The Curing Season

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The Curing Season Page 19

by Leslie Wells


  If Aaron left, I’d be free to go where I wanted. I wouldn’t have to worry about him trying to come find me, or about his harming Joshua in retaliation. A great relief washes through me at the thought. I could move back home. Maybe I could try to sew, or else grow and sell vegetables for necessaries, so I wouldn’t have to tax Mother’s tightened circumstances. Joshua would be in school in three years, and maybe then I could get some kind of work for someone from church, or help Mrs.Whitmell at her house.

  If only it weren’t for my bad leg! This leg has brought me down so in life. I wonder if I would have wound up with someone like Aaron if my leg had been regular. Maybe not; maybe I would have had beaux coming out of the woodwork. I try to imagine it, but cannot. I’d seen other boys buzzing around girls like Mary Jane Markley like bees around honey, but I can’t imagine what that would feel like.

  Then it occurs to me that if Aaron leaves, I can take these plugs out of my ears. I would be a normal mother again; I could talk to Joshua. I could do so many things that I can’t do now. The thought excites me, and I resolve to spy on the men at the meeting. I’ll serve them the pig, cut it up whichever way you cut up a pig’s head, serve them the potatoes with a smile.

  I decide to try to find some greens for creasey salad, and go out by the road to pull a few handfuls. It won’t take much to fill their bellies, with all the liquor they’ll be swilling. I hurry back inside with the greens, wash the grit out of them, and boil them alongside the potatoes. This gives me three dishes to bring out and serve. Maybe that will be enough time to try to figure out what they’re up to.

  About dusk Aaron comes back into the yard with two other men whom I haven’t seen before. Soon the yard is filling with men, faces I wish I’d never have to see again. Merris Coombs with his fishhooks, beet-red already from drink. Perkinson Bailey with his big cauliflower ears. Larry Thrush, Ed Bean, and the others. So far Sam Jones hasn’t shown up, and I hope to God he doesn’t. Although I can’t imagine that, given our last encounter, he would dare to show his face here again.

  The men sit around the yard and open their jars. The clear liquid glints in the sun as they tip the containers back to their lips. Their mouths are wide and red, laughing, black hollows of carious teeth making gaps in their smiles. I brace myself for a minute and then carry out the pot of potatoes. I can feel their eyes crawling on me as I go to the plank bench, where I lay the food. It makes me more awkward to know they are watching me, but I take my time so I can watch for their words. For once I don’t look down at the ground, but at their faces. I want to see what this plan of theirs is.

  I go back inside for the creasey salad. I bring it out with a glass of vinegar for them to sprinkle over it. I’d love to have some myself; I haven’t eaten since a crust of bread this morning. But I won’t. There isn’t enough to go around, as it is.

  I make one more trip back to the kitchen for the pig’s head. The huge pan is heavy, and grease drips onto my sleeve and down my dress as I carry it, tilting, to the plank. I lean over to put it down and then go back inside to get a carving knife and a fork.

  When I come out, Aaron is standing at the plank, gesturing and laughing. The men have roused themselves to come over and they, too, are laughing at what he is saying. I approach to carve up the pig and I see his lips smiling, his eyes bristling at me.

  —See this slop she gives me? It’s a sight for sore eyes, aint it! This is the kind of thing I have to put up with.

  I freeze in my tracks, horrified. What is he saying? Aaron sees me stop, whirls around, and points, and the whole group turns to stare. They burst out laughing at my expression.

  —Woman, you call this food? I wouldn’t serve this to a dog! Who ever heard of cooking a pig’s head! Do you expect me to eat this? I tell you, boys, she’s cuckoo!

  He twirls his finger around his head twice. I cannot move; my feet are planted in the earth like Lot’s wife turning to a pillar of salt. My face feels like it is on fire. I turn and hobble back into the house, tripping on a clod of earth that almost sends me to the ground. When I manage to get my balance and dust off my skirt, Ed Bean is there, holding me by the elbow.

  —There now, he’s just having some fun, he says, mouthing the words emphatically. —None of us here would hurt you. Come on out and serve your meal. Them potatoes look mighty nice.

