A Home in Drayton Valley

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  Without thanking the man for the information, Joss tapped the horse’s sides with his heels and urged the animal up the lane. At the porch, he swung down and tied the reins to the ring imbedded in a limestone post near the porch. He gave the tired horse another quick pat before stepping onto the porch.

  He glanced down his length, cringing at his stained trouser legs and mud-caked boots. Would the owner take one look at his slovenly appearance and send him packing? But he wasn’t asking to be a house servant—only a worker in the field. He’d get plenty filthy out there, and his clothes would let the owner know he wasn’t afraid of dirtying himself up when he worked. Raising his fist, he drew in a breath and then gave the door several good thumps.

  Moments later it swung open, and a fine-dressed man with white hair and a lined black face peered out at Joss. “Mornin’, suh. Can I help you?”

  Joss looked past the man at a sizable foyer where wood floors gleamed, a spindled stairway curved upward, and a brass lamp with more than a dozen glowing candles lit the room. The candlelight bounced off little crystals hanging from the brass arms. Wouldn’t Mary love to see something like that lamp? She’d always loved shiny things. Not that he’d been able to buy many for her. But she’d admired them in store windows. Joss swallowed a lump of longing.

  “Suh?”

  The man’s simple query brought Joss back to the present. He peered down his nose at the well-dressed servant. “I need to talk to the owner.”

  “Can I tell Mistuh Tollison what it is you’re wantin’?”

  “A job.”

  The white head bobbed in acknowledgment. He gestured Joss inside and closed the door. “Wait here, suh. I’ll fetch Mr. Tollison for you.” The man disappeared through a wide doorway draped with heavy curtains.

  The faint aroma of onions reached Joss’s nose, and his nostrils twitched in response. He fidgeted in place until he realized every shift of his boots left dirty marks on the polished floor. He forced himself to stand perfectly still, determined not to sneeze, while he waited for the owner—Tollison—to join him.

  The sound of footsteps reached Joss’s ears, and then a tall man in black trousers and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up breezed around the corner. He came at Joss with his hand outstretched. The scent of onions clung to him. “Hello. I’m Edgar Tollison. And you are . . . ?”

  Joss whipped off his cap and gave the man a firm handshake. “Joss Brubacher.”

  “Brubacher . . . Brubacher . . .” Tollison frowned, as if searching his memory. “I haven’t heard the name before.”

  “Just moved here from New York. Came to work the dock in Drayton Valley.” Joss briefly explained the morning’s calamity, then said, “No guarantee when they’ll be able to receive steamers, and I need a way to take care of my family. So I came out here to see if you might need another hand.”

  Tollison hooked his thumbs in his pockets and looked Joss up and down. “As it stands, I lost a worker yesterday, Zeke Foster. Good man—experienced. So I could use another worker. But I don’t want to hire someone for just a week or two. I want someone permanent. You planning to return to dock work in Drayton Valley when they’ve got things rebuilt?”

  Joss rubbed his dry lips together. He hoped to return to dock work, but not in Drayton Valley. “Not if I don’t have to, sir.” Guilt pricked. He hadn’t spoken the full truth and he knew it, but if he told this man he’d be skedaddling to Chicago as soon as he had enough money set aside, he wouldn’t get the job. So he held further explanation inside and waited for Tollison to decide whether or not to put him to work.

  “Well, then, Mr. Brubacher, I’m willing to give you a try. Can’t start you out with the wage I’d been paying Zeke, since you don’t have experience, but does two dollars a day sound fair?”

  Fifty cents more a day than he’d drawn in town! He’d have the money he needed in no time. Joss turned his cap into a wad, reining in his elation. “Yes, sir. That sounds just fine.”

  Tollison smiled, showing even white teeth. “Good.” He turned to the servant, who stood in the doorway behind the men. “Wilson, take Mr. Brubacher out to the field and introduce him to Simon.” He looked at Joss. “Simon is my vineyard manager. You’ll follow his directions. He’ll be the one to pay you, too. Simon reports to me, and if there’s any trouble, he’ll let me know.”

  What kind of trouble could there be? Joss nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “All right, then.” Tollison extended his hand again. “Welcome to Tollison Vineyard.”

