A Cup of Dust

by Susie Finkbeiner

  Thud of wagon spoke struck the jackrabbit. Just enough to stun it. The screams stopped. So did the kicking. The man smirked, dark shadowing over the light of his eyes. He hit it again, bloodying its face. The rabbit screamed once again past broken teeth.

  The man swung and hit, swung and hit. Again and again. Warm splatter of blood speckled my face. My eyes stayed on the blue eyes that stayed on mine.

  I couldn’t tell if the rabbit was still alive. I couldn’t stomach the knowing. After a minute or so, the man flipped his wrist, swinging the rabbit. A crackling of neck bones and the man finished off the animal. Stinging bile in the back of my mouth made me want to get sick.

  He dropped the jackrabbit so it landed on top of my shoes.

  The smirking man snarled, showing his teeth. Tobacco-juice-stained teeth. The blood of the rabbit dotted his face. He got even closer to me, cupping my cheek with his rough hand. Rotted-out-tooth smell made my sick stomach worse.

  I tried to pull away from him and wondered why nobody was coming to help me. He laughed, red tobacco spit moving up the inside of his lip.

  “I knew who you was soon as I seen you. I seen a picture of you. You’re sure prettier in person, ain’t ya?” He spit on the rabbit. Dribble trickled down his chin. “You’ll be seeing more of me. I think we’ll be good friends.”

  He let go of me. Before he turned to walk away, he kicked the dead rabbit.

  I couldn’t have run faster if my feet had wings on the heels. Chasing behind me were the screaming rabbits. The hollering men. The stink of rust-red teeth.

  Kicked-up dust stuck to the lines of wet on my face. Mud and tears and blood streaked on my skin. I couldn’t seem to remember which way I had to go to get home. I ran one way, then switched back the other way. A couple times I got close to running into a tangle of barbed wire hidden under mounds of dust. Every tan-colored field looked the same as the next. All the pushed-over barns and sunk-in roofs, empty silos, crumbling fences.

  The ruins of Red River.

  Wind picked up. A swirl of dust spun in front of me like a ballerina. I ran through it, hands first, pushing past it with my eyes closed. Still, sharp grains of dust pushed in under my lids.

  Far enough from the field that I couldn’t hear the rabbits anymore, I stopped. I threw up my lunch in the dirt.

  Crouching, head hanging over my own sick, I remembered that I hadn’t found Beanie. Empty of strength and courage, I didn’t know how I could go on. I didn’t think I would ever find her.

  All that was left to do was go home. Turning around and around, I still couldn’t figure out which way I needed to go. Fear blinded me as sure as the dust did.

  Shuffling and struggling forward, I cried all the way from my empty stomach. Heaving, gulping, crying. When the winds started pushing me around, anger joined the fear, and I about growled along with the sobs.

  Then the church bells clanked. It was a soft noise, but enough to give me some hope.

  “Whenever you get lost, listen for the church bells,” Meemaw had told me no less than a dozen times. “When you hear them, you’ll know you’re close to home.”

  Stopping, I listened for them again. I turned to my left and followed the gentle sounding.

  “Keep ringing,” I said. It felt like a prayer.

  Never before had those old church bells sounded more like music. I ran toward them until I saw the steeple topped with a dingy-looking cross. Long before, it had been painted gold. The dust had licked all the glow right off it, showing that it was nothing but wood underneath.

  I made it all the way to the church steps. We lived in the house right next door, but I couldn’t get myself to move one more inch. Sitting on the steps, I waited for a moment, trying to catch my breath.

  One of my toes was stubbed and bleeding under the nail. Dust had jammed it, though, stopping the red from oozing out. I wrapped my hand around the toe, hoping to stop the throbbing ache. It didn’t work.

  “Pearl?”

  I heard my name.

  “Pearl Louise!”

  It was Mama calling for me.

  “I’m here,” I tried to yell, but the dust had my voice clogged. “Right here.”

  All the windows of our house were open wide and through them I heard Mama moving about.

  “Mama,” I called out, trying, for all my strength, to be heard.