  I get up warily, ready to go back inside, but the rest of the men are telling me to come on and serve. Aaron gestures angrily for me to come, and I’m afraid he will walk over and hit me right in front of all these men if I don’t. In these parts, the right to hit your woman is sacred, and no man had better interfere if he values his life. It’s right up there with the liberty to clobber your kids.

  I clump over to the plank and pick up the spoon for the potatoes. My face feels as if it’s turned to firewood, it’s so stiff and flaming. Hot and cold thrills of shame run up my arms as I serve the men. They hold out their plates for the potatoes and salad, none meeting my eyes except Ed Bean. Somehow I force myself to serve the whole group before I sidle back to the safety of the kitchen.

  Still shaking, I pull up a stool and watch the men from the window. Aaron, Timothy Wellridge, and Perkinson Bailey seem to be leading the discussion. I catch snatches of lip movement, but it is impossible to tell exactly what they are saying. I go to look out the kitchen door, but again the angles of their faces are wrong and I cannot tell more than a few words. I smack my hands together in frustration. Now Perkinson Bailey is getting up in front of them for what looks like a big speech.

  Suddenly I feel a whisper of movement at my elbow. I look down in surprise to see Joshua dart past me and out into the yard. I hurry down the steps and try to get him before he reaches the men. What on earth could have possessed him to run out there? I know he is afraid of them. I click my tongue, trying to get his attention. Joshua stops and begins to walk back toward the house, then stops again, confusedly turning around. I see that the entire bottom of his nightshirt is wet. He hasn’t wet his bed in a long time, but obviously that is what has awakened him now. Maybe the noises of the men frightened him in his sleep.

  I glance at Aaron, who like the other men is too transfixed by Bailey’s words to turn around and notice his son, and hurry over to where Joshua is. He sees me, flails his arms, and bolts over to me, but he doesn’t slow down and the impact knocks me to the ground. I feel a searing pain in my ear as my shoulder hits the hard clay. A roaring fills my head. Then as I sit up and gather Joshua to me, I hear a loud voice. I look down and there in the dirt lies the piece of hardened brown wax that Aaron poured into my ear a month earlier. I look up toward the men and see that Perkinson Bailey is still talking.

  —on, now, you know they’s been asking for it for a long time. I say we go in and hit ’em hard and fast. They won’t know what’s hit ’em if we go in the middle of the night. We go in, roust ’em out, set fires to them hovels and in the morning there won’t be a single nigger left in the county!

  The men roar their approval, raising their jars in the air. Joshua quivers in my arms. I pick up the wax plug, then make him stand. Slowly I get up too. I push him toward the kitchen, and he runs inside. I hobble behind him, wanting to hear the rest of it. Aaron chimes in next.

  —I agree with the whole plan, except one thing, he says. —The roustin part. I say let ’em burn with their shitty huts. Who needs the niggers around at all? Personally, I can’t stand ’em. They take good jobs from decent working men. If we burn down their houses, they’ll just rebuild somewhere nearby. I say let’s get rid of ’em once and for all!

  An even more frenzied groan comes from the crowd. I turn back to look, and see Merris Coombs getting ready to speak.

  —So it’s goin to be this Sat’day night, eleven o’clock at the Bottoms. They’ll never know what hit ’em.

  As I watch in horror, a cry emanates from the open mouths of the men. The sound vibrates in my head with a strange swooshing echo, making my head feel as if it is going to split open. I go into the kitchen t
o find Joshua cowering at the bottom of the stairs.

  —Mama, wet my pants, he cries. —Couldn’t woke up.

  The sound of my son’s voice is miraculous to me, but I cannot linger over it now. It isn’t safe. I only hope that Aaron didn’t see him in the yard. I hurry him up the stairs and change him into another shirt. Not a breeze stirs in the close upper rooms; the heat stored from the afternoon sun is weighted and motionless. I can hear agitated shouts from the yard. No wonder he wet himself. I motion for him to stay in his bed, no matter what, and go back downstairs as fast as I can.

  I look out the window again, but now the swooshing in my ear has become so loud that I can’t tell what they are saying. I run over their speeches in my mind, my earlier shame forgotten. I cannot believe that they plan to set fire to the colored people’s cabins. I think of Nita and her children, of the others I’d seen walking past on the road or working in the fields. How could they do it? But I knew it was possible. I had heard of similar things in other parts of the South when I was growing up.

