Ruth toyed with the mismatched buttons on Simon’s shirt, her lips pooched in disapproval. “Don’t you be worryin’ none about me an’ my feelin’s. I’s tough as ol’ boot leather, an’ you knows it.” A teasing glint came into her eyes. “Hafta be to put up with you an’ your sass.”
Simon laughed aloud. The only sassy one in his house was Ruth, and they both knew it. And he wouldn’t have it any other way. “All right, then, woman.” He plopped the little bucket on the cart seat and heaved himself over the edge. Reins in hand, he asked, “Whatcha givin’ her?” They had little of value to share.
Ruth stepped back from the cart, flapping her apron skirt at him. “Nevuh you mind that. Just git on now befo’ you’s late. I be tellin’ you how she liked her present when you come home tonight.”
Tarsie wrung the excess water from Emmy’s dress and then flipped the little frock over a bush in the side yard. She sneaked a quick look at the sky—huge white puffs hung high on a pale-blue backdrop, allowing the sun to poke through. If she were lucky, the sun would chase away those clouds. Or at least keep them from leaking, as Emmy put it, until the laundry was dry. She could hang everything inside on cords strung from one side of the room to the other if she had to, but it made it difficult to move around in there.
Turning back to the washtub, she plunged one of Joss’s shirts into the water and began to scrub. Filmy soap clung to her arms, and water dampened the edges of her rolled sleeves. The strong smell of lye soap filled her nostrils while the children’s giggling voices carried from the little patch of grass at the front corner of the house, where they hopped in a circle in a made-up game. Perspiration trickled down her forehead, but she sped her pace. She still had the neighbor’s laundry to wash, and she wanted it all finished before noon.
As she lifted the final item—Nathaniel’s small britches—from the now murky water, the children’s joyful squeals abruptly dropped to hissed whispers. Puzzled, Tarsie tucked a stray wisp of hair behind her ear and looked toward the yard. She gave a start. Three little black children hunkered in a circle with Emmy and Nathaniel, their heads close together. Although the two biggest ones had their backs to her, partially hiding the others from view, she thought they were the same children she’d met outside the mercantile last week. She tossed the water-logged trousers over the closest bush and trotted in their direction only to have her pathway blocked by the children’s mother.
Ruth Foster broke into a huge smile and thrust out a finely woven basket, its opening so large Tarsie would have difficulty stretching both arms around it. “I brung you this. Fo’ when you go shoppin’ next so’s you won’t have to wear out your apron strings.”
Something tapped together in the bottom of the basket, and Tarsie inched forward to peek inside. Six eggs—two brown, four white—rolled against one another. Tarsie wove her fingers tightly together to keep from reaching for that beautiful basket and its bounty. “B-but I told you, I be having no way of paying you for a basket. An’ certainly not for eggs, too!”
Ruth’s brown eyes squinted as she gazed toward the little house. “You gots coffee brewin’?”
Tarsie gulped. At least half a pot sat cooling on the back of the stove, leftover from breakfast. She drank it off and on all day. “It needs heating, but I have some, yes.”
“Cup o’ coffee’d be a fine exchange for them eggs.”
Tarsie tipped her head. It hardly seemed a fair exchange.
“An’ mebbe . . .” Shy hesitance dimmed the woman’s bright eyes. “We could just set an’ talk a spell? The way friends sometimes do?”
Looking into Ruth’s round, hopeful face, Tarsie suddenly realized the colored woman was offering much more than a shopping basket and a few eggs. She was offering a piece of herself—risking rejection to do so. How could Tarsie refuse?
Tarsie gestured to the children, who remained in a little circle poking twigs into the ground to form a miniature fence. “What about the youngsters?”
Ruth shrugged, swinging the basket slightly. “Ground’s soggy, but the sun’s shinin’ down. Do ’em some good to feel it on their heads, don’tcha think?”
With a grin, Tarsie nodded. “Come inside, then.” She led her new friend over the threshold.
19
Tarsie unrolled her dampened sleeves back down to her wrists as she crossed to the pile of twigs in the corner. Squatting, she gathered an armful and glanced over her shoulder to Ruth, who stood in the middle of the room, seeming to examine every corner of the little house. Embarrassment heated Tarsie’s cheeks as she considered the trunk that served as a table, the piles of blankets thrown on the floor for beds, unplastered walls and boarded window. The house was clean thanks to Tarsie’s diligence, but the lack of furnishings gave it a rustic appearance. What was Ruth thinking as her dark-eyed gaze roved from corner to corner?
