The Curing Season

by Leslie Wells

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  THE CURING SEASON. Copyright © 2001 by Leslie Wells. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  For information address Warner Books, Hachette Book Group, 237 Park Avenue, New York, NY 10017.

  A Time Warner Company

  ISBN: 978-0-7595-2337-1

  A hardcover edition of this book was published in 2001 by Warner Books.

  The “Warner Books” name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  First eBook edition: May 2001

  Visit our Web site at www.HachetteBookGroup.com.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  For my parents, the kindest, most generous and loving in the whole world.

  And for my grandparents, who’ve given me a lifetime of good memories.

  I used to think candles were so pretty. Their clean smell, the holy flame. The quiet burn if you touched the wax while hot. The way they kept the image of your fingerprint. We used to dip our fingers into the molten wax, my sister and I. We’d make the shapes of little flower petals, or tears.

  Chapter One

  In back, the women are laying out the dishes they’ve brought on the long wooden tables. Steaming hot macaroni, butter lying in golden slabs on top of a melting crust of cheese. Platters of fried chicken, a dish that always gets eaten, every last piece. Creasey salad, dark and bitter green, with chunks of pork mixed in. Dishes of snap beans, again mixed with pieces of fatback, glistening with delicious grease. Homemade potato rolls and flaky pan biscuits. Pickled watermelon and pickled peaches. I look for a bare place to put my two dreary dishes: a bean salad and a dried-out spoonbread. They’ll excuse my modest offerings, as they always do.

  On the last plank table crowd the desserts. An enormous snowy cake, yellow on the inside, with flaking fresh coconut sprinkled across the icing. Crunchy pecan pies by the dozen. Someone made a cobbler, and its thick pastry only barely covers the bursting blackberries beneath in their beds of sugar, dough, and butter. There’s millionaire’s salad, although I think this should go on the salad table instead of with the desserts. And peach and lemon chess pie. Someone’s even taken the time to grind ice cream, the rock salt and ice still clinging to the outside of the bucket.

  Several children have been given cardboard church fans from the funeral home and told to keep the flies off the food. The Jesus on the fans looks sickly, his drooping dark eyes gazing across his folded hands. When the women aren’t looking, the children play tag around the tables, ignoring their task.

  Joshua is not here; he’s with his father and the other men as they greet people filing out of church. I always come out the back way to avoid the grinning line of people, smiling in their stiff Sunday best. Some of them are kindly, but most of them are curious, and I cannot abide that. Since we got to this place eleven months ago, I’ve avoided the stares and whispers. The people act friendly, and that’s enough. They often speak and then forget, bringing their hands up to their mouths. The ones who remember give me a shy wave, as if unsure of how to greet me. Sometimes Joshua calls out hello when he’s with me, although I haven’t encouraged that. Most of the time we just stick to ourselves.

  Aaron is still inside with him. I see the last of the women crowding down the front steps of the church. Mrs. Grey is always near the end of the line, and the pianist, Mrs. Peale. Mrs. Grey invited me, gesturing and pointing, to come to her Sunday school class, which meets during the hour before church starts, but I shook my head. I stay in the church basement with Joshua where it’s nice and cool, and meet Aaron after his class is done. Then we go up the stairs and into our pew.

  More dishes are filling in the spaces left on the crowded tables—groaning tables, they used to call them back at my home church, Calvary Baptist. It’s been so long since I’ve seen anyone from home. I wonder what Mother looks like now, how WillieEd is doing running the farm. I imagined her life would be easier since Father died, but it seems not. The one letter from her that found its way to me talked about how lonely she was, the hardship. Imagine missing a man like Father, who made our lives a daily misery. But I guess it’s all a matter of what you get used to.

  Now she and the children are going it alone. I’m sure Sibby must be married by now. At least I know the church folks would help Mother if she needed food, and Man Murfree across the way pitches in with his tractor when they need it. There’s only so much WillieEd can do with a mule. Sibby used to think Man Murfree was sweet on Mother, but I guess that was just a silly whisper, probably started by Alicia Farnsworth. She used to love to stir up all grades of trouble.

  As I stand here woolgathering, Joshua comes running toward me, clutching a bunch of dandelions he picked. They’re his favorite flower, and mine too. He holds them up smiling, his brown curls twisting at the nape of his neck from the heat. His bright eyes shining, Mama. I smile and take the flowers and steer him over to a shady place under a tree, where we sit.

  I’m ravenously hungry, but first there’s a long prayer by Deacon Sayers. He takes a stance at the head of the tables, close enough so I can see his lips curving around the words.

  —Dear Lord, he begins, Bless this glorious day, the Sabbath day on which we praise your name. Thank you for sharing your Son, who shed His precious blood, the blood of the Lamb, for us poor sinners. We pray for those who live in the dark, for those who have not seen your light, the light of the world. We pray for President Truman, that he may make decisions that will lead America toward Christianity and away from the heathenism that has been a plague on the world and our country. We pray that in this time of peace, we will not forget those who gave their lives for their country.

