The Promise of Jesse Woods

by Chris Fabry

  I rode past a weathered barn, up over a ridge, and then past a field that stretched out to my right, dotted with cows and a few horses. In the distance was a stately house sitting on a knoll overlooking the land. Behind it was a rocky hill. The grass had been eaten down to the dirt and there were burnt spots in the field. The road to the house was protected by a metal gate and signs that read, Private Property. KEEP OUT.

  I kept pushing up the road, wondering how far I’d gone and how long it would take to get back and if anyone would miss me.

  The road dipped and a bank of earth rose to my right. I heard a terrifying snort and slammed on my brakes. An animal towered over me, the sun silhouetting its head. I put up a hand and squinted.

  “Hey, horse,” I said, not knowing how to greet such an animal. I started to pedal again, but the thing snorted and shook its head. So I got off and put down the kickstand.

  I tried to climb up the bank but slid down. I tried to make steps in the dirt, digging with my toes, but that didn’t work either. The roots of an old tree were sticking out of the bank and I grabbed hold to pull myself up, but my weight and lack of balance or athletic ability sent me to the ground. Finally I walked several yards down the road where the bank dipped, climbed up, and walked the fence line. Whoever’s property this was had pushed the fence to the very edge.

  I grabbed a handful of grass, figuring I would present it as an offering, but when I reached the horse, a sickening sight made me draw back. He wasn’t standing at the roadside looking down on me out of curiosity—he was stuck. A strand of barbed wire had come loose from the post nearby and lay on the ground in a tangled mess. Twisted and wound deeply into the animal’s leg were sharp, rusted barbs. Blood ran down and covered the hoof, and to stand it had to keep the injured leg in the air.

  “You’re in trouble, aren’t you, boy?” I said.

  At my voice, the horse pulled back its head and put its bloody leg down, opening the wound until I saw meat and turned away. It nickered and quickly raised the leg again as a swarm of flies attacked. There was a strong smell about the animal that took my breath away.

  “Okay, okay,” I said. Talking to the horse seemed like a good thing. “I’m going to get help. You stay here.”

  I wanted to jump down to the road but thought better of it and ran the way I had come. I hopped on my bike, wondering if I should ask my father to help. I considered the house in the distance with its No Trespassing signs.

  Across the road, tucked into a valley between two hills, sat a little house I hadn’t noticed. Two tracks, with grass growing in the middle, served as a driveway. The mailbox was open and had no flag. On the side scrawled in black paint was Woods.

  I rode on one track until I neared the house, then stepped off and put the kickstand down. I had never seen a house with such a dirty-brown color. It looked like roof shingles had been nailed to the sides. The foundation stood on stacked-up cinder blocks. A rusted-out car sat beside the house and in the front yard was a swing set, if you could call it that. It had sunk deeply in the mud and had only one swing that nearly touched the ground. There were old tires propped up against the other side of the house, and for a moment I thought it might be abandoned.

  A mangy black dog flew out from underneath the house. Showing teeth and barking so hard that white flew from its mouth. I wanted to run but froze. The dog’s ribs showed against its matted fur. I caught my breath when it reached the end of its chain, its leather collar cracking with age.

  “Shut up, Carl!” someone yelled inside.

  The dog turned and looked at the house, then back at me. He barked once more before another shout of “Carl!” sent him underneath the house with a whimper. It made me wonder who would name their dog Carl.

  “Whatever you’re sellin’, we don’t want none.” It was a female voice. Young and breathy. A heavy West Virginia twang.

  “I’m not selling anything,” I said, my voice shaking.

  “Get on out of here.”

  The harshness of her voice made me turn. Then I thought of the horse and the blood and held my ground.

  “What do you want?” the girl yelled.

  I struggled to find the words and took another step toward the house, keeping my eye on the dog panting underneath.

  “I need help.”

  With some effort the front door creaked open and a girl pushed at the screen door, which had no screen or glass, just a metal frame. It clanged behind her and she jumped the cinder block steps.

