by Leslie Wells
I lay the last of Aaron’s tattered shirts over the line and pick up the pail to go indoors. I motion that Jones can wait here under the tree until Aaron comes; at least that’s my intention. But he seems to misunderstand and follows me back to the house. I don’t want to go inside with this man, but if Aaron comes home and his dinner isn’t started, he’ll be furious. I stand at the kitchen door, debating what to do. Jones squints up at the sky and seems to make up his mind.
—Waal, I’m gonna leave you now. You let that husband of yours know I was here, he shouts, leaning toward me.
I nod and watch him lumber off toward the road. I tap Joshua on the shoulder and gesture for him to stay in the yard while I’m cooking supper. I put some water on to boil and notice that we have only about two dippersfull left in the bucket. Sighing, I realize that I will have to go back to the spring and fetch more water if there is to be anything on the table tonight. I pour the remaining water into a jug and pick up the bucket.
Joshua has found a nest of ladybugs and is carefully holding a stick for them to climb onto before they take off into the air. I kneel down beside him and show him the bucket. He nods, knowing where I’m going, and again I motion for him to stay where he is. Dreamily he goes back to his ladybugs.
I start down the path to the spring. The late-afternoon sun burns a bright hole in the edge of the sky, inflaming the horizon. From somewhere comes the cloying scent of honeysuckle, and past it the silty smell of mud. I stand for a moment looking at the little whirlpools that form in the water, then hike up my skirt and wade in to dip my bucket.
As I draw the water in, I see the reflection of a big white bird swooping overhead. Then a hand clamps around my mouth. I almost retch in disgust at my stupidity, imagining Sam Jones harmless. I thrum my elbows into his belly as he tries to drag me to the bank. I can feel his voice vibrating in his chest, saying I cannot imagine what. We struggle to the muddy bank, and I am thrown down on it, hard. He stands over me, calmly unbuttoning the front of his pants.
—thought you’d got rid of me, he is saying, laughing. —You little she-cat.
I try to roll away in the mud but he grabs me by the ankles and drags me uphill. My skirt gets caught on a root and is pulled up to my waist. Jones throws himself on me, his heavy arm across my neck. I can hardly breathe, and his legs thwart my efforts at kicking. Suddenly I realize that I do have a weapon. I open my mouth wide and scream,
—Let go —me! Aaron! Help! Aaron!
My throat pulses with the effort. Jones pushes up to his feet and stands there staring, breathing hard, his member dwindling to a limp dangle.
—You—you spoke! he gasps, looking as if he’s seen a haint.
I sit up.
—Yessss, I hiss, baring my teeth.
—I didn’t mean nothin by it, he says, backing away from me. —Don’t say nothin to Aaron. Then he turns and runs off through the woods.
Dazed, I stand up, try to brush the mud off of my clothes, gather my pail and walk home. I keep looking over my shoulder, thinking that he will surprise me again, that this is some horrible game he is playing. But he does not appear. I would feel exhilarated about using my voice again were it not for the circumstances. As it is, I only feel weary, dirty. I make it back to our yard, where Joshua is running about after fireflies, and grab his hand and lead him inside.
Thank the Lord, Aaron never does come home that night. Numbly I give Joshua his dinner, and I gesture that I fell when he asks about my muddy housedress. I get him to bed and then wash myself furiously with a wet rag, scrubbing until my skin is raw.
Chapter Fifteen
It has been several days since Sam Jones’s appearance, and I realize that he will not dare to come here again. He is a coward, and now that he knows I can tell Aaron what he did, he will not dare to bother me again. Little does he guess that I would not dream of telling Aaron; if I did, I’d merely be beaten for my unwilling participation, as well as for speaking. But that secret is safe with me.
Today is Thursday, a day Yellow Scarf often comes to the creek with her children to let them bathe, and I look forward to these days when I will see her with an intensity that results in deep disappointment when she is not there. Aaron leaves after he eats his breakfast, around eleven, and I wait awhile to make sure he is really gone. Then I motion for Joshua to come along with me to the path through the woods. Joshua leaps up excitedly, exclaiming,
—to the creek, Mama? We gonna bathe?
