The Curing Season

by Leslie Wells

  Stumbling, I was pulled along down the dirt road that ran behind the schoolhouse, my right leg dragging behind me. The books dropped from my arms.

  —Come on, clodhopper. If you can’t race, you can at least keep score.

  They pulled me along, intent on humiliating me. I allowed myself to be dragged; why try to fight? There were too many against me, and I’d never get away. My face burning, I looked down at my dusty skirt. Mother would have a hissy fit when she saw that; I’d have to try to wash off in the creek before I got home. Clothes aren’t made on trees, she’d say, and yank them off of me. I knew it was mainly to protect me from Father, but sometimes I wished she’d take our side. Just once.

  The runners were giggling and pointing.

  —Look what the cat drug in.

  —She aint on my team. You can have her, Teak.

  —She aint on my team. Larry done brung her, he can have her.

  —Okay, let’s get goin, Larry said, pulling a gun from his overalls pocket. —I’m goin to fire this here pistol and the first group’s gonna run. Then the second one, and the winners will race each other. You keep note of who comes in first and second in both races, he concluded, giving me a shove.

  The entire group, about fifteen in all, was staring at me. I wished I could crawl into a hole and hide.

  —Can’t any of you write? I said. —I don’t have any interest in your race. I have to get home and do my chores.

  —You’re goin nowhere, Ruby said.

  She thrust a piece of torn notebook paper and a pencil into my hands. Larry drew a line in the dust, and seven runners stood behind it. They looked ridiculous posturing and stretching their calves. I wished they’d all fall into a molehill and break their legs. That would teach them. Larry aimed the gun over our heads and fired. I covered my ears, but they still ached with the explosion. The first group tore off in the dirt. Ruby gave me a push.

  —You writin? I want to see those names nice and clear by the end of the race.

  I arranged the paper against my knee and pretended to write down their names, but instead of Larry’s name I wrote Ignorant, and instead of Teak I wrote Imbecile, and so forth. Ruby kept nudging my arm just as I was starting to write, making the onlookers laugh. Wait til they saw what I’d written; then I’d have the last laugh.

  —Thought I heard a gun go off, a voice said behind me.

  Everyone straightened up. Clyde, Joab Williams’s hired man, strode toward us from the edge of the woods. Joab owned the farmland the school was on. Whispers said he had a teenage daughter so badly retarded she never left the house, and that was why Joab was so interested in educating the rest of us that he donated the corner lot for the school. Who knew if that was true or not? Now here was Clyde, a wary smile creasing his worn brown face.

  —We’re just having a footrace, whined Nellie Martin, tugging on her rust-colored pigtail. —What’s it to you?

  —Not much. Clyde spat in the dirt. Being a Negro, he couldn’t really make them do anything, but he could go get Joab or Mrs. Spender. He glanced at me.

  —Don’t your daddy ’spect you home right after school to milk them cows?

  —He generally does, I said, relief washing through me.

  —Then you’d best be gettin home. I know when your daddy ’spects something, he ’spects it. That your brother’s gun, Larry?

  —Yeah, what of it?

  —Be careful with it. You don’t want to go shootin your toes off. Or anyone else’s.

  He waved and walked off in the direction he’d come from.

  —Uppity nigger, said Teak.

  —I’m gonna get him and good, said Larry. —Once’t my brother hears about this. Nigger has no right steppin into my bidnis.

  —Damn straight, said Ruby. —He’d better watch hisself if he knows what’s good for him.

  I turned away from their ugly words and went back toward the schoolhouse to pick up my books where they’d fallen. I’d always been sensitive to the way colored people were treated, maybe because of my own infirmity. It seemed awfully unfair to me that they were picked on just because they were born with dark skin. They couldn’t help it; it was the way the Lord made them, and I didn’t see a single solitary reason why they should be kept back because of it. But it seemed that not many people in Gower County thought like I did.

  Thanking the heavenly stars that Clyde had come by, I hitched along the woods path as quickly as I could. Maybe I could avoid a beating if I got back and did my chores before Father got in.