  The front door of our house opened, and Mama stepped out on the porch. She shielded her eyes against the blazing sun. I knew her body would be soft and warm and smell of flour. As much as I wanted to run to her, I couldn’t get up off those steps.

  “Darlin’?” She looked down at me and touched her lips.

  “I can’t move,” I whispered. “I’m too tired.”

  Mama took careful steps down the porch, holding on to the rail. Once on the ground, she forgot herself. She rushed to me. It was only a few yards, but she rushed. Ran for me. I had never seen her run before.

  Ladies didn’t run. That’s what she had always told me. But that day she did. Her face told me enough. Ladies could run when they were scared.

  “What happened? Where were you?” Her whispered gasps pushed out when she reached me. Her knees hit the ground next to the steps and she touched me all over. “Where are you hurt?”

  Thick and dry, my tongue wouldn’t allow any sound to come out. I’d about cried out all my tears, too. Mama looked from my eyes to my feet, her hands holding my shoulders.

  “I never found her,” I said, my voice cracking and throat sore.

  “Who, darlin’?” She touched my cheek, the very same spot the smirking man had. But her hand was soft and gentle. She didn’t mean me any harm.

  “Beanie,” I answered.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I went looking for her.”

  “Pearl, she was here the whole time. She was hiding under the bed.” Her dark eyes looked straight into mine. “I was so scared, darlin’. I didn’t know where you got off to. You can’t go running off like that.”

  “I’m sorry.” I swallowed. My dry throat burned. “I thought I was helping.”

  “Where did you go?”

  “The rabbit drive.” I wanted to be sick again, but I had nothing left inside me. “I should have listened. I thought I’d see Daddy there.”

  “Are you hurt?”

  “No.” I pinched my eyes closed and my last few tears squeezed out, dropping on my spoiled dress. “I ruined it. My dress is ruined. And I lost my shoes.”

  I blinked hard, trying not to imagine the rabbit bleeding on my Mary Janes.

  “Don’t you worry about a thing.” She scooped me up in her soft arms and let out a deep breath when she picked me up, carrying me to the house.

  I hadn’t known she possessed the strength to lift me.

  Keeping my eyes closed, I prayed that God would let me forget the screaming rabbit and the cornflower-blue eyes.

  I leaned against the bathroom wall while Mama filled the tub for me with water she’d pumped out back and boiled on the stove. She made sure the water steamed. Mama believed a person didn’t get truly clean unless the water stung the skin.

  Stepping into the tub and lowering myself down little by little, I let the water singe my skin. It hurt, but I was eager to wash the rabbit blood off my body. I wished I could scrub away the memory, too.

  Mama knelt next to the tub and released my hair from its messy braid. “I always wanted blond hair,” she said.

  I pulled my knees up to my chest, covering myself from her. I couldn’t remember when I’d become embarrassed by my own body, but I thought I understood how Adam and Eve had felt.

  “Blond and straight.” She smiled, still working on my hair. “Not dark and curly like I got.”

  I thought Mama had pretty hair, and I told her so.

  “I don’t know. It’s more trouble than smooth hair.”

  Mama was the prettiest woman I’d ever seen. Her cheekbones curved high on her face and stood out strong under her dark eyes. She had a pointed n
ose, like Beanie had. Her skin didn’t have a single freckle on it.

  I didn’t look a thing like her. Freckled skin, blue eyes, light hair, button nose.

  “Mama, who do I take after?” I asked, taking the soapy washrag from her.

  “My pa had blond hair,” she answered, standing. “So did my sister.”

  I nodded.

  “Now,” Mama said, opening the bathroom door. “You soak until the water gets cold.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Everything’s okay now.”

  She closed the door behind her.

  After I’d soaked and scrubbed and put on a fresh nightie, I slid into my bed and slept through the rest of the day.

  In my dream that night, I chased Beanie through a field. Loose dirt sunk under my feet, making me fall. My sister, though, kept right on running, her big feet slapping the dust. As soon as I caught up to her, she turned and looked right into my eyes.

  Then she screamed. Jolting and frantic screams. Something from behind her had pulled her hair, sending her falling backwards onto the ground.