  Deacon Sayers had lost his eldest son seven years ago, right before the Germans finally admitted they were licked. I had seen some women talking about it at church one Sunday, shaking their heads. They were saying it seemed like he’d have gotten over it by now. I look at Joshua and cannot imagine ever getting over a loss like that.

  —and we pray for those on the Southern Baptist Missions Board, he was concluding, —as they send missionaries out to all parts of the world to make believers in Your name. Help us here in Virginia to support the Board in its efforts to spread Your name to all parts of the globe. Bless this food to the nourishment of our bodies, and we thank You for Your bounty. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

  The blessing over, people begin to line up at the tables. Joshua is pulling on me to get up; he’s hungry, but I hold him back. I won’t go until the end, that way there’s less notice. I’ve almost come to hate the kind looks as much as the cruel ones.<
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  Aaron is eating on a bench the men have pulled up under some pine trees. He keeps his hat slouched over his face, chewing mightily. Not a thought about whether his boy has eaten or not. He’ll have his seconds and possibly thirds before we even get up to serve ourselves.

  At long last the line of women and children has emptied out. I pull Joshua up and we go over to the table. He grabs a biscuit and begins eating it as we go through the line. I fill our plates, avoiding my own poor offerings like the plague. I can’t stand to eat anything I’ve prepared; that’s why I’ve dropped off to nothing. Seems like I don’t have a taste for anything but someone else’s cooking anymore. And I don’t get the chance of that very often.

  Joshua is on his second biscuit. I don’t want his father to see him bolting his food before we even sit down. I clump over to another shade tree away from the groups of women, and we sit and eat quickly. He looks at me and holds up his plate.

  —More, Mama? he asks; I can see his lips moving and his worried look. It makes me sad deep inside for my little boy to already have to worry about things. I glance back at the bench under the pines; the men are laughing and talking. Aaron is picking his teeth with a sliver of haystalk. I motion for Joshua to stay there, and I walk back to the tables, taking it slow.

  Several women are at the tables, tickling the last of their appetites with a little taste of sweet potato pie, a spoonful of fried squash, one more bite of ham. I quickly fill up half a plate and walk back to where Joshua waits patiently. I motion for him to eat, and sit in front of him to block him from Aaron’s view. Joshua is only three, too young to know table manners, but Aaron expects him to behave, especially at church. Of course, Aaron’s religious leanings only began since we moved here. He wouldn’t darken the door of a church before we arrived in Tarville.

  It’s now midafternoon, deadly hot. I feel stuffed and bloated. Sweat runs down my back and pools above the knob at the base of my spine. I raise my apron discreetly and try to fan myself with it, but I can’t do it without making too much of a stir. I settle for a large oak leaf and fan Joshua’s face. He’s fallen asleep and is lying with his head on my lap, eyes blissfully closed, a contented smile on his face.

  A shadow falls across Joshua and me. I look up, and it’s Mrs. Rattner and Mrs. Willis, two of the deacons’ wives. They smile at me, eyes shiny with some secret knowledge. They point to Joshua and mouth exaggeratedly,

  —Sweet little boy.

  I nod my thanks, my head rocking back and forth on the stem of my neck. With each motion a pounding repeats in my skull. I feel like I’m going to be sick, but surely I can’t do that here. Mrs. Willis is speaking to me. I look up at her lips.

  —look hot. Some of us are going into the basement to cool off while the men finish their reading.

  She gestures toward the steps of the church. While I sat there in my stupor, most of the congregation has gone, and only a few men and their wives are still in the yard. Several of the women are piling the leftover food into boxes, and the others are probably already inside.

  —come in with us out of this heat?

  I look down at Joshua. He’s content, sleeping away. It would be cooler inside for him, but then they’d have me, pinned and needled. The last time I answered any questions I got into a load of trouble. I shake my head no, and point to him.

  —Mmhmm, I groan, indicating that I’ll stay here and wait for Aaron. The women nod and smile, and turn to leave. Mrs. Rattner looks back at me, and I see her say to Mrs. Willis,

  —knowed from the first I saw her she was off-kilter.

  My face burns in embarrassment, but the feeling passes, as it has many times before. I’ve learned to shrug off this kind of comment, letting them think whatever they want.

  So it has been for the past year, me not speaking, not hearing a thing except the voices in my head.

  Chapter Two

  Four years earlier—Gower County, Virginia, April 1948

  Footrace after class. Pass it on. Folded into a tiny bit of paper. I shut it quickly and passed it to the girl with long braids in front of me, a blush of heat heading up my neck. Maybe I could get out fast and go down the trail toward the creek, take the long way home. Unnoticed. Being in the eleventh grade, I had been allowed three thick books from Mrs. Spender’s borrowing table, and they would slow me down. But if I left them here, Mary Jane Markley might take them home to show to her father, who’d surely forbid Forever Amber and might not allow Jude the Obscure, either. I’d just have to take my chances with the books. I wanted to read them before old man Markley heard about them.