  Normally I’d be walking home from school with Sibby; my little brother WillieEd’s group let out earlier. Sibby and I always had a lot of fun. We’d try to imitate the catbirds’ calls, or those of the crows that always lit in Man Murfree’s cornfield. We’d laugh and talk about the kids at school, at how Mrs. Spender loved to draw a circle of chalk and have Beckley Hale stand with his nose in it for an hour for misbehaving. Sibby would joke about Mrs. Spender’s love life: Do you think she has a secret beau? Widows often do, you know. They’re used to having a husband warm up the sheets at night. Sibby would carry on like that the whole way home.

  But now, alone without her to lighten my thoughts, my mood grew bleak, and I cursed my clubfoot. Why did I have to be born with this? I knew it was a sin, but I wished it could have happened to Ruby Belks, who was spiteful as the day was long. Sibby used to tell me that Father beat Mother up once while she was carrying me, and that caused the problem with my foot. It was possible; he was capable of anything when he was drinking.

  When I got to the creek, I splashed my dirty skirt with a little water to try to clean it off, but soon I gave up and walked the rest of the way home, unhitching the heavy gatepost to let myself into the pasture that was the entry to the farmland we rented from Man Murfree. As always, I had trouble hooking the wire loop back over the top of the post without Sibby to help me maneuver it. Once I’d left it unhooked and several of our cows had gotten out, and I’d really caught it then.

  I struggled with the wire for a while, then left it cantilevered halfway on, halfway off the post, hoping none of our cows would see that it was loose and push it open. Cows were smarter than most people thought; we’d almost lost two of them last week when they figured out how to push the stable door open and got foundered on corn that WillieEd had piled up behind the stalls.

  Back a few years ago, when we were in World War II, we had to ration the corn we gave to the animals. Sugar was hard to afford, and we had to use syrup to sweeten things. Those who owned cars and tractors would patch and repatch their tires because rubber was scarce. Most of the farmers in our area had stayed at home; apparently the government felt their job was to keep making food for the rest of the country and the war effort, rather than join in the fighting. I guess they figured the soldiers needed to smoke as much as eat, because tobacco farmers weren’t called up, either. But many of their sons ran off and joined up, some even lying about their ages and going in at sixteen or seventeen. Almost every family around had a son or a cousin or nephew who’d lost their lives in the war; Man Murfree had lost two of his boys himself.

  Since the war had been over for three years, most people had stopped talking about it. Sometimes it was hard to believe there ever had been a war, until you looked at the gaps in the pews at church where once a family had filled the whole row.

  Now there was plenty of corn around if you could grow it, and if you could keep your cows out of it. We were all awfully glad our cows hadn’t died when they got foundered, as they were our only steady source of cash income. And milking them was one chore Sibby and I didn’t mind too much. It was right peaceful, the cows grinding the hard-kerneled corn into sweet-smelling cud between their huge teeth while we sat on little wooden stools, leaned our cheeks into their sides, and tugged away at their teats.

  The wild cats that lived in the barn would line up near Sibby because she’d always stop to squirt some milk into their mouths. They’d sit there and lick their faces, then wipe them with their paws, swi
ping off every drop. If you tried to pet one of those wild cats they’d scratch the devil out of you, but they certainly appeared tame when they were waiting to be squirted. Once in a while a cow would kick at a horsefly, and we’d have to grab the bucket to make sure it didn’t get knocked over. But most of the time the milking was uneventful, a nice easy job to do at dusk when the harder chores of the day were done.

  By now I had reached the end of the pasture, across the dirt road from our house. I grabbed hold of the barbed wire, grasping the top piece with one hand and the bottom with the other, and carefully climbed through the opening. You could rake yourself mighty good with barbed wire if you weren’t careful; Sibby and I both had learned the hard way to go through the fence slowly.

  I crossed our dirt road, my feet spewing little clouds of white dust, and went up the hill to the house. I could hear Mother’s singing from the open kitchen window. It was a shame with a voice like hers she’d never joined the choir at church. She could sure hit some high notes.