  “You wanna pet it, Pearl?” The smirking man stood over Beanie, club in his hand.

  I jerked awake before he brought the club down on her face.

  Daddy was in his chair in the living room. He’d fallen asleep there, a newspaper spread across his lap.

  “Daddy?” I called from the bottom of the steps.

  He woke right away. He’d always been a light sleeper. Being sheriff meant his sleep got interrupted quite often.

  “Come on over, baby,” he said, knocking the paper off his lap. His voice was thick with exhaustion. “You have a bad dream?”

  I nodded and crawled onto his lap and curled into his arms. My lanky legs jutted out to the side.

  “It was a bad one,” I said.

  “I don’t doubt that for a minute. Rabbit drives ain’t easy to see.” He pushed the hair off my face. “I don’t much like them myself.”

  “I went there to find you.” My head on his shoulder, I studied his profile, the way his nose bumped at the top and how his mustache covered the top part of his lip. He turned his head to face me.

  “Why weren’t you there?” I asked.

  “I was out looking for you.” His mustache tickled when he kissed my forehead.

  “You were?”

  “Sure was.” He smiled. “I was at the courthouse doing some of my paperwork. Your mama came to get me. She was scared.”

  I tucked my head under his chin and felt his Adam’s apple bob up and down against the side of my face.

  “I was scared, too,” he said.

  His deep in-and-out breaths calmed me and eased me back to sleep.

  He held me like that all the way to morning.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  When Mama called us for supper, it meant we best have clean fingernails and a fresh dress on. Our hair should be brushed and pulled away from our faces. Of course, Beanie wasn’t one for cleaning up so well, but she did her best. Mama wanted her family to be presentable at the supper table.

  Mama’s last stand against the invading filth.

  But between Mama setting the table and all of us arriving at it, scrubbed pink, a fine layer of dust had covered over everything. It was why Mama had put the dishes and cups upside down.

  “Now, come on, y’all,” Mama called, rushing between the kitchen and the table. “The food’s not getting any warmer.”

  Mama believed that letting food get cold was as much a sin as dancing and playing cards.

  We gathered around in our usual seats. Beanie between Meemaw and Mama. My parents together. I was between Daddy and Meemaw. We never changed seats, and I liked that a good deal.

  I could hardly resist running my finger across the tabletop, tracing a flower into the dust. I would have gladly made a whole field of them if Mama hadn’t hollered at me.

  “You’re just making more of a mess, Pearl.” She swatted at my hand with her washrag. “You stinker.”

  “Well, I had an interesting day.” Daddy took the washrag from Mama and got to wiping the bottoms of each plate before putting them right-side-up. “We got some folks who set up a Hooverville out to the other side of the tracks.”

  Ray had told me about Hoovervilles. Camps full of people who didn’t have any other place to rest their heads. Most of them were on their way west and needed somewhere to stop at for a day or so to get off the road. I’d heard that sometimes the folks held a square dance at the camps. And every night the kids got to sleep out under the stars.

  I bet old Herbert Hoover liked having camps named after him.

  “Can I go see it?” I asked, hoping Daddy would say I could. Seemed to me it would be the most exciting place on earth.

  “Don’t even think about it, Pearl,” Mama said from the kitchen. “They don’t need you going down there to stare at them. It might make them feel bad.”

  “Did you go out there with Millard?” I asked, handing Daddy my plate.

  “Pearl Louise, mind your manners,” Mama scolded. “You’re to call him Mayor Young.”

  “But he told me to call him Millard.”

  “I know what he told you.” Mama shook her head. “But I’ll have none of it.”

  “Yup,” Daddy said. “Mayor Millard E. Young, esquire, went along with me to check out the Hooverville.”

  “I seen a man eatin’ a jackrabbit.” Beanie rocked in her chair. “It smelled good.”

  “Now, Beanie Jean.” Mama pursed her lips. “You haven’t been down to that camp, have you?”

  Beanie nodded, her eyes full of wonder. “They all eat jackrabbits.”

  I wished she would stop saying that word. Thinking back on the rabbit drive killed my appetite.