  Tarsie stepped out onto the tiny stoop and looked up the street. Still no Joss. Where was he? During the morning, the other dockworkers had returned to their houses, and she’d overheard the frustrated murmurings about the dock breaking free and the men being sent home. But even though she’d asked, none of them seemed to know what had happened to Joss.

  Here it was, noon already, and no sign of him. Tarsie nibbled her lower lip. In the past, Joss had tried to drown his disappointments. Had he found a place in town that served liquor? She wanted to ask one of her neighbors about such an establishment but was fearful they’d surmise she was seeking refreshment for herself.

  Behind her, Emmy and Nathaniel chased around the small space, their loud voices echoing from the wood walls. She whirled and snapped her fingers at them. “You’re behaving worse’n a pair of hooligans. Stop that running at once.”

  At her sharp tone, they came to a startled halt and stared at her. Tears welled in both sets of blue yes. Nathaniel’s chin quivered.

  Emmy wrapped her arms around her brother. “It’s all right, Nattie,” she whispered, her gaze pinned on Tarsie’s face. “I won’t let Tarsie yell at you no more.”

  Remorse smote Tarsie. For weeks, the children had been cooped up. First in a wagon and then in this small house. Until the ground dried, they wouldn’t be able to run outdoors. She needed to be more patient.

  Crouching down, she held out her arms. “Come here, wee ones.” They scuffed their feet, clearly reluctant, but they came. She drew them close, kissing first Emmy’s cheek and then Nathaniel’s sweaty head. “’Tis sorry I am that I hollered. I took out my worry on you, and it was wrong of me. Will you be forgiving me?”

  Nathaniel wove his skinny arms around Tarsie’s neck and planted a moist kiss on her cheek. Emmy hesitated but then offered a small nod.

  Tarsie sighed. Mothering was much harder than she’d imagined. “Thank you, wee ones.” She pushed to her feet.

  Emmy caught her apron and gave a tug. “Why are you worried?”

  Tarsie didn’t care to discuss her fears with the little girl. To distract the children, she made a suggestion. “There’s enough flour and sugar in the bags to stir up a batch of cookies. If you two will break some twigs for me and choose the driest ones, we’ll feed the stove ’til it’s good and hot and then do some baking. Does that sound good?”

  Both children let out squeals and darted to the corner where Tarsie had piled their wood supply. Relieved, she turned to the shelf and began removing the needed items for sugar cookies. The recipe would take most of what remained of their flour and sugar, but Joss had indicated they’d go to the mercantile tomorrow to purchase supplies. Her hands stilled mid-task, worry returning. If Joss had crept away to lose himself in a bottle, would there be money remaining for food?

  “Tarsie? The wood’s ready!”

  Tarsie forced a smile in response to Emmy’s excited voice. “You’re such fine helpers. We’ll make the best cookies ever tasted in Drayton Valley.” The pair beamed at her, all former hurt forgotten. Tarsie began layering wood in the stove, humming to cover the fear that rolled in her belly.

  Dear Father, please put Your protective hands on Joss and hold him back from doing something foolish.

  Joss wrapped the pale green vine—which Simon had called a cordon—carefully around the wire strung along the row of plants. In early spring, with only a few buds forming, the empty trunks of the grapevines reminded Joss of a forest fire’s remains. Simon had sai
d these were Cynthiana vines, which would bear purple grapes to make red wine. Joss tried to envision a full, leafy plant with clusters of purple grapes hanging beneath thick greenery, but the picture wouldn’t set in his head.

  “That’s good, that’s good. Treat them li’l vines just like you’d cradle a newborn babe ’cause they’s fragile as a newborn.” Simon’s slow drawl drifted on the breeze to Joss’s ears. “Now use the cutters I gib you to trim back them two shoots unduhneath. They’s dead—no sense in leavin’ ’em where they do no good.”

  While Joss followed the man’s instructions, Simon chuckled, a low, throaty sound. “You know, Joss, my pappy tol’ me prunin’ grapevines is a lot like how the Lawd works in the lives of His chillun. He looks down at us, sees how we’s supposed to be bloomin’ an’ what’s standin’ in the way, an’ He takes His mighty cutters an’ snips off the parts that would keep us from doin’ good.”

  Joss tossed aside the brown, brittle bits he’d removed and remained on one knee on the scattered straw that lay like a mat around the base of each vine.

