A Home in Drayton Valley

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  Emmy glanced at her, obviously worried. “Is somethin’ getting broked? Like Papa’s wagon got broked?”

  Joss had been so angry with her that morning. Surely he wouldn’t destroy their little house out of spite, would he? The peaceful feelings from hearing God’s words spoken followed by a time of prayer and reflection fled. She grabbed Nathaniel’s hand and urged Emmy, “Come along, now. Let’s go make sure your papa’s all right in there.” She stepped over the threshold, the children crowded so close she nearly tripped over them, and she let out a little gasp of surprise.

  Joss rose from his haunches beside the most ungainly-looking table Tarsie had ever seen. He bounced a hammer against his thigh and sent her an unsmiling look. “Borrowed a hammer and nails from Bliss next door. Figured I better get as many favors as I can before you turn all the neighbors into enemies with your harebrained scheme.”

  The tenderness she’d felt for him when considering his illiterate state washed away on a wave of defensiveness. “I won’t be discussin’ that with you in front of the wee ones.” She took a step forward, examining his project. Weathered strips of wood, some of which bore pale scuffs left over from a white rock wielded by a child’s hand, formed a square with posts stretching upward from each corner. Her gaze bounced to Joss, surprise replacing irritation. “You made a table from the wagon boards.”

  Joss plopped the hammer on the floor and turned the table right side up. He pressed both palms to the top. It wobbled some, the legs uneven, but it supported his weight. “Nothing fancy, that’s for sure.” His voice held disdain, but his eyes traveled over his handiwork, satisfaction glimmering in the dark depths. “But it beats that trunk. I’ll build a couple benches, too, so we can sit instead of kneeling to eat.”

  “You did a fine job, Joss. I’ve been longing for a table. Thank you.”

  He barely flicked a glance at her. Scooping up the hammer, he headed for the open door. “I’ll work on the benches outside so you can put dinner together. Make it quick. I’m half starved.”

  They sat on crates to eat their Sunday dinner—chunks of leftover pork roast on thick slices of bread with rich gravy poured on top. Joss gulped his food, using a spoon to scoop up every drop of gravy. The moment he finished, he stood and aimed himself for the door again, his arms swinging and chin jutted forward as if marching to war. Tarsie, watching him, couldn’t help but think he found pleasure in building. In creating something useful. She filed the thought away to reflect on later, when she needed reminding of his good traits.

  The children stretched out on their makeshift bed after filling their tummies, and soon they napped, oblivious to their father banging boards together and hammering nails outside the window. Tarsie washed and dried the dishes, then returned them to their spot on the shelves, humming the morning’s hymns and reflecting on the sermon. Reverend Mann had preached from Psalm 138, and snippets from the Scripture played through Tarsie’s mind. She liked the reminder that God gave strength when it was requested. When the minister had read “Though I walk in the midst of trouble, thou wilt revive me,” she’d shivered with delight. Joss predicted trouble would come from her reaching out to Ruth, but the Scripture assured her God would prevent it from overwhelming her.

  Her cleanup tasks complete, she scurried to her Bible and opened it to the psalm, wanting to recall the entire passage. She read straight through, appreciating more than ever her ability to make sense of the words on the page. Reading in a whisper, she finished, “. . . forsake not the works of thine own hands.”

  Closing her eyes, she asked God once again for the strength to complete the work He’d given her in teaching Ruth. She asked comfort for the family, understanding from her neighbors, and acceptance from Joss.

  With the mention of Joss, a picture formed in her mind of his hands pressed to the table’s top. She sat upright, her eyes popping open.

  A giggle burbled from her throat. Of course! Why hadn’t she thought of it before? Lifting her gaze upward, she praised, “Thank You for givin’ me the idea. It comes from You, I’ve no doubt.”

  Setting the Bible aside, she hurried out the door and around the house, to where Joss used the clawed end of the hammer to pry apart the remains of the wagon. “Joss, I’m wonderin’, since you’ve borrowed that hammer, if you might be doin’ me a favor.”