I nod my head, hum, and smile. He grabs my apron and flips it up delightedly. I catch hold of his hand and swing it as we walk along. But soon he grows impatient with the hand-holding and is off to try to catch a grasshopper.
Even with my slow gait I have to pause every once in a while on the path, as Joshua finds a stick he wants to draw lines in the dirt with; rolls over a big rock to see the grubs uncurling underneath; thrashes his stick into a bush, scattering its pretty purple flowers; and stops to pull some wild crocuses for me. He hands them to me with a big grin.
—I pick them for you, Mama!
I accept his gift happily. These times that we are alone are paradise. I breathe in the minty scent of the narrow pines as we walk along. The shade from the trees keeps us cool even though the sun is already high. It is the perfect morning for a bathe, and I hope mightily that Yellow Scarf will be there. Somehow it seems to me that she is my friend. I find comfort in the thought that at least I do have one friend, even if she might not consider me one.
Before we begin the descent to the creek, Joshua stops his darting about and listens.
—Mama, Yvonne and Tyree there! They comed!
I pat him on the head, motioning that he can run ahead of me. As I pick my way through the last stretch of underbrush there they are, already spread out on the creek bank, Yvonne and Tyree rolling up their pants legs. Yellow Scarf looks up from fixing one of Yvonne’s braids and her face breaks into a smile. I wave and negotiate the sandy bank and help Joshua roll up his pants. The children go splashing and laughing into the creek.
—How you this mornin? Yellow Scarf asks.
I pantomime being tired.
—Me, too. Yvonne was up cryin with nightmares again. I tell you, that chile has more imagination than is good for her. She tells me she’s dreamin about a monster with green hair! I never heard suchlike from any four-year-old in my life. I’m gonna remember that green-headed monster next time she won’t sit still for her hair to be braided. That monster could come in kinda useful at times, she laughs.
I glance out at the children, who are dragging branches into the water to make a dam. Finger-length minnows follow the current, and waterbugs dimple the surface. When I look back at Yellow Scarf, she is reaching behind her toward a covered basket she has brought.
—Made up some biscuit this mornin, she is saying, reaching back—
I see a sizzle of movement near her hand. Before I can think I cry out
—Snake!
Yellow Scarf jumps almost straight up from where she is sitting, and I get up and move back slowly. There, behind the basket, is the light-brown curl of water moccasin. Yellow Scarf dashes up the creek and returns holding a big rock.
—Stand back! she orders me.
The children are coming up from the creek, and I herd them away from her. I want to urge her to be careful, but she has a gleam in her eyes that tells me to let her alone. She kicks away the basket, and the snake begins to move quickly toward the water. Yellow Scarf drops! the rock squarely on its back, stunning it. She picks the rock up again and chops! it down on the snake’s head. Now the snake is still, but she lifts the rock back up and chop chop chop chop chop chop chop chop chop, she bends and humps at her waist, until the snake is a smashed tan pulp. Finally she stands up straight and throws the rock down. The children crowd around the snake’s carcass and she looks up at me, wiping sweat from her face.
—That devil almost got me, she says, shaking her head. She goes to pick up a stick and lifts the crumpled snake on the forked b
ranch. Joshua comes to hold on to my skirt, afraid it will come back to life.
—It aint gonna hurt anyone now, Yellow Scarf tells him. —I’ma take this thing home and let John dry it for Tyree. He likes to collect snakeskins. We’ve got about eight of ’em tacked up on a tree outside our cabin. You all have a biscuit and go on back and play.
The children take their bread and go back into the water, strafing the surface with branches to make sure no more snakes are around. Yellow Scarf and I seat ourselves again, after carefully looking around in the sand.
—I was just about to offer you a biscuit, she says. —Whew.
She hands me one still warm from its cloth covering. I bite into it and savor the flaky outer crust and the surprise of the tartly sweet interior. Yellow Scarf smiles when she sees my expression.
—You ever have persimmon jam before? she asks. I shake my head.
—Nice, aint it?
I nod and chew. Perhaps, in the excitement, she has forgotten that I cried out.