  “I want you staying away from that camp. You hear me?” Mama carried a couple water glasses to the table. “Nothing good can come from you being down there. You’ve got no business bothering those folks.”

  “The man was drying out the rabbit skins. Said he was making himself a hat. He let me pet the fur.” Beanie smiled, showing her crooked teeth. “It wasn’t soft as it looked, though.”

  A picture of the rabbit bleeding out of its mouth flashed in my mind.

  “You washed your hands didn’t you?” Mama asked, making a sour look on her face. “Those rabbits have got mites.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Beanie answered. “Can we eat a jackrabbit?”

  “Not so long as I’m alive you won’t.” Mama looked to Daddy. “They aren’t really eating the rabbits are they?”

  “Some are.” Daddy crossed his arms. “They don’t have anything else.”

  “They shouldn’t be eating them.” Mama put the baking dish on the table. “You’ve got to stop them.”

  “Now, I’m sure them rabbits are just fine if they get cooked through.” Meemaw spooned goulash onto Beanie’s plate. “Worse thing is they’re probably real tough and gamey.”

  “Tom, you can’t let people eat those things.” Mama pulled out her chair.

  “I told a couple of them the rabbits weren’t good for eating.” Daddy spread the cotton napkin over his thigh. “A couple kids over to Boise City got rabbit fever a week or two ago from eating the meat. Problem is, a man can’t hear things like that when he’s got hungry kids. He’s gonna take a chance just to see his family fed.”

  Mama made a noise that was part sigh and part grunt.

  “Mary,” Daddy said, leaning forward. “They’re starving. Folks in the Hooverville will die if they don’t eat. Those rabbits are the first thing they’ve had in a long time that’s stuck to them.”

  Mama didn’t say a word for a couple minutes. She busied herself with making sure Beanie held her fork right before she sat in her chair and put her napkin on her lap.

  “I’ll take a couple loaves of bread out to them tomorrow,” Mama said, looking at her own plate.

  “It’ll take more than a couple loaves. A couple dozen wouldn’t even stretch.” Daddy took my hand for grace. “There’s a
lot of people living down there.”

  “The Good Lord ain’t never been held back on account of too little bread.” Meemaw bowed her head. “Jesus Almighty fed the multitude on just a couple loaves and some fish.”

  Daddy said grace, and I imagined Jesus in His bleached white robes and blue sash, His soft hair dancing in the wind. He stood on top of a dust mound and handed out loaves of bread to hobos and drifters living out in the Hooverville. He never called them “Okies” or “trash.” He just did a lot of smiling and hugging of necks. Then He asked all the little children to come to Him and held them on His lap, telling stories about lilies of the field and sparrows of the air. The kids looked up at Him and smiled, their bellies fuller than they’d been in a year or two.

  Full of bread from a crop that couldn’t be buried under dust no matter how hard it rolled in.

  As Daddy blessed the food for our family, I prayed that Jesus would come to Red River to make Mama’s bread be enough for all the folks. I prayed extra hard but still held a crumb of doubt.

  For all I knew, bread miracles didn’t work on cursed people.

  Daddy and I sat on the front porch after dinner. He busied his hands, rolling a cigarette. I cooled my toes in the late evening air.

  Curling his fingers to block the wind from scattering the loose tobacco, he pinched and folded the paper, rolling it snug as a bug. He licked the edge, smoothing it down. Then tap, tap, tap against the heel of his hand he packed it. Once he put one end in his mouth and lit the other, he relaxed his shoulders, letting down the weight of the world he’d carried all day. After a few puffs, he kicked off his boots.

  “Did I ever tell you about Jed Bozell’s traveling show?” he asked, pulling on his cigarette again.

  He’d told me about that show a hundred times or more, but each time with a different attraction. A big fat pig that wore a top hat or a man with tattoos he’d make dance by flexing his muscles. Even a bull named Misfit that could jump over a house.

  I didn’t believe a single one of those stories was true. In fact, I never could find anybody else who had ever heard of Jed Bozell. But I liked the make-believe of it just fine.