  Bringing in the sheaves, bringing in the sheaves,

  We shall come rejoicing, bringing in the sheaves.

  I took the two stone steps up to our porch and went through the screen door. I put my books facedown in a corner under a gunnysack and went into the kitchen. Mother and Sibby were there, just finishing up their canning for the day, in time for Mother to start dinner. Scarlet beetjuice was spread all over the kitchen table, in puddles on the counter near the sink, and on the stovetop. There must have been twenty jars of canned beets sitting on the counter. Some people, like Mrs. Whitmell, could afford a pressure cooker, but we just boiled the vegetables the old-timey way. Mother sold as much of her efforts as she could, and we ate up the rest.

  —I didn’t know that many people in Gower County liked beets, I said.

  Sibby turned to laugh, up to her elbows in soapsuds at the sink.

  —Just because you don’t like beets, Cora Mae, don’t mean anybody else doesn’t, she said.

  —What’s that all over your dress? Mother asked, frowning at my skirt.

  —I fell on the way home, I lied, not wanting to tell her or Sibby about Larry and the others. Sibby would just want to fight them tomorrow, and that would make it even worse.

  —I was carrying a few books home for extra credit, I added, hoping this would sound convincing. —Reckon I just lost my balance.

  —You look like two miles of bad road, Sibby commented.

  —You go through clothes like I don’t know what, Mother complained, tiredly wiping her face with the corner of her housedress.

  I could remember Mother looking pretty at church when I was a little girl, and I’d heard people say Sibby was the spitting image of Mother when she was young. But now all her good looks were gone; the frown lines had long ago overtaken what smile lines she used to have. Her whole appearance was drab: lank brown hair, threaded with gray, pushed back in a messy bun; a wan face; a plain dark housedress covered in front by a dirty off-white apron. And she was thin, too thin, ever since she’d had Luke.

  I had heard some women at church saying she shouldn’t have had another baby at her age, but then they noticed me standing there listening and hushed up. I don’t know why Mother wanted another baby with the three of us and all she has to contend with, with Father. Sibby said sometimes it’s the man that wants the new baby, but I couldn’t imagine Father wanting any such thing. He hadn’t seemed the least bit happy about Luke’s being around, ever since he was born. But maybe there was more to it than we both knew.

  —I need this kitchen cleaned up so I can cook dinner. Can you help Sibby take these jars down to the basement, or is your leg hurting? Mother asked me in a nicer tone of voice.

  —I can help her, I said.

  —All right. I’m going to try to feed Luke before your father gets home.

  She went into the back bedroom where Luke was sleeping. I walked over to where Sibby stood sloshing water and canning utensils around in the sink.

  —Has he been home all afternoon? I asked.

  —No, he hasn’t showed up. Maybe the old devil has gotten hisself stewed and won’t come home a’tall, Sibby replied, crimping her mouth into an ironic smile. —What happened to you at school?

  —Nothing, I retorted, and began drying the dishes that Sibby had washed. —I fell, I added.

  —You fell, my foot, said Sibby. —Did someone push you?

  —No.

  I realized that she wasn’t going to let it go, and she’d probably hear about the race tomorrow at school, anyway.

  —Larry and Teak and Ruby and some others were running a race. They made me be the scorekeeper for who came in first. That’s all. Then Clyde showed up and made ’em all go home.

  —Huh. They’d best be glad I wasn’t there, Sibby said.

  I felt like pointing out that if she’d been there, none of them would have dared to bother me, but what was the use. I nodded as if I was agreeing.

  —It was nothing, just a bunch of crazy showoffs, I said. —You know how those boys are.

  —Was Bill there today? Sibby asked.