—Want another? she asks. She hands me the basket. As I meet her hand to take it, she says,
—So you can talk after all. Can you hear, too?
I flush, heat creeping up my neck and throat. What to tell her? I look at the children to make sure they aren’t paying attention to us, then I open my mouth and croak out the first thing I can think of to say.
—My name —Cora, I say, my voice cracking. —My —sband doesn’t —me to talk.
I am skipping whole words, but I don’t care. It is so good to be using my voice again. I feel as if I am unwrapping myself from a long winding sheet that has embalmed my voice and hearing, my whole being.
—Oh, he don’t like it. Well. And can you hear?
I shake my head, no. It is true, I cannot hear with these things in my ears. And she need not know about them. I cannot bring myself to recount that horror to her, at least not now.
—So you can’t hear, but you can talk. But your old man won’t let you talk, right?
—ight, I say, trying out my voice again. My own words sound strange inside my head. I can hear that I am making a noise, but it is indistinct, distorted. And of course I cannot hear Yellow Scarf, since the blockade of wax prevents that.
—What —ur name? I ask.
—Nita, she says, enunciating so I can see it clearly. —Nita Raines. And you know my kids are Yvonne and Tyree.
—Mine’s Josh—a, I say, feeling my voice resonate inside my throat.
—Yes, I know his name. So—Joshua don’t know you can talk?
I shake my head, no.
—Since when?
—Since we moved here, —most a year —go.
—Before then, you could talk? In your old place?
—Hmmhmmm. Husband got upset when we moved. No talking here.
I look up at Joshua again, playing with Tyree and Yvonne. I have to make sure he doesn’t see me talking to Yellow Scarf; Nita, I correct myself. If he forgets and says something to Aaron about me talking, there will be hell to pay. Joshua is just too young to be trusted with a secret. Maybe when he’s older, but not now.
—Well, I’m glad I found out, even if it took a snake to get you to speak. Nita smiles. —Thank you for shoutin. I hate to think what’d happened if I’d gotten bit. Those old moccasins can kill you right dead.
She shivers, then sees me watching Joshua. —You don’t want your boy to see you talkin, she says.
—can’t —him tell Aaron. Husband.
—Let me sit a little in front of you. That way he can’t see you.
She scoots forward on the sand and indicates the basket again.
—Have some more biscuit, they’s plenty there. I made up a big batch for John to take to the field this mornin. They gettin in Mr. Odell’s tobacco for the next month. Then they got to work for Mr. Soames. Sometimes it seem like tobacco never end.
She wipes the moisture from her forehead. —Your man do tobacco work?
—When he can get it, I say, my voice becoming more fluid. —Lately it’s been hard to find.
Nita chews the side of her lip, obviously thinking what I know, that any man who wants to work hard during tobacco season, particularly any white man, can certainly do so. Unless there’s something wrong with him, or word has gotten around that he’s not a good field hand.
—How old —Tyree and Yvonne? I ask. —She’s about four?
—Be five next April. And Tyree is six. I had a little baby that died, before Tyree was born. Took me a long time to get over that.
Nita scoops up a handful of white creek sand and sifts it through her fingers. The sand is startlingly white against the darkness of her hands. She shakes the sand from the cracks of her fingers and scoops up another handful. The mound of sand disappears slowly through her fingers, as if a strong wind is blowing it over the roots of an old oak.
—Then I met John, and ev’ything got better. My family’s from around Cheatham. I met him at my friend Sally’s family reunion. He was there as a friend of her cousin. We moved here, I had Tyree and Yvonne, and we’ve been here ever since. Though I told you I want to move to Dry Fork, she added. —Did you get all that, last time?
—Yes, I can read lips well. Learned from watching people in church. And Joshua knows to look —me when he talks. Do you see your folks very often?
—Naw, I don’t. It’s not that far, but we don’t get to see them much. I’d like to see my mama, all of them. They aint seen Yvonne since she was two. John just works so hard, and I don’t want to make the trip by myself. Where your peoples from?