  Simon went on, his voice as patient as a preacher in a pulpit. “Yessuh, that trimmin’, it can pain us when it happens, but later we come to know it was for our own good. An’ when we start blossomin’, bearin’ fruit for the Lawd, then we find out what it means to be joyful.” A warm hand curled over Joss’s shoulder, and Joss stiffened. The fingers tightened, and the chuckle rumbled anew. “You done good today, Joss. Real good. You’ll make a fine workuh here. Thank the good Lawd He seen fit to send you our way just when we was needin’ somebody.”

  Joss jerked upright, shaking loose the hand. He held out the cutters, his gaze aimed off to the side so he wouldn’t have to meet the man’s watery brown eyes. “What time should I be here Monday?”

  Simon hitched his way down the straw-covered path between the wires and Joss trailed him. “Seben ’clock sharp, that’s when the others’re here.” He sent a one-eye-squinted-shut look over his shoulder. “That gonna suit you?”

  The ride from town took ten minutes on horseback. He’d have to leave earlier than he had for the dock job, but he’d manage. “Yep.” When he returned to Drayton Valley, he’d have to let the livery stable owner know not to sell both horses. At least, not yet.

  “Good, good. S’pose I oughta tell you, though, spring an’ summer we work six days a week, so we need you here tomorruh. But we don’t never work on Sunday. That be the Lawd’s day, an’ we honor it by visitin’ a house o’ worship an’ then restin’. Good Book says to keep the Sabbath day holy.” Simon’s left leg—a good two inches shorter than the right—dragged a bit by the time they reached the end of the row. A gray-muzzled mule and two-wheeled cart waited, and with a little grunt, Simon heaved himself into the seat. He patted the spot beside him. “Climb on in. Ransom here’ll tote you back to the big house.”

  Joss planted his boots in the muddy roadway. “Don’t mind walking.” A hard edge sneaked into his tone, although he’d managed all day to keep his resentment to himself. If he’d known he’d be following directions from a crippled black man, he might not have been so eager to take this job.

  Simon stared at Joss, his dark eyes seeming to examine him from the inside out, as if he knew why Joss wouldn’t sit on the seat beside him. Joss squirmed beneath the other man’s gaze. He forced a weak laugh. “Been stooped over most of the day. Feels good to stand straight and stretch my legs.”

  A smile broke across Simon’s round face, but his eyes continued to bore into Joss. He took up the reins and gave a slow nod. He lifted the reins, but then he paused. His left eye squinted shut again. “You bein’ new in these parts, you found yo’self a church home, Joss?”

  Joss snorted. “I haven’t darkened a church doorway in years.” Mary’d gone to Sunday services when she felt well enough to walk down the block, and she’d taken Emmy and Nathaniel, leaving Joss alone. Stifling another snort, he added, “But I do lots of resting on the Lawd’s day.” He deliberately drawled the word the way Simon did.

  He expected the vineyard manager to frown or berate Joss for his disrespectful tone. But to his surprise, Simon’s watery eyes softened, and he slowly shook his head. His rounded shoulders drooped, and Joss read sadness in the gesture. “Joss, Joss, Joss . . . ’Pears to me the good Lawd’s got some trimmin’ to do in your life. Well . . .” Looking skyward, he spoke to the wisps of clouds overhead. “Trustin’ You to do Your work, Lawd, in this man’s heart.” Then he gave Joss that one-eyed look again, like he was taking aim on Joss’s soul. “I’ll be a-seein’ you tomorruh mornin’. Have a good evenin’, Joss.” He flicked the reins, and the cart squeaked away.

  Joss stared after him, fury writhing through his middle like a spitting snake. Just who did Simon think he was, telling Joss he needed improvement? He stomped up the lane, ignoring the happy chatter of the other workers who also filed out of the fields.

  He jerked his horse’s reins free of the iron loop and swung himself astride the horse’s back. Simon’d told him the workers would be paid tomorrow, and he’d get to collect for the time he’d worked. So he’d come tomorrow, put in his hours, and collect his four silver dollars. But then he was done. The pay wasn’t enough to take orders from a gimpy colored man who acted like a preacher.