  Bill was her most recent crush. Sibby had had more boyfriends than Carter had liver pills; every time you turned around, there was a new one mooning over her at recess. She was the prettiest girl in school—in the whole county, I’d heard some say. You might think I’d have been jealous, but how could I be jealous of my best friend and defender in the whole world? Besides, if somebody had to be out there breaking hearts, I’d rather it have been Sibby than old Mary Jane Markley or somebody stuck-up like her. At least I could take a kind of secondhand pride in all the boys who’d fallen to her charms. And I could see why they’d like her, with her snapping brown eyes that could look almost black when she laughed; her dark rich hair and eyelashes. And her coloring didn’t come out of a paintbox, like some of the girls’ in our school did.

  —No, he wasn’t there, I answered.

  —His daddy must have kept him out with the haying, Sibby said. She sighed in happiness that she hadn’t missed a day of school with Bill in attendance.

  —How was Mother feeling today? I asked.

  —She did fine. I made her sit and rest for about an hour when we were halfway done, and it perked her up right good. Now if she didn’t have to deal with Father tonight, it could be a right nice evening, Sibby said exasperatedly.

  We finished the dishes and put them away on the shelves. Then she and I gathered several mason jars of canned beets each in our arms and went through the screen door of our back porch and over to the basement steps.

  —I brought home Forever Amber, I said to Sibby as we entered the dark basement.

  She deposited her jars on a shelf already half full with other cannings and took mine from my arms.

  —What’s that?

  —Don’t you remember hearing about it at Alicia Farnsworth’s quilting bee? It’s supposed to be very romantic and racy, too. Racier than Gone with the Wind. I can’t believe Mrs. Spender brought it to school.

  —Old Spender wouldn’t know a racy book if it bit her, Sibby said as we reascended the steps.

  —I don’t know. If she owns this, she does, I replied. —I’m going to start on it tonight. I’ll read you the good parts.

  —Okay, Sibby said, but I could tell she wasn’t that interested. I guessed if you had real live boys after you, you weren’t as interested in the goings-on in books. And Sibby had never been one for reading much, anyway. I was always the bookworm of the family, and she was the flirt.

  At times I wished just one boy from school would pay a little extra attention to me, but what with my foot and my being shy, that wasn’t likely to happen. Sibby always encouraged me to speak up around boys, but I never seemed to find the opportunity or the words to say. Boys who talked to me at socials tended to be waiting for an opening to speak to Sibby. You might have thought I’d get some of her castoffs, but that never happened. I was plain but not ugly, so that wasn’t the problem.

  I pondered this as I foll
owed Sibby into the kitchen for another load of beets. Mother was sitting at the kitchen table spooning some mashed potatoes into Luke’s birdlike mouth. As I had done so often lately, I wondered if there would ever be a boy for me.

  Chapter Three

  I met Aaron when I was sixteen, going on seventeen. He came by our farm, looking for work. He came up to our front porch in his dirty overalls and asked Father if he had any need for an extra man on his farm. Father grunted.

  —You think I can pay a body to work when I aint making enough to keep the mouths I got filled?

  Aaron just glanced at me and smiled. He had a dark shock of hair and heavy eyebrows, and his nose was long with a little hook at the end of it. I thought he was kind of handsome, in a grown-man sort of way, not like the raw farm youths who usually came around. I was sitting on the porch shelling beans, and I figured he didn’t notice my foot because I stuck it behind the bucket as he walked up.

  —All right, I’ll be going on, he replied.

  He turned away and headed back down the road, and I imagined I’d never see him again; just another man roaming the countryside. But the next week I was coming back from helping the Strotherses get their hay in (actually I just helped set out the meal, while the other women were in the field. Then I helped clean up after everyone ate. But they were kind enough to let me do it and earn half pay), and all of a sudden there he was walking on the road beside me. I thought to myself, Well, he has to’ve noticed my foot because he’s seeing me walk.

  —Mighty nice weather we’re having this week, he said. —I’m Aaron Melville. I don’t believe I know your name.

  His voice was smooth, educated-sounding. Not like most everyone else from around the county.

  —Cora Slaughter, I said, looking down at the dusty road. Grasshoppers sprang out of the weeds and flew in all directions. Somebody said the thermometer at Job’s store registered over a hundred, three days in a row the past week. Aaron slowed down to keep pace with me, hard for a person with two normal feet to do.