  There had been rumblings before about Mrs. Spender’s borrowing table in our one-room schoolhouse. When Carl Hatting brought home Origin of the Species, his mother and father showed up the next morning at school, screeching,

  —Don’t ever let Carl borrow from your heathen library again!

  Mrs. Spender explained that Charles Darwin was a scientist, that his theories were going to be taught in twelfth grade anyway by the time Carl got there, but they didn’t care. No, he wasn’t to bring home any more books. They were Christians, they didn’t want their boy’s mind filled with the devil’s work, science or not. Mrs. Spender never brought that book back into the classroom again. Luckily I’d checked it out a month earlier and had kept it under my pillow so Father wouldn’t see it. You’d think Carl would’ve known enough to hide it when he took it home, but he didn’t have the sense God gave a billygoat.

  Mrs. Spender asked her last question, and not a hand was raised. That was what happened most of the time. We all had to fill woodboxes, haul water, feed and milk cows, and do a pile of other tasks before we even got to the schoolhouse at eight in the morning. A lot of the kids fell asleep by early afternoon, laid their heads down right on their desks. The schoolhouse got pretty hot in the springtime even with all the windows open, and the heat and the combined smells of sweating children and teenagers who didn’t bathe regularly was a pretty potent combination. No wonder they had to put their heads down. I expect Mrs. Spender figured as long as they didn’t disrupt the class, it didn’t matter.

  A lot of us had nothing more in our lunchboxes than frybread and some cow corn to chew on, and that on a good day. At least I had shoes, even if they were hand-me-downs, and even if one had to be stretched and bent to accommodate the sharp inward flex of my right foot. The Amos kids went barefoot year-round, and the Mayhans didn’t do much better with cardboard tied on their feet, wrapped around with rawhide. Jim Mayhan had frostbite so bad last winter his little toe stayed permanently black, and bent at an odd angle from its brothers.

  I didn’t dare raise my hand again, even to rescue Mrs. Spender, or I’d risk getting beat up once the bell rang. So I hunched over my books and tried to sneak a look at the first page of Forever Amber. Sometimes I couldn’t believe what Mrs. Spender brought to school. I think she might have just grabbed whatever was on her shelf at the last minute, not really paying attention. This was a book I figured I wouldn’t get my hands on until I was eighteen, at least. If I had to sit up half the night lighting candles to read it, I would.

  Mrs. Spender sighed, answered her question herself, then said,

  —All right then. What was the name of Robert E. Lee’s famous horse?

  Suddenly twenty hands shot up.

  —I know! I know, Miz Spender!

  —I know! Let me answer it!

  —Traveller!

  —It’s Traveller, anybody knows that. came the calls from all sides of the room.

  —Who won the battle of First Manassas? she asked.

  —We did! We whipped those Yanks! cried Steven Pierce.

  —Stonewall got his name there, added Tom Smith.

  —And we won Mechanicsville, Miz Spender! and Gaines Mill! shouted Teak Williams, who normally sat sullen and never looked up from fashioning spitballs on his desktop.

  —What about Frayser’s Farm! We won that un, and Malvern Hill, too! cried Wilma Harp.

  Mrs. Spender wore a d
efeated smile on her pretty face. It always worked; whenever she couldn’t get anyone interested in the lesson, all she had to do was ask a question about the War between the States and everyone woke up. Maybe it was just our corner of southern Virginia, but I imagined almost every child in the South had learned his Civil War history at his granddaddy’s and daddy’s knees. It wasn’t something we needed to learn from schoolbooks; it was part of what we’d been told since we were little. Most children I knew could recite the list of the battles the South had won before they could spell their own names.

  Mrs. Spender stood up to ring the handbell she kept on her scarred pine desk. Everyone flew from their seats and out the door. I tried to hurry, but it was slow going. My entire leg ached, as it usually did by the end of the day. I said goodbye to Mrs. Spender, but she had laid her head down on her arms. I guessed even teachers got plumb worn out sometimes.

  I stepped cautiously to the door and held on to the rough frame to get my bearings before I negotiated the stoop. These crazy wooden steps tilted just as you put your weight on them, always in a different direction from what you expected. I’d just gotten to the bottom step when Larry Powell sauntered up.

  —You a-goin to race? he said, his sulky face twisted into a smile.

  —Not today, I muttered and tried to get by him. He grabbed me around the waist. Come outside, I thought to Mrs. Spender. Come out to check on me. If Sibby was here, nobody would’ve dared pick on me. But she was home helping Mother with the canning today.

  —Hey, y’all, Cora don’t want to race us, he cried. Several other lurkers came up beside him.

  —Why not? Ruby Belks called out. —She a chicken?

  —Y’all know I can’t race, I said, looking them in the eyes. Maybe if I just gave them what they wanted, they’d leave me alone. —Y’all better go on or you’ll miss the race yourselves.

  —Don’t worry about us. Come on now, Larry said, pulling on my arm. —I bet you can race on them old clodhoppers if you really want to.