  22

  Simon tugged the reins, and his mule obediently halted outside the dinner barn. He let the reins drop, knowing Ransom wouldn’t wander, and heaved himself onto the ground. His lunch bucket waited under the seat, as always, and he reached for it, eager to see what Ruth had packed for him today. He chuckled in anticipation, recalling past lunches with little surprises like bites missing from his sandwich—“So’s you know I sampled it an’ found it pleasin’,” she’d later teased, or sugar cookies carved into the shape of a heart—“’Cause the heart means love, an’ I love you, Simon Foster.” That Ruth, she knew how to make a man feel special.

  He hitched his way toward the barn, lunch bucket in hand, but before he stepped inside, he heard someone call his name. Edgar Tollison trotted toward him, waving his hand. Generally Simon met with Mr. Tollison on Saturday mornings, since Saturday was payday and he needed the pay envelopes. They always talked over the week’s accomplishments and what needed to be done in the coming week on Saturday after the rest of the workers had left. He couldn’t remember the last time his boss had sought him out on a Monday.

  Worry tried to wiggle its way through his mind, but Simon pushed the unwelcome emotion aside and limped toward his boss as quick as he could. He met Mr. Tollison halfway across the yard beneath a towering elm that spread heavy shade over them both.

  Simon squared his shoulders and stood as tall as his uneven legs would allow. “Mistuh Tollison, what can I do fo’ you?”

  “I need a favor.”

  Anything Mr. Tollison needed, Simon would do it. “Sho’ thing. What you needin’, suh?”

  Mr. Tollison slipped his thumbs into the little pockets on his vest and drew in a ragged breath. “I suppose you’ve heard about the vote coming up to establish prohibition in our fair state.”

  Simon crunched his brow. “Pro’bition?” He scratched his chin, chuckling. “Cain’t rightly say I know what that is.”

  “It means taking away people’s right to purchase alcoholic beverages. Like wine.”

  Simon dropped his jaw. Although the Tollison Vineyard shipped apples, pecans, and peaches all over Kansas and Missouri, Mr. Tollison made most of his money from the grapes he pressed and used to make wine. The winery operated during the winter months, when fruit didn’t grow on the trees. If Mr. Tollison couldn’t make wine anymore, he’d lose a goodly portion of income. “Lawsy, that sho’ would mean a heap o’ trouble fo’ you now, wouldn’t it?”

  “It would mean ‘a heap o’ trouble’ for a lot of people, Simon.” Mr. Tollison’s voice took on an edge. “If I’m not making wine, I won’t need nearly as many workers. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  Simon nodded hard, the worry he’d pushed aside earlier returning to turn his belly into a quavering puddle. “I sho’ do, suh. Yessuh, I do.”

  A slight frown creased Mr. Tollison’s face. “Seeing as how we all stand to suffer if that vote passes, I’m asking you to talk to your people.”

  Simon knew Mr. Tollison meant the black workers.

  “Encourage them to go to the poll and cast their vote against prohibition. It’s a fine privilege you people have, to be able to cast your vote. The last thing I want to do is shut the winery down, put good men like you out of a job, but I won’t have much choice if Governor St. John has his way in outlawing the making and distributing of alcoholic beverages.”

  Simon nodded slowly. “I’ll be talkin’ to the men ’bout castin’ their votes. But, suh . . .” He pinched his lips into a grimace, hoping Tollison wouldn’t take offense by what he planned to say next. “I gotta be right honest with you ’bout somethin’. Our preacher, the Reverend Wolfley, he talks pretty plain
from the pulpit ’bout the evils o’ strong drink, an’ there be some men who are dead set against any kind o’ liquor.”

  Mr. Tollison’s brows lowered. “Is that so?”

  Simon waved his hand as if shooing flies. “Oh, now, don’t be worryin’. They works hard for you here. ’Preciate the job an’ all. But inside, they got convictions ’bout drinkin’. Now me, I got no thirst for somethin’ that’ll gimme a fuzzy head, but I don’t reckon I should be tellin’ somebody else not to be indulgin’ if they’s a mind to. All that’s to say, suh . . .” He pulled in a big breath, gathering courage to complete his thoughts. “I can sure tell the men to go vote, an’ I can even tell ’em things could change a heap around here if you cain’t make wine no mo’, but I cain’t make no promises all them men’ll vote to keep sellin’ liquor. Like I say, some gots strong convictions.”

