by Minick, Jim;
“Boom!” Will shouted, startling her. “Didn’t want you to miss the noise.” She elbowed him, while he oohed and aahed like a crowd of people. He climbed into the car and returned with something in his hand. “Thought we might need a little of Jack’s company, to celebrate.”
She hesitated when he offered the flask, and then she took a quick swallow and coughed. “You like that stuff?”
“Better than that rotgut some folks make.” He drank a long draw and sighed loudly.
For a while, they just watched. Ada formed a circle with her finger and thumb. When a fireworks exploded, she captured it inside this roundness. “No bigger than a quarter,” she whispered. Her arm moved to catch another burst. “Imagine how small they must look to God?”
The explosions intensified. “Their final goodbye,” Will said. The bursts of colors hurt their eyes, and for a moment, the valley became a riotous garden of flowers.
Then it all stopped, and the darkness returned, and the garden once again became black.
Cicero
Aunt Amanda and me had a fine time, thank you very much. Who needs Mr. Burk anyway?
She got to feeling sorry for me, knowing Will was out sparking what’s-her-name, so she called Isaac, her neighbor from up the valley. An hour later, he puttered down the lane in his tractor pulling a small wagon. Aunt Amanda set a picnic basket inside and climbed up to sit on the sideboard, her feet riding the wagon tongue. She told me to fly along, and the three of us rambled up the hillside. We were heading to the high hill above the farm where Will had taken Ada on her birthday picnic.
In that fine evening sky, I flew in swooping arcs above Aunt Amanda’s head. She laughed and pulled out a piece of biscuit, holding it high, calling my name. But she didn’t throw it, like Will. She just held it there, riding the wagon. I winged down behind her and matched the tractor’s slow speed. I hovered a moment just above her hand, and then I picked that nibble of bread with my beak. She yelled and clapped, wobbling on the wagon, and I was afraid she might fall off, not holding on like that. Isaac looked back at all the noise, and she pointed up at me flying with the biscuit in my mouth. He just shook his head. And just like that, me and Aunt Amanda had our own trick.
Later, after they spread out a quilt on the hilltop and ate their picnic supper, the sky turned that warm, deep purple of early night. I settled on the quilt near Aunt Amanda. We saw the light first, down the valley, maybe three miles away. And then the boom reached us. Soon another red star lit up the night, followed by another boom. Aunt Amanda kept saying, “Oh my, oh my.” But to be honest, those fireworks didn’t do much for me. And the noise, well, it sounded like the thunder the night Loot and my babies died. I was glad when the show was over. I rode Aunt Amanda’s shoulder back down the hill and into her yard.
36
Late July 1953
Will woke to the memory of something on the kitchen floor, something he’d kicked out of the way when he’d come home late from work the night before. He rolled out of bed to find the envelope.
Will had expected this, had waited for it to worm its way through the postal system. But the weight of it still surprised. He propped the green envelope against a drinking glass and hesitated—why bother when you already know what it says, he thought. Then he ripped it open.
Again, none of it surprised, yet all of it did. He sat at the kitchen table and read it again.
You, William Brice Burk, have been drafted into the United States Army. You are to report for basic training at the Carlisle Armory by 9:00 a.m. on August 25, 1953.
Four weeks and he would become the government’s property, wearing the government’s uniform, carrying the government’s rifle, and living in the government’s barracks. Forget about this apartment, its quiet sunlight, its privacy. Forget about all of it. No more Aunt Amanda to carpool with, no more job to carpool to, no more car to carpool in. Four weeks and no more Cicero, no more tricks and words and flying. No more Woody with his lucky foot, and Dino and Scoop. Four weeks and no more Ada.
Will fixed a bowl of cereal but didn’t sit to eat. Instead, he leaned against the counter and stared at the letter. Outside, Cicero called, but by the time he got to the door, the raven had disappeared.
IN the new loft, Ada threw out her arms and spun in a slow circle, her skirt swishing, her shoes tapping on the oak floor. She breathed the rich smell of just-milled pine and listened to the click-click of the fans high above. When she stopped, she yelled, “Hello.” The word echoed in the huge, dark space, this cave full of shadows and coolness.