  Since I cannot hear any more of their conversation, I wash out the pots and go upstairs. I pull the odd-shaped wax out of my apron pocket and work it back into my ear, hoping it will stay there at least until Aaron checks it again. When he sees it is loose, he’ll be sure to replace it. I’d rather have that than the beating I’d get if he thought I’d prized it out. I lie in bed, tossing and turning in the breathless heat, trying to decide what I am going to do.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  I awaken at dawn to find Aaron’s side of the bed empty. Cautiously I go downstairs, where I don’t find him, and look out in the yard, where he is not. I guess that he has gone off with some of his cronies to find another still in the middle of some cornfield. I hope for the hundredth time that he will fall afoul of someone in a bloody liquor-inflamed knife fight, or catch pneumonia sleeping in a ditch in a drunken stupor. I used to ask God’s forgiveness for having such vivid imaginings, but I don’t bother anymore.

  Then I remember what I heard last night, and it hits me like a bolt from the blue. They are actually planning to immolate Nita and her children, along with their cousins, aunts, and uncles; set them all aflame in their cabins just like they would burn dry husks to clear off a field. I should get Joshua up, go down to the creek, and wait for her, this very morning. I should tell her what they plan to do, warn her so she can summon her children and relatives and leave in the night.

  But somehow I cannot move. I sit and stare at the filthy dishes piled up in the sink and imagine what he would do to me, or to Joshua, if he ever found out I’d fouled his plans. Finally I get up and start heating water for the dishes, and slowly I wash and dry each one. Joshua comes downstairs, and I feed him and take him back up to get him dressed. Then I sit outside in the dust and watch him play and stack pinecones for several hours.

  Every time I think of what I should do, an enormous exhaustion overcomes me. I cannot bring myself to go anywhere, to do anything. My whole body feels tired, my shoulder aches, and even though my ear is plugged up again, I still hear echoes of the swooshing noises in my brain. I know I should rouse myself, take Joshua to the creek, and tell Nita what has happened. But a vision of Aaron’s furious face if he finds out keeps me immobile.

  Just as I’ve begun to hope Aaron won’t be coming home at all tonight, he shows up, dirty and reeking. He tromps in and heaves himself into the kitchen chair with an enormous belch. I have been giving Joshua his supper, but I know he will not take another bite now. Joshua slides off his stool and backs toward the door. I am watching Aaron and do not catch what Joshua says, but Aaron’s face contorts in fury.

  —you say now? What’s that you said?

  He goes over to Joshua, grips his tiny shoulders with his hammy palms, and shakes him, hard. I get up to try to stop him, but a blow I didn’t see coming knocks me into the wall. Aaron grabs the table and flips it over so the bowls and plates go crashing to the floor, the reheated spoonbread so dry it cracks open. A runnel of lard puddles where the table meets the linoleum. Joshua stands trembling, his eyes darting around the room for an escape.

  —What you say, boy? You asking me to explain myself? What do you know about them people?

  —N-nothin, Joshua stammers out.

  —Nothin! Why you asking about my meeting then? You think I have to explain myself to you, you pulin, pukin little goodfornothin?

  Joshua bursts into tears, and Aaron gestures drunkenly at him and laughs. I push off from the wall, grab a pot from the stove, and swing it at Aaron’s back. It falls short and clatters to the floor. Aaron turns around and stares at me, surprised. Then he narrows his eyes and grabs my wrists, clamping down hard.

  —not gonna hurt your little miss-priss, he taunts. —I heard what he said. He’s been listenin to things he shouldn’t hear. I guess little jugs do have big ears, just like they say.

  I try to get past him to Joshua, but he pushes me away again roughly.

  —We’ll have to see about that, he says, leering at me now. —We’ll just have to see.

  He purses his lips to whistle, and gets ready to go out into the yard.

  —I’ve got a little errand to do, he says when he turns back to look at me. —I want this mess cleaned up by the time I get back.