  “Strong convictions won’t provide food and shelter for their families. You can tell the men so.” The boss clapped Simon’s shoulder. “Your family and mine go way back. It would be a shame if some law made by a hoity-toity teetotaler forced me to close the vineyard and send you away. I’m counting on you, Simon.” He turned and strode to the big house.

  Misery gnawed at Simon’s insides. His boss had surely put him in a hard spot. What would Pappy do, if he were here? His appetite gone, Simon hitched his way to the grove of trees on the far corner of the property where half a dozen crosses marked the final resting spots of former workers.

  With effort, Simon lowered himself to one knee and put his hand on the cross etched with the name Ezekiel Foster. “Pappy, you taught me to honor Mistuh Tollison, sayin’ the Lawd done expects a man to do his work just like he was doin’ for the Lawd Hisself. But Mistuh Tollison, he be askin’ me to do somethin’ that goes against my spirit. If I refuse, an’ if that law the boss tells me about gets passed, I’ll be out o’ a job faster’n butter melts on Ruth’s hot molasses cake. Who else’d hire me with this shriveled foot?” Simon dropped his head low. “Sho’ wish you was here right now, Pappy, to give me some words o’ wisdom.”

  Simon listened, but Pappy didn’t call advice from the clouds. Simon listened harder, hoping, but all he heard was the voices of the men carrying from the dinner barn and wind whispering in the trees. He sighed. “Reckon I gotta figger this one out on my own. But I’ll be prayin’ on it, Pappy, just like you taught me.”

  When Simon returned home that evening, he left Ransom drowsing behind the little house, still in his traces. Might be he’d need to ride on back to the big house and talk to his boss before bedtime. Before he made it halfway across the yard, the children raced out to meet him, all clamoring for hugs and to be the first to share the details of their day.

  Despite the concerns that tied his stomach in knots, a grin teased its way to Simon’s lips. How could anybody stay sad when surrounded by his children’s happy faces and cheerful voices? He walked in the midst of them, little Naomi swinging his hand and the boys walking backward, jabbering away like a pair of magpies. Simon caught only bits and pieces of what they said, what with their words tripping all over each other, but he understood they’d gone into town and visited with Joss Brubacher’s wife. Simon did his best not to frown, but Ruth’s intention to learn reading from the white woman was another concern.

  “You all go take Ransom a bucket o’ water an’ some fresh-picked dandelions. I gotta talk to your mama.”

  Giggles ringing, the three scampered off.

  Ruth stepped into the yard and greeted him with a hug and moist kiss. She took the dinner pail from his hand. Scowling, she tugged the cloth aside and peeked into the pail. “Simon Foster, you di’n’t eat your lunch.” Irritation faded to worry. “You ailin’?”

  “I ain’t sick, but we gots trouble, Ruth.” He shared everything Mr. Tollison had told him, including the possibility of losing his job if the prohibition bill passed. “Need to do some hard prayin’ over the next coupla days so’s I know for sure what to do. Don’t wanna let down Mistuh Tollison aftuh he done been so good to my family an’ all, but don’t wanna be doin’ somethin’ that’d be dishonorin’ God, neither.”

  Ruth planted another kiss on his cheek, then wove her arm through his. They moseyed toward the house, their strides matching up perfectly. “Prayin’ is ’xactly what we need to be doin’. An’ I’ll set Tarsie to prayin’ on it, too. Seein’ as how her man works at the vineyard, whatever happens out there’ll be affectin’ her, too. An’ she gots a real strong faith, Simon.”

  “You done went to see her again this mornin’?” Simon tried not to show his disapproval, but Ruth shot him a look that said she saw right through him.

  “I sho’ did. An’ she sent me on home aftuh we have a little talk.”

  Simon sat on the edge of the bed and kicked off his shoes. As much as he wanted his children to learn reading and writing, he still couldn’t decide if Tarsie’s offer was a blessing or a curse. Either way, to think she might have gone back on her word rankled. “Why she send you home? She decide she don’t wanna teach you aftuh all?”

  “No such thing!” Ruth clanked pots around on the stove. “She gon’ teach me, just like she say. But she wants to do it in the evenin’ ’stead o’ durin’ the day.”