  She had dirty-blonde hair and was barefoot. Her cutoff jeans were a little too big for her frame, but she had strung a piece of rope through the loops as a belt. The shorts were frayed white and her T-shirt had faded to a cream color that looked almost brown against her milky-white skin. When the dog stuck his head out from under the house and barked, she yelled, “Shut your yap,” and Carl obeyed.

  As she drew closer, I saw her lithe, wiry frame, thin legs and arms. She moved like a cat with no wasted motion. She crossed her arms in front of her and I noticed fingernails cut to the quick. Her cheeks were filled with freckles and when I caught sight of her blue eyes, I nearly forgot why I had walked up to the house. I had read about such beauty in books and about people so caught up with seeing someone that their heart skipped a beat, but I had never experienced the feeling until now.

  “You’re not from around here, are you?” she said.

  She was a little taller than me, but not much, and two of her front teeth sat forward from the rest as if trying to get a better view.

  “No.”

  “Where you from?”

  “Pittsburgh.”

  Her mouth dropped open. “You the new preacher’s kid?”

  “Yeah,” I said. I was sweating hard now and wiped my face with my sleeve.

  She reached out a grimy hand. “Jesse Woods. Welcome to the neighborhood, what there is of it. You staying at your grandma’s?”

  I shook her rough hand and nodded.

  “We don’t go to your daddy’s church, but I thank you for coming to invite us.”

  “I didn’t come for that. I mean, you’re more than invited. I’m here about the horse. Across the road.”

  Jesse looked hard at me like I’d cursed at her or called her mother a bad name. “At Blackwood’s?”

  “I don’t know who owns it, it’s just . . .” I pointed at the farm behind me.

  She took a step closer and shook her head to clear the hair from her eyes, then pointed a bony finger at me. “There’s one thing you’ve got to get straight . . . What’s your name?”

  “Matt Plumley.”

  “Matt. For Matthew?”

  I nodded.

  “You need to know that the man who owns that land will skin you alive if he finds you on his farm. Even near it. He’s meaner than a copperhead and bites twice. You understand?”

  “Who is it, Jesse?” a voice called from inside. Then came the coughing and wheezing of an older woman through the open window.

  “It’s our new neighbor, Mama. Preacher’s kid.”

  “Tell him to get on home and go check on Daisy Grace. I don’t hear her no more.”

  “I will, Mama,” Jesse yelled. She turned back and lowered her voice. “Anyways, you stay away from that guy and his property. You hear?”

  She walked past the rusted car to the back of the house and I followed, looking first at Carl for permission.

  “There’s a horse caught in the fence,” I said. “He’s hurt really bad.”

  Jesse kept walking, reaching a patch of weeds, and I remembered what my father had said about snakes.

  “Didn’t you hear me?” she said. “If it’s Blackwood’s horse, you best leave it alone.”

  “It’s going to die if we don’t do something.”

  She stopped and turned. “What are you talking about?”

  I told her what I had seen and her face drew tight. “Is it the little mare with the white patch on her face right here?”

  I hadn’t noticed anything about the
horse other than its bloody leg, but I took the open door and said, “I think so.”

  Jesse winced and bit at a nonexistent fingernail. “All right, stay here.”

  She continued into the backyard, which looked more like an unmown field. In a patch of wildflowers she yelled, “Daisy Grace!” I heard giggling and Jesse ran, then bent over, disappearing in the tall grass. She returned carrying a girl over her shoulder who looked to be about three. The child was also barefoot and held a fistful of daisies.

  “Put me down!” she yelled, saying the word down in two long syllables. “I want to give them to Mama.”

  “You can give them to her, but you need to stay inside, all right? There’s ticks everywhere, and you know what happens when you get bee stung.”

  “I don’t care,” Daisy Grace said.

  “She swells up big as a pumpkin,” Jesse said to me. Then to her sister, “You’re going to care after I get through with you. Now get inside. I have to go check on something.”