Her father cupped his hands and shouted back, “Hello,” and her mother did the same. Their voices bounced around them. He hollered again, giddy like a boy, with dimples so deep they framed his smile.
The roofers finished yesterday, so all that remained was to paint the exterior. “But that can wait,” her father said. “Before we paint, we have to fill this new barn with hay. And before we can do that, we have to have us a barn dance. Ain’t that right, Miss Pretty Girl Kate?” He grabbed his wife and started dancing and singing, “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine.” He twirled her through the chorus and moved to Ada, grabbing her by the waist and stepping her around a circle, as if they were part of a large square dance, the music already filling this space. When he stopped, he looked out over the meadow. “Just wish Nathan was here . . .”
Later, Ada and her mother drove to town for supplies. They returned to find Clyde McGrady, Uncle Mark, and a few others setting up sawhorse tables. They strung lights, lined the walls with hay bales, and pulled a wagon in to serve as a stage. Then the men all hurried home to rush through their evening milking, so they could wash up and return with their families.
By 4:30, the band had unloaded, and Jimmy G and the Mountain Oysters set up on the wagon. They softly practiced a few tunes as more and more folks arrived, men shaking hands, children joining in a game of tag, and women adding dishes to the long table. People parked along both sides of the highway, and it seemed all of Hopewell, all of Newburg, and all of the farm families between had come to celebrate.
Ada helped her mother pour water and tea and told folks where to put their food. She kept looking for Will, who worked until five. She’d told him to come straight from the station, but knowing him, she expected he had probably gone back over the mountain to shower and change. Sure enough, a little before six, with people beginning to form a line for the food, Ada saw Will shaking her father’s hand. His black hair shined and the greased-down cowlick formed an arc above his forehead. Her father pointed to Ada, and Will’s smile grew broad.
“I brought you these.” He handed her a bouquet of daisies and black-eyed Susans, a few already wilted.
Ada thanked him and quick-kissed his cheek. “I want you to meet some folks.” She introduced him to all of her friends and neighbors. As Will shook hands, she realized these were people she’d known her whole life, yet this man from the other side of the mountain, this man she had only known for, what?—a few months—somehow it felt as if she knew him better than anyone else here. She squeezed his hand. She didn’t want to lose him.
After the desserts disappeared, the band began to play, the upright bass thumping, fiddle carrying melody, high harmonies drifting over the crowd. Jimmy G yelled it was time to form squares, and people made room as couples nodded to other couples, twirling skirts, tying shoelaces. From the stage, Jimmy G hollered, “Come on, folks, we need more dancers.” He embarrassed reluctant men to dance with their wives and goaded bashful teenagers. A few more squares formed.
Ada listened as she cleaned up the food table. Her mother and father already were on the dance floor, and Will stood nearby, against the wall. She kept waiting for a tap on her shoulder to interrupt this work that could wait. But he didn’t move.
Jimmy G yelled, “Ada Franklin, I know you can step light. Get that new beau of yours out here and join us.” People clapped. Her father shouted, “Come on.”
A sudden flush of warmth covered her neck as it
splotched with red. She smiled and shook her head, her face down. Still no tap on her shoulder.
“Come on, now. I know you want to show off that fine-looking young man,” she heard from the stage.
She turned. Will stood in the shadows, hands in his pockets, his mouth trying to smile, his eyes nervous, frightened. Ada reached out, and he took her hand. “I’ve never done this before,” he whispered. “I’ll probably step on your feet.”
“I’ll teach you.” Ada tugged him along. They joined another couple, and soon the band picked up “Sourwood Mountain” and the caller shouted out directions. Will couldn’t understand the caller, so he watched the other men. Ada pointed, twisted him to face the right direction, and took his hands for a promenade. Her feet skipped around him, and she laughed at his clumsiness. Soon he too laughed, shrugging his shoulders, even stepping a little quicker when he recognized the commands. “Always look into my eyes,” she shouted as they swung together. “So you don’t get dizzy.” This made him smile more broadly, and she felt so vulnerable and alive and yes, loved by his steady gaze.