  Joshua runs up the stairs, and I follow him. I wish I had seen what he said, but I can deduce that he heard something the men said last night and was asking Aaron about it. I hold Joshua tight on his bed until he forgets his fright and begins arranging his new stick on the pallet with his pinecones. Finally I get him to say his prayers. It seems like it takes forever for him to go to sleep.

  Once his eyes are shut, I go back downstairs and fall to work setting the table aright and wiping up the mess on the floor. Aaron comes back inside just as I have finished. He is carrying a little cloth parcel tied up in a white string. I can’t imagine what he has bought, but he grins at me and takes it upstairs with him to our room. I shudder to think what new torture he might have devised for me as punishment for Joshua’s transgression. But at least he seems to be planning to let the boy alone, which is all I really care about.

  I steel myself and climb up the stairs. It seems I can barely force myself up each step. I have the horrible urge to bark like a dog, to soil myself, anything to make him stay away from me tonight. But I keep climbing the steps, one after another.

  When I go into the room, the little parcel is lying on the floor, still tied up with its string. Maybe he’s bought store tobacco for some reason. I go into a corner and pull on my nightshift. The thought of lying next to him in bed makes my skin crawl, but I am afraid to stay downstairs longer with Joshua alone with him up here.

  When I am finished changing, I look over at him. He has unzipped his member, and it is protruding from his pants. I wonder if he wants me to undress him now, but he motions for me to come over to him. Laughing at my puzzled expression, he pushes me down to the floor by my shoulders. My knees hit the pine boards hard, and I hope Joshua is still asleep.

  Aaron drags me closer to the pallet. I stare at the horrible engorgement with its single eye. Just as I am wondering what new humiliation is in store for me, he grabs my jaw and wrenches it open, then thrusts his member into my mouth, strangling me. I choke and start to fall back, but he forces it upon me again, holding my head hard, his hot hands covering my ears, thrusting and thrusting deep into my mouth. Each time I think I can get a breath of air, he pushes into the back of my throat again.

  Now I understand what he is doing, and the perversion of it sickens me and convinces me that I am living with an individual uniquely evil on the face of the earth. He continues until a hot stream of foul-tasting liquid pours into my throat and spills out the side of my mouth. Aaron falls back onto the pallet as I gag and cough. I feel as if I am going to throw up, but somehow I keep my dinner down. If I throw up, there’s no telling what he’ll make me do. I am afraid in his new twist of meanness he might try to make me eat it.

  I sit by the side
of the pallet, holding as still as I can. At last, when his breathing appears even, I get into the other side of the bed, trying to lie as close to the edge as I can without falling off. I lie awake for half the night, wondering if I will go to hell for what he has made me do. Surely he has to have had a whisper from the devil to dream up something as disgusting as this act he has forced upon me. As the first rays of sun streak the dusty windowpane, I decide that I am in hell already. There can be nothing worse than how I am living now.

  In the morning he is not there. My throat feels raspy, as if I have the croup, and my mouth has a foul taste and odor. I struggle into my dress and apron and go down to the kitchen for a dipper of cold water. The buckets are low; I’ll have to make two trips to the creek and back to fill them. As I sit down at the table to drink the water, I see the parcel he’d brought in last night. Wax has dripped all over the table, and lying on the bag is a small brown candle, melted and misshapen. Lying next to the candle are two soft waxen earplugs, about half the size of mine.

  My heart stops, and time seems to suspend. An image of Joshua leaping about in the meadow, giggling as he chases a flurry of yellow butterflies, enters my mind. I see him hugging Nettie’s flea-bitten neck, splashing about in the creek with Yvonne and Tyree, his entire life ahead of him like an unbroken shining chain. My thoughts return to the objects on the table. I will keep that creature from laying hands on him if it is the last thing I do. I scoop up the candle and the earplugs and maul them so they are unrecognizable, then with a wave of revulsion I plunge them deep into my apron pocket.

  I walk up the steps and get Joshua out of bed, dress him hurriedly, and take him downstairs half-unbuttoned. I give him a piece of bread to chew on the way to the creek. I go along as fast as I can, my skirt catching in the hateful briars along the way. I don’t know what day it is or if Nita will be there or at the field, but if she isn’t I’ll just take my chances and look for her in the Bottoms, in her cabin near the hickory tree she described.

 

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