  Jesse opened the back door, which had no steps, and tossed the girl through to a linoleum floor. She closed the door and put a piece of wood against it. “That ought to keep her inside while I’m gone. She can’t get the front door open yet.”

  I turned and hurried to my bike, surprised to see Jesse running beside me. She hopped onto the gravel road like it was a manicured lawn and padded next to me as I pedaled, actually pulling out in front of me to set a faster pace. Her feet were tough and her hair flew behind her.

  I had noticed girls before. A late bloomer, I was scared to death of them, and being the son of a pastor, I felt like I had two strikes against me. But following Jesse and seeing the mix of femininity and strength stirred something.

  I parked my bike at the bottom of the incline. Jesse ran up the bank with two steps, grabbed the tree root, and vaulted over the berm. I watched from below as she examined the horse.

  “Poor thing,” she said. “She must’ve been looking for something to eat on the other side of the fence and got tangled. And you’re right, it’s real bad.”

  “What should we do? Go to Mr. Blackwood?”

  She frowned. “We got to get her free. Need some wire cutters. Big ones. Does your daddy have a pair?”

  “I don’t know. His tools aren’t here yet, I don’t think. We packed the necessities in the U-Haul but . . .”

  “We don’t have any.” She snapped her fingers. “Dickie does. We used them . . . Never mind what we used them for. Look, you ride over to his place and ask him for his big wire cutters.”

  “But—”

  She saw my confusion. “You’re new, that’s right. You don’t know where he lives.”

  “Why don’t you go?” I said.

  “Can I use your bike?”

  “Sure. You don’t have one?”

  Jesse shook her head.

  “Okay, take it and I’ll stay here.”

  She looked at her house. “All right, but watch out for Daisy Grace. If she gets out, she’ll come toward the road looking for me. You tell her to get back inside.”

  I nodded and she jumped on my bike and stood on the pedals barefoot, dust flying from my back tire, her leg muscles straining. The silence of the woods engulfed me and I wondered if I’d made a mistake. Maybe she’d just stolen my bike. Maybe I’d have to walk home. What if a snake bit me?

  I noticed movement near Jesse’s house and the little girl came to the road and leaned out. I ran toward her and waved. “You need to go back home,” I yelled. “Your sister said.”

  When she heard me, she ran toward her house, still clutching her daisies, and Carl barked. So much for the girl not being able to get the front door open.

  An eternity elapsed. I picked up some rocks and tossed them at empty beer bottles in the roadside dust. I talked to the horse. Finally I heard voices and tires and Jesse rounded the corner. Behind her was a dark-skinned kid with curly black hair.

  Dickie Darrel Lee Hancock lived on the low end of the Dogwood totem pole. I came to understand that there was a pecking order of status and social standing even among the impoverished. The Woods family was the one everyone compared themselves with to make them feel better about their lot in life. A family could fall apart or experience a job loss, a diagnosis, a natural disaster—a flood of biblical proportions—and still say, “At least we don’t have it as bad as the Woods.”

  Dickie Darrel Lee was not quite as low on the economic ladder, but he was socially as low as you could get. Because of his father’s military service, Dickie’s mom was, in effect, a single mother. Add his skin color and the fact that he was of mixed race and you had the perfect storm to create an outcast. That he and Jesse had found each other was not surprising.

  Jesse rode my bike to the edge of the gravel, let it fall, and was up the bank in a flash. Dickie ran his into the ground across the road in some weeds.

  “Hey,” he said as he passed.

  “How you doing?” I said stiffly.

  “Lookin’ for a breakthrough,” Dickie said, then followed Jesse carrying the cutters.

  I thought about trying to follow them, but the bank was too steep. When Dickie saw the horse’s leg, he let out a string of curses.

  Jesse glared. “I told you he’s the preacher’s kid.”

  Dickie looked back at me. “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” I said. “You know, I was thinking. Somebody might give us a reward for saving this horse’s life.”

  “Blackwood won’t do nothing but spit in your face and shoot the horse as quick as look at her.”

  Dickie nodded. “Yeah. He’ll put her down, no question.”