Jimmy G called out a new command, and all of a sudden, Ada moved to the next square. Will found himself dancing with a stranger, a woman taller than him and twice as heavy. She smiled and curtsied, and like the other men, Will bowed and took her hand. The dance repeated, but this time Will felt as if he was being swung. When they do-si-doed, he saw Ada smiling, her new partner a man he suddenly recognized—Mr. Shupe, Jesse’s father. But they disappeared as Will’s partner pulled him through arched arms to form a knot. The bones of his fingers crunched in the buxom woman’s grip.
Again, the caller shouted for the women to move to another square and the dance repeated, Will suddenly partnered with a girl no taller than his elbows. Even she knew the moves better than he did. Next he danced with an old woman, skinnier than a cornstalk. Then Mrs. Franklin grabbed Will’s hands, and for a moment, he looked into Ada’s eyes. But where did you put your hands on your girlfriend’s mother? He fumbled through this foreign land.
Jimmy G kept calling, and Will kept twirling, the dance floor a dizzying blur. He put his arms around women his own age, some with wedding rings, some not, the ringless ones smiling hard. One even brushed her breasts against him. Will glimpsed Ada, wisps of her hair flying out, her eyes sparkling. When she saw him, her smile widened, and she held his gaze for a moment, then her partner whisked her back, and Will got thumped from behind as he stumbled on.
Finally, Ada appeared in his arms again. She had danced her way around the hayloft, swinging in the arms of every man, and at last, Will felt those long fingers, that slender waist. He missed no more steps. The caller’s commands faded and the other dancers seemed distant, and Will and Ada danced fast and hot, swirling like two stars caught in the pull of gravity, unable, unwilling to let go, spinning faster and faster until the music suddenly stopped, and they fell exhausted into each other’s arms, laughing and breathing hard.
Ada fanned herself. “That wasn’t so bad.” She raised her dress and looked at her feet. “And you didn’t injure a single toe.”
Will mopped his forehead and shook his head. They moved to the corner, and he grabbed two sodas from a washtub of ice. They drank in silence, watching the next squares form. The breeze from the open door cooled them, and Will put his hand in the small of Ada’s back. “How about a tour of this new barn? Get away from all these people.”
The night air embraced them, the wind swirling its own dance of leaves. The clouds blotted out any stars, and to the west, heat lightning brightened the horizon then disappeared.
They held hands as they walked past others, some of them dancers like them, outside to cool off or smoke. Farther out, they passed a group of men talking about coonhounds, and Will saw the glint of a bottle being passed from one to the next.
As Will and Ada walked down the hill, the bass picked up the next tune, and the rest of the band joined in. Will squeezed Ada’s warm hand, his heart thrumming. He was glad to be away from the heat of so many bodies, the loudness where so many strangers knew him.
Inside the lower barn, they heard the muffled stomping above, the music sounding far away. Ada flicked on the lights, illuminating walls and ceiling covered by a fresh coat of white-lime paint. New plumbing gleamed in the bare-bulb lighting, and the cement floor had no trace of the cows that had been here just a few hours ago.
“Looks like your father mopped this place.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised.”
Empty stalls had a fresh layer of bedding, and in the corner, two newborn calves stirred in their pens. One stayed curled in thick bedding, but the other wobbled to its feet. “Surprised you could sleep with all that ruckus, little fellow.” Will scratched its head. But the calf just wanted something to suck for milk. Ada let the calf mouth her fingers. A rough tongue scraped her hand, and drool hung down from the calf’s jaw.
“This calms them for a little while,” Ada said. “But it always makes a mess.” When she pulled her hand out, thick mucus glued her fingers together. She drew water from a nearby spigot and dried her hands on the hem of her dress.
When they turned to walk back, Will noticed above the door an odd little square tacked to a beam, a piece of paper with letters on it. He pointed. “What’s this?”
Ada said nothing, just cleaned her hand.