  16

  Simon leaned over the wash bucket on the bench outside the door of his simple clapboard house set well behind Tollison’s mansion and splashed water on his face. All the rain lately’d kept the temperature pleasing, but he still managed to work up a sweat. Ruth’d say it was a good day if he’d brought forth honest sweat—he’d wager she was the most uncomplaining woman in all of the United States of America. And she’d chosen him. He sent up an oft-repeated prayer of gratitude for his beautiful wife, then dried his hands on his shirtfront while gazing at the little house a few yards to the right of his.

  His chest tightened. How he missed Pappy. Smelling the smoke from his old corncob pipe drift across the breeze each evening, hearing him greet the day with songs of praise, seeing his face light with pleasure when little Naomi skipped across the yard to give him a howdy . . . Slipping his eyes closed, Simon clasped his hands beneath his chin and spoke to the only Father he had left.

  “Dear Lawd, I thank You an’ praise You for the years I had with Pappy, even if thirty-two just don’t seem long enough sometimes. But I know me an’ him an’ Mama’ll have eternity togethuh with You, so I ain’t gonna complain none ’bout spendin’ the rest o’ my earthly years without ’im next door. Still, Lawd, my heart’s just achin’ at missin’ him, an’ my chilluns’re gonna miss ’im, too, so gib us comfort an’ strength to face these days without ’im. Amen.”

  “Amen.”

  Simon popped his eyes open and found Ruth beside him, her dark eyes looking at him so tenderly it made his throat ache. He held open his arms, and she settled herself against him. Where he was slight, she was robust, but they still fit together like two halves of one whole. The red bandana tied over her wiry hair brushed against his cheek, holding the smells of her cookstove. Corn bread, pork, and onion. Good smells.

  He sighed. “Ah, woman, nothin’ beats comin’ home to you, you know that?”

  She chuckled sweetly as her hands roved across his shoulder blades, calluses catching on the flannel of his shirt. “Nothin’ beats seein’ you come home to me, an’ that’s a fact, Simon Foster.”

  Simon marveled anew that Ruth could find such pleasure in him—scarred and crippled and imperfect him. God-planted love surely made a person see things differently from what they really were. Slipping his arm around her waist, he guided her over the threshold. A glance around the little room proved they were alone, so he stole a quick kiss before sending her back to the cookstove with a teasing pat on her behind.

  He shuffled to the bed in the corner and sat to yank off his shoes. His misshapen foot always ached horribly at the end of his working day. “Where’re the young’uns hidin’?”

  She stirred a pot, her apron strings swaying with th
e movement and steam swirling around her chin. “Sent ’em to the garden plot to carve out furrows for plantin’.”

  Simon propped his foot on the opposite knee and massaged, wincing. “Awful muddy out there. You know how them boys are. Gonna create a lotta washin’ for you.”

  She shrugged, flashing an impish grin over her shoulder. “Keeps ’em outta mischief. An’ since when’ve I evuh minded washin’? Gibs me pleasure, it does, to see stains come outta shirts an’ britches. Reminds me o’ the good Lawd takin’ away the stains o’ our sins.”

  Simon rose and limped to the stove. Wrapping his arms around her middle from behind, he rested his chin on her shoulder and nuzzled her ear. She tipped her head slightly, returning his affection in the only way she could with her hands busy flipping pieces of salt pork in a skillet of sizzling grease.

  After a few minutes, she gave a little shrug that urged him away. “Time to eat. Go fetch the chillun an’ have ’em wash good. Tell them boys to use the lye soap, too.”

  Simon’s stomach rolled over in eagerness. “Yes, ma’am.”

  He headed outside and shuffled around the house on bare feet, enjoying the feel of cool, moist earth beneath his soles after hours in the hot, confining boots. Just as Ruth had said, all three youngsters worked busily, hoes in hand. Crooked furrows marched from one end to the other in the large patch of mud behind the house. E.Z. and Malachi had done a right fine job, readying that ground for planting. Simon chuckled, noting little Naomi’s tongue poking out in concentration while she hacked ineffectively at the edges of the plot, using a rusty hoe with a handle three times her height to chop away bits of weeds.

  He stood for a moment or two, enjoying the sight of his children—dark hair glistening in the fingers of sunlight that peeked between clouds, their hands set to constructive tasks. Then his stomach growled, reminding him Ruth was waiting. He called, “Young’uns! Time to eat!”