Laying the twigs on top of the remaining coals, Tarsie blew gently until a fire flared. She closed the stove door and turned to face her guest, wadding her apron in her hands and releasing a nervous chuckle. “It’ll take a bit for the coffee to heat. I’d like to say sit and make yourself comfortable, but as you can see, I . . .” She held out her hands in a gesture of futility.
Ruth grinned and plopped onto the trunk, placing the basket on the floor beside her feet. “This’ll serve me jus’ fine as a sittin’ place.”
Relieved at Ruth’s easy acceptance of their stark surroundings, Tarsie drew up a crate for her own chair. The moment she settled herself, Ruth pointed to the faded marks on the wall left by Emmy and Nathaniel’s enthusiastic application of the pieces of coal.
“What be all this?” Her face held curiosity but no condemnation.
Tarsie grinned. “That’s the wee ones’ attempts at writing letters and numbers.”
Ruth shot a startled glance at Tarsie. “You teachin’ ’em? To write an’ all?”
Shrugging, Tarsie laughed lightly. “I was just trying to keep them out from underfoot one rainy day.”
Ruth didn’t chuckle in reply. She leaned toward Tarsie, her eyes wide and fervent. “But you knows how? To write? An’ read? An’ do numbers?” She seemed to hold her breath.
Understanding bloomed through Tarsie’s mind, followed by a wave of guilt. It wasn’t fair that Ruth’s children were denied an education just because their skin was brown instead of white. She’d always been proud of her education, limited as it was due to needing to help provide for Aunt Vangie. But being able to read, write, add, and subtract meant no one could cheat her. At least not easily. But Ruth, her family, and her neighbors had no such advantage. How helpless they must feel.
Tarsie swallowed, battling both shame and sympathy. “Yes. I know how.”
Ruth gave a long sigh, her shoulders wilting. “Lawsy, girl, such a fine thing to know.” Her gaze drifted to the little crate that stood between the two piles of blankets where she and the children slept. She rose and crossed to the crate. Tarsie’s Bible lay on the slatted top. “You can open that book anytime you please, cain’t you, an’ read the words fo’ yo’self?”
Ruth picked up the Bible and held it against her middle, turning to face Tarsie. “I gots a Bible. Ol’ Mistuh Tollison give it to Simon’s pappy a long time ago as a gift. Didn’t make much sense to my way o’ thinkin’, givin’ a former slave-man somethin’ he gots no way o’ usin’, but Pappy, he treasure that Bible, an’ he carries it to service ever’ Sunday just proud as can be, even though he just holds it ’stead o’ readin’. When Zeke died, Simon brought the Bible home an’ tol’ me to keep it as a sign o’ God’s promises, so I gots one. Just cain’t do nothin’ more’n look at it. Cain’t read one word on the pages.”
She raised Tarsie’s Bible to her cheek. Her eyes slid closed, and she drew in a deep breath as if trying to absorb its contents. “That’s what I hunger for, to read God’s words fo’ myself.” A tear trickled down Ruth’s plump cheek. “An’ I wants it fo’ my chillun even more’n I want it fo’ me.”
A deep ache filled Tarsie’s
breast as she listened to Ruth’s impassioned yet low-toned desire. The woman could long for a fine home, fancy clothes, even to be white instead of black. But what she wanted was to read so she could study God’s word on her own.
Almost without conscious thought, a suggestion poured from Tarsie’s lips. “I could be teaching you. And then you could teach your children.”
Ruth’s eyes flew open. She placed the Bible, just so, in its spot on the crate and then stumbled across the floor toward Tarsie with her hands outstretched. She grasped Tarsie’s hands and pulled her to her feet, her expression so hopeful it pierced Tarsie to the center of her soul. “You’d be doin’ that fo’ me?”
Tarsie squeezed Ruth’s hands. “You brought me a basket and eggs. You offered me friendship. Your husband’s making sure my h-husband has a means of carin’ for his family. I’d be sayin’ it’s the least I can do for someone who’s given so much to me.”