Will read aloud. “R-O-T-A-S. Rotas?” He glanced at her but couldn’t read her face, so he considered the paper more. The block of letters formed a perfect square with five letters across and five letters down. “ROTAS” formed both the top word and the one down the left side. He read “OPERA,” the second one across and also the second one down. All five words repeated this pattern, including the last one, “SATOR,” “Rotas” backwards.
“What does ‘ROTAS’ mean, Ada? And ‘SATOR’?”
She looked at the calf. She heard more than a simple question, something different in his voice. She turned to him, the calmness in her voice a surprise. “It’s a hex sign to protect the barn. Daddy asked Uncle Mark to put it there last week.”
“Protect it from what?”
She looked past him out the dark window. “From burning. Protect the barn from fire.” Her voice sounded far away.
“And you believe some scrap of paper can save your barn, just like you believe you healed Cicero?” He could tell he was hurting her, but he was too full of disbelief to hold back.
Ada faced Will—those eyes, his sky-blue eyes. She nodded. “Yes.”
“I bet the last barn had one of these, didn’t it?”
His sharpness shocked her, and she didn’t respond.
“Didn’t it, Ada? And look what good that did.” Will glanced at the square. “Some little piece of paper can’t stop a fire, just like all the wishing in the world can’t stop me from getting drafted. Or just like some granny lady couldn’t stop my mama from dying. I guess that’s what you mean by ‘God works in mysterious ways,’” his voice loud, mocking.
“Hell.” He quieted. “I don’t mean to hurt you, Ada, but I gave up on all this god business a long time ago. If there is a god, I think he just opens the door to recess, and we all run out and beat each other up till no one’s left standing.” He kicked a piece of straw. “Oh, hell,” he said again before turning to walk out the door.
Ada listened to his steps, to the barn door slamming, to his car starting. She wanted to run after him, but another, deeper part of her made her wait. She turned out the lights, stood in darkness as his headlights disappeared. The calf settled with a soft swish in the straw. Above, the dancers swirled, feet thumping the floor. Ada hugged herself and wondered what had just happened.
Cicero
Will woke me that night. I hadn’t heard him come in, he was that quiet. “Hey, Cicero,” he whispered. I could tell he was upset and guessed it was over what’s-her-name. “I screwed up tonight,” he said. He stroked my chest and rubbed my beak, and I made a low rattling. I wanted to say, Don’t stop. I wanted to say, Forget about her,
just love me.
“What do you know about God?” he asked.
“Ada is a purty girl” came out of my mouth just like that. God of all rootknots and rank weeds, why the hell did I say that?
“You’re right about that,” he said. He kept stroking my chest.
I wanted to say, God is a black feather. I wanted to say, God is a shining black feather that rides the wind.
But a single black feather can’t do diddly, can’t do more than float wherever the fucking wind decides.
What’s-her-name would’ve probably said that wind is also god. And maybe she’d be right.
But back then, with Will so lost, language failed me, again, the words silent as feathers, loose and blowing away.
37
Midmorning, a Chevy convertible full of four college coeds pulled up to the pumps. At the same time, three other cars also stopped for gas. Will worked alone, Bishop over tending two trucks, and Dickson in his office doing who knew what, probably reading his Bible. Will stuck the nozzles in, put the gas caps on the pumps, and jogged from car to car, doing windows and oil. The driver of the convertible, a blonde with sunglasses, had lips as red as her car. “My, aren’t you handsome,” she said, and the other three giggled. He mumbled a thank you, ma’am, but couldn’t think of what else to say, so he moved to the front to check the oil. A moment later, he stepped back to the driver’s side with the oil stick. “The oil is fine.”
The blonde didn’t hesitate. “That’s good, and I bet you have an even longer dipstick. Would you like to check my oil?”
Face flushed and hearing the women’s laughter, he stumbled back to the engine. When he slammed the hood, he avoided their eyes and moved to the nozzle. He topped off their car while listening to their conversation about nozzles and pumps. My God, he thought, they don’t stop! Will clicked off the pump, screwed on the gas cap, and took their money. Her fingers lingered in his palm, and they all waved and blew him kisses when they pulled away.