  “Maybe you’re wrong,” I said. “My dad says you have to give people a chance to change.”

  Jesse grabbed for the cutters but Dickie held on. “Just wait. That wire is probably in so deep it’s holding back the blood. You take it out and she’ll bleed to death.”

  “Maybe I should go get Mr. Blackwood,” I said.

  Jesse ignored me and told Dickie, “If we do nothing, she’ll bleed to death.”

  “They call that something, don’t they?” Dickie said.

  “A catch-22,” I said. “It’s from a book about World War II.”

  They both stared at me like I was something you’d have to clean out of a barn. Dickie looked back at the horse and said, “Maybe we should pray like those TV preachers. Do a healing service like Ernest Angley.”

  “My mama watched him once and said he smacked a man so hard he fell over.”

  “He’s not smacking them. It’s the Spirit—”

  Jesse grabbed the cutters from him.

  “What are you going to do?” I said.

  “What’s it look like I’m going to do? I’m cutting the wire.”

  Dickie tried to get the cutters back, but Jesse pushed him from the bank and he jumped, landing on his feet in the gravel.

  “What’d you do that for?” Dickie yelled.

  “We don’t have time to argue,” she said. “Y’all want to form a committee, go ahead.”

  “Let the record show I protested,” Dickie said.

  Jesse moved closer to the fence and out of our line of sight. Dickie and I backed up to see. The horse seemed to sense Jesse meant her no harm.

  “I’m telling you, this is a mistake,” Dickie said.

  “Steady now,” Jesse said, coaxing and soothing the horse as she moved the cutters near the injured leg. “You’re gonna be all right.”

  Snip.

  The sound echoed like a gunshot and the horse raised her head.

  “It’s okay,” Jesse said gently. “One more cut and you’re free.”

  She maneuvered the cutters to the other side and used both hands to clip the wire. Instead of running, the horse, not realizing she was free, allowed Jesse to push and twist the wire out of the wound. She was able to unwind it enough to grab it with the cutters. Then the horse reared and ran into the open field, the wire sticking out of her leg.

  “Look at her go!” Jesse said, hold
ing the cutters above her head in triumph.

  Dickie ran up the bank and stood at the top, king of the hill. I headed for the easy way to join them.

  “Hey,” Dickie said. “Where you going?”

  “I can’t get up that way.”

  “Sure you can. Try it.”

  I took a run but slipped before I got a hand on the tree root.

  “Do it again and just take two steps and hold out your hand.”

  I wanted to protest. I wanted to go the easy way. But something in Dickie’s face made me try. It was the same encouragement my brother gave when he would throw a pop-up as high as he could and tell me to get under it and square up to catch it. But it usually hit the ground.

  “Go,” Jesse said to me, standing beside Dickie.

  I ran through the gravel to the bank and took two steps on the incline. Dickie grabbed my hand and Jesse reached for the other and I stepped over the edge and stood, a feeling of victory and power shooting through me.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “That’s one small step for man, one giant leap for the preacher’s kid,” Dickie said.

  I laughed and caught my breath, looking down at where I’d come from. I could never have done that by myself.

  “She looks free, don’t she?” Jesse said, watching the horse.

  “She’s limping,” Dickie said. “I still say we should have waited. I heard about a girl who fell on a pencil and it went right in her chest and when they pulled it out, she bled like a fire hydrant.”

  Whether it was his upbringing or his station in life, Dickie took the glass half-empty to new levels. He knew people who had lost eyes and ears and just about every body part because of some regrettable mistake.

  “Good thing that horse doesn’t have access to a pencil sharpener,” Jesse said. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “That wire could have been pinching an artery,” Dickie said.

  “Look,” I said, pointing at the horse.

  The mare had turned back toward us and swayed, her hurt leg in the air. She put the injured leg down and then tumbled to the ground, headfirst, and flopped to the side.

  “Told you,” Dickie said.

  Jesse put a hand to her mouth. “Oh, the poor thing.”