Ruth flung her hands upward, laughter pouring from her throat while tears rained down her cheeks. “Oh, praise the Lawd, He done answered our prayers!” She threw her arms around Tarsie and hugged her hard, rocking from side to side. “Girl, you’s an angel. An angel, fo’ sure.”
Then Ruth pulled back, her joy fading to worry. “But don’tcha need to be askin’ yo’ husband first? Teachin’ me, it’ll take a heap o’ time, I reckon. He . . . he might not like the idea o’ you spendin’ so much time with a colored woman.”
Tarsie ducked her head. What would Joss say? He worked uncomplainingly under a black man’s leadership, and she continued to pray daily for Joss’s heart to soften toward his children. But hadn’t she also prayed for God to answer Ruth’s prayer? Surely the idea to teach Ruth so she could teach her children had been God-planted. And if God had planted the idea, He’d find the means to make it blossom.
She raised her chin and fixed Ruth with a determined look. “Don’t you be worrying about what my husband says. God wants me to do this, and if I’m honoring God, He’ll honor me.” The coffeepot’s lid began to rattle. Tarsie grinned. “Now, how about that cup of coffee?”
Joss, with a gunnysack dangling from his hand, trudged up the hill toward the house, where a hot meal waited. Tarsie’d told him that morning she’d traded some stitching for a nice pork roast, which she intended to fix for their supper, so Joss should hurry home after work. He still couldn’t think of the place as home, although Tarsie and the youngsters called it such. The only place that had ever been home to him was the apartment in New York, dismal as it might’ve been. Mary was there, and that made it home.
He drew in a sharp breath, grief capturing him anew. He’d held thoughts of Mary at bay by staying busy, but now pain—fierce and all-consuming—seared him from the inside out. How he missed her. He missed her tender touches, her sweet smiles, her soft laugh. He missed watching her go about her tasks, always humming, never complaining. He missed the weight of her body rolled next to his, her breath teasing his cheek at night. He missed how she made him feel like the most important person in the world—valued, cherished, loved. Despite his faults and grumbles and lack of appreciation, she’d still loved him. Mary made life worth living.
His steps faltered, a thought tripping him. Whether in Kansas, Chicago, or any other place on earth, he’d never feel at home again. He was fooling himself, thinking going to Chicago would make him happy. But what else could he do? Nothing held him here except responsibility, and he’d see to that before packing up and taking off.
Despite imagining his carefully made plans come to pass thanks to the money he’d be able to squirrel away from his wages at the vineyard, he couldn’t dredge up a smidgen of joy at the prospect of leaving. What was wrong with him?
The sack tugged at his shoulder, reminding him he’d been standing idle too long. He set his feet in motion, holding the bag away from his body to keep from bruising the contents. At the end of the day, Simon’d handed every worker his week’s pay plus a bag of last year’s apples, which had spent the winter in Tollison’s wine cellar. They were shriveled up some but still plenty good for baking in pies, stewing, or drying. He had no doubt Tarsie would make good use of them. She was a fine cook, same as Mary’d been. She was a lot spunkier than Mary, but she had Mary’s patience with the young’uns, which was good, since Joss had none. And his eyes didn’t mind looking at her, given her physical appeal, even if she didn’t have Mary’s golden hair or blue eyes.
And what was he thinking now? He muttered a mild oath and sped his pace, determined to leave the wild notions about Tarsie behind. The door to the house stood open in silent greeting, the aroma of roasting meat drifting on the breeze. Saliva pooled under his tongue, and he trotted the last few feet. As he stepped into the house, Emmy looked up from placing silverware beside plates on the trunk and grinned.
“Howdy, Papa. Whatcha got?”
Nathaniel galloped over and tried to take the sack. “What got?”
“Apples.” Joss wrestled the sack free of Nathaniel’s little hands and placed it on the floor near the door, then hung his hat on a nail pounded into the wall. He turned toward the center of the room and spotted Tarsie at the stove with her back to him. She wore one of Mary’s aprons—the rose-sprigged one Mary’d always liked best because it reminded her of a garden. The early evening light slanting through the open window fell on her braided twist, bringing out the gold highlights in her reddish hair. For a moment, Joss could almost believe it was Mary at that stove stirring a pot, and it was all he could do to resist moving up behind her and slipping his arms around her waist, pressing his cheek to hers, and greeting her the way a man greeted his woman at the close of a day.