I think for a moment. Am I telling her too much? But there is no way Aaron will find out I am talking to Nita. This isn’t like what happened before, with the government lady. And it feels so good to be able to talk to someone, to be able to use words again.
Nita notices my hesitation. —Tell me if I’m gettin too nosy. John say I can talk a person’s ear off.
—No, I just can’t believe we’re talking. Feels good. My family lives on a farm in Gower County. Not that far from Cheatham. My father died a while back of stroke. My mother lives on the farm with my brothers. WillieEd and Luke. Luke’s just little, and WillieEd —about sixteen. My older sister is probably married by now. I haven’t spoken to them since I left with Aaron, about four years ago. We haven’t —able to travel, either, I add.
I have to catch my breath from this long speech. It is so odd to use my voice again. I feel as if I have to relearn how to cadence my words and breath. And it is hard to tell how loudly I am talking since I can hear my voice inside, but not outside of my body.
—Am I talking too loud? I ask.
—No, I can’t hardly hear you, Nita replies. —Don’t worry, Joshua aint goin to see you. They busy dammin up the creek again.
I look around her and they are still at it, piling up more branches. Their clothes are sopping wet, but will dry off quickly on the way home in this heat.
—Where you live? Nita asks.
—Just up the path through those woods. There’s a clearing at the end of it, and we’re down the road half a mile. I don’t even know who owns the house; Aaron found it when we came. To Tarville. I hope the owner knows we’re there, I laugh. —Maybe he doesn’t.
—We in the Bottoms. I b’lieve I told you. It’d be fine if it wasn’t for them skeeters. They like to eat you up alive at night. I put nettin over the windows and doors, but still they find a way in. You hear ’em whine and before you can cover yourself, you’ve got yourself a skeetabite. John was all broke out in whelps this mornin before he left.
—Our house is too hot. Where we are, we never seem to catch —breeze. I’m not much of a cook, but when I do make dinner, I just about burn up in that kitchen. I wish I could make biscuits like yours. How’d you get them so flaky? The best I’ve ever had, I say sincerely.
—Aw, they won’t nothin special. You just can’t mess with the dough too much. That’s the secret, not foolin with the dough. Then when you roll it out, just do it once or twice. Yo
u know how some women keep rollin and rollin their dough? Don’t do that, or it’ll come out tough as shoe leather. Just roll it a couple of times, then cut your biscuits. That’ll make ’em flaky as can be. That, and a little dab of buttermilk. After I churn my butter I allus skim off the buttermilk right before it gets hard. Then I’ve got my milk for my biscuits.
I can’t think how long it’s been since I’ve had cream to churn for butter.
—Who taught you how to cook?
Nita laughs. —Didn’t have no choice. My mama was workin in the fields, and we had nine comin in for dinner and supper. By the time I was eight, I had to get food on the table for all of us.
—I wish I’d learned. My mother wasn’t that big a cook, and what little she did, she didn’t pass along to us. My sister Sibby can cook when she puts her mind to it. Anything with a nut in it, she’ll cook it and eat it. She used to love to make candied sweet potatoes with crushed hickory nuts on top. And pecan pie, when she could get pecans. We didn’t have a lot growing up. We rented land to farm, but my father wasn’t very reliable.
—My daddy worked hisself to death, Nita says, a frown on her face. —That old peckawood he worked for—’scuse me, but he was a mean old man, no two ways around it—just drove him and drove him til he died of it. One winter he was out breakin ground for that farmer, hadn’t even paid him in a month, and still he went out ploughin. He had a bad cold and it got into his chest and that was the end of him. Broke hisself ploughin.
She frowns and looks up at the children. —Tyree, do not drag Yvonne like that! Do you hear? I’ll warm up your behind good!
Nita looks at me and shrugs. —I wish they’da known my daddy, specially Tyree. Daddy would’ve gotten such a kick out of him.
I can’t say the same for my father, so I don’t comment. I wonder what Mother and Sibby would say about Joshua. Certainly they’d love him, wouldn’t they? Or would the fact that I wasn’t married ruin everything for them? Sighing, I realize that this is probably true.
—I guess I’d better go back home, I say, beginning to rise. —Could you call Joshua for me?