

  “You’re not going anywhere,” he rasped a growl and tore the pillowcase from my hand, slinging it across the room. “Stay put!”

  He thudded out, lit down the stairs and out the screen door.

  I rushed over to my window. Gunnar pounded big strides across the fields. “Gunnar! Come back!” I banged on the top pane, pleading. “Gunnar.” I leaned out and shouted.

  I tore down the steps and out the door.

  The wind caught my skirts, tripping me twice as I ran across the field.

  I caught up with Gunnar as he reached Crockett’s porch.

  “Gunnar, you can’t do this,” I shouted. “It’s my land! Mine!” I grabbed his arm and pulled. “Mama and Daddy gave—”

  He shoved me off and raised his palm.

  I flinched, took a step back.

  Beau Crockett sat on the rocker with his glass of beer in one hand and salt shaker in the other, leg cocked on his porch rail, watching us approach. “Well, now, come to celebrate with me I see.” Crockett raised his glass, crowed. “We’s kin now, with our joined lands.”

  “I’ll never celebrate with the likes of you,” Gunnar said real low, and threw crumpled money onto the porch. “Nor will any Royal! ’Specially one who’s still my charge and is a minor.”

  Crockett curled his lip. “Ya ain’t never been able to handle your women, Royal . . . Land’s only fit for grave dirt anyways, nigger graves at that.” He spat.

  Gunnar’s jaw twitched. He looked like he might raise his gun, but he only glared at him before stomping off.

  I stood there for a minute, not sure what to do next.

  Crockett set his glass down, picked up his shotgun, and rose slowly from his seat. “Should’ve known . . . Should’ve known not to waste my good beer on a gawdamn lying whore!” He pulled out the deed from his shirt pocket, wadded it into a ball, and threw it at me. “Git!” He thumped the porch board with his barrel. “Said git ’fore I drop ya where ya stand.”