Pot in hand, Tarsie moved toward the trunk. Her gaze lit on him, and a smile lifted her lips—a smile of welcome. Joss’s breath caught, old memories tumbling over the present picture and getting all muddled in his mind.
Tarsie paused midway between the stove and trunk, her brows coming together. “Joss, is somethin’ the matter?”
He shook his head hard, dispelling the images of Mary. “’Course not.” He inched in the direction of the wash bucket. “Just hungry’s all. Been a long day. I’ll get washed an’ . . .” Leaning over the bucket, he soaped up good, drawing in several breaths to get himself under control. What was he doing, looking at Tarsie that way? She wasn’t Mary. Couldn’t ever be Mary. Even if a very small part of him might wish she could be like Mary to him. Maybe. Someday.
Towel in hand, he froze, realizing where his thoughts had just carried him. He spun around, gawking at Tarsie in horror—would she guess the errant ideas tripping through his mind? She met his gaze, her lower lip caught between her teeth and a look he could only define as consternation marring her face. His muscles began to quiver, and it took two tries to hook the towel back on its nail.
Ignoring her discomfiture, he plodded to the trunk and knelt, nodding to the two youngsters. “Well, c’mon, you two. Tarsie’s got a fine dinner prepared. Git over here before it grows cold.”
The towheaded pair dashed to the trunk. His command seemed to bring Tarsie back to life, too. She hustled to the trunk and set the pan containing boiled potatoes before him. Then she fetched the roast, knelt, and offered a familiar blessing for the food. She carved the roast and dished up potatoes as if nothing were wrong, but she didn’t speak. Her uncustomary silence held the children’s tongues, as well, and Joss grew more uncomfortable by the minute. With no cheerful blather to distract him, he found himself doing too much thinking. And all that thinking led to nothing good.
He swallowed a flavorful bite of roast, swished his hand over his mouth, and looked across the trunk to Emmy. “So . . . what’d you young’uns do today?”
Emmy wriggled in place. “We had a fine time, Papa! E.Z. an’ Malachi an’ Naomi came to play, an’ we builded a fort an’ made cowboys an’ Indians outta little sticks! Tarsie gave us scraps to put clothes on ’em, an’ we—”
Joss held up a hand, confused. He’d learned the names of their nearest neighbors, but
he didn’t recognize those Emmy had mentioned. “Who’re you talking about?”
“Miss Ruth’s chillun.” Emmy’s childish voice took on a distinct twang.
Joss put down his fork and frowned at the little girl. “An’ who’s Miss Ruth?”
Emmy hesitated, and Tarsie cleared her throat. She gestured to Emmy’s plate. “Finish up your supper, Emmy. You, too, Nathaniel.” She waited for a moment, watching the children until they moved to obey. Then she shifted to look Joss full in the face. “Miss Ruth is Simon Foster’s wife. E.Z., Malachi, and Naomi are their children. We met in the mercantile on Monday, and today they came by the house to pay us a visit.”
“An’ guess what, Papa?” Emmy bounced on her knees. “Tarsie’s gonna teach Miss Ruth how to read an’ write!”
20
You’s gon’ do what?” Simon stared at Ruth. He must’ve heard wrong—Ruth had more sense than to take up lessons with a white woman. Especially Joss Brubacher’s woman.
Ruth set her lips in that way of hers that let Simon know she didn’t intend to say another word. At least not until they were alone. Deciding it best not to argue in front of the boys and little Naomi, he held the rest of his protests inside. They went on eating their supper in silence, the youngsters finishing first and dashing outside to play away the remaining hours before sundown. Clouds building in the east warned of another storm coming—might as well let the children enjoy the sun for as long as it lasted.
Simon stayed at the table, sipping a final cup of sassafras-root tea, while Ruth cleared the pans, plates, battered silverware, and cups. But before she filled the tub for washing, he said, “All right, woman. Set yo’self down ovuh here an’ ’splain this thing to me.”
Ruth came at him in a rush, settling her bulk in his lap rather than taking her own chair. She toyed with his earlobe—something she always did when she was trying to wheedle him into her way of thinking—and spilled out the whole plan for Joss Brubacher’s woman to teach Ruth how to read, write, and cipher.
A Home in Drayton Valley Page 15