  “How’s come?”

  “’Cause we got chores keepin’ us busy durin’ the day.” Ruth aimed a mock scowl at him while dishing up steaming greens with fatback. “You think we womenfolk just set aroun’ all day, puttin’ our feet up an’ bein’ lazy?”

  Simon chuckled. “No, ma’am. Wouldn’t nevuh think that o’ you.”

  She rewarded him with a twinkling smile. “Evenin’s bettuh. ’Specially with these long summer days stretchin’ out. Our chillun can all run in the yard togethuh, wearin’ themselves out for sleep, an’ you an’ Joss, if’n your work is done fo’ the day, can be buildin’ a wall, an’—”

  Simon held up his hand. “Wait, woman. Wha’ did you say ’bout me an’ Joss?”

  “I said you’uns can be buildin’ a wall.” Ruth blinked, her face all innocent. “Joss, he needs some extra hands to be puttin’ up walls for a sleepin’ room. I figure, me an’ the chillun gotta go, you might as well come, too. While Tarsie’s givin’ me my lessons, you menfolk can be workin’. An’ while you’s workin’, you can be turnin’ an ear to the teachin’ an’ mebbe pickin’ up a thing or two, too.” She rushed at him and plopped onto his lap, pinching his earlobes gently between her fingers. “Wouldn’t you like to learn to read, too, Simon? Just think how proud E.Z., Malachi, an’ Naomi’d be, to have a pappy who can read to ’em from storybooks an’ newspapers an’ the like.”

  Simon gently disengaged her hands. He wasn’t going to be wheedled into agreeing to her scheme. No, sir. But being able to read—the Bible, newspapers, voting ballots—all the things a man needed to understand to make good decisions. That would be fine. Mighty fine.

  He growled. “Woman, you’s a sure enough troublemaker. What makes you think Joss Brubacher’s gon’ take my help buildin’ a wall?”

  Those dark lashes of hers swept up and down, her wide eyes turning all liquid and soft. “Why, ’cause Tarsie an’ me done prayed togethuh about it an’ we both felt the Lawd givin’ His ‘uh-huh’ on the idea.” With a chortle, she pranced to the table and plopped the plates in a circle. “Go call the chillun in to eat.”

  Stifling a groan, Simon shuffled to the door, but before he could step into the yard, Ruth called his name. He turned back. All the teasing was gone. A solemn yet confident expression gave evidence of her deep faith.

  “It’s gon’ be fine, Simon. You just wait an’ see. Ain’t nothin’ gon’ go wrong.”

  23

  Just hold it steady.” Joss talked around two nails caught in the corner of his mouth. He pinched a third nail between his thumb and forefinger and took aim with the hammer. After a dozen sharp whacks, the nail sunk to its square top in the old wood. He gave a brusque nod. “I can do the rest now. Step back.”

  Simon shuffled backward two st
eps, cooperative and uncomplaining, then watched Joss pound nails in the middle and far end of the board to hold it in place. The man’s unwavering gaze—the same intent look that observed Joss’s movements at the vineyard—set Joss’s nerves on edge, but he had to admit that having an extra pair of hands had proven helpful. Though he’d balked when Tarsie’d said Simon would be coming over to help portion off half of the little house for sleeping areas, he wouldn’t have made nearly as much progress the past four evenings without Simon’s assistance.

  Of course, he hadn’t missed the disapproving stares of his neighbors when Simon’s family came trooping into the yard. And Emmy’d mentioned the neighbor kids had stopped coming by during the day to see if she and Nathaniel wanted to play. Irked him, the neighbors’ attitudes. Spending time with a colored man didn’t change who he was, deep down.

  In the midst of the blunt thuds of boards clunking together and the sharp ring of the hammer on nails, Tarsie’s and Ruth’s voices reached Joss’s ears. Bits and snatches of the reading lessons. Envy burned through his gut as Ruth dutifully named the letters, tracing their shapes on his tabletop with her finger and repeating the sounds they made.

  “Y says yuh, yuh, yuh. Z says zuh, zuh, zuh.”

  Joss chanted the sounds in his head but then chased away the chants by whacking another nail into place. He glanced in Simon’s direction. “Need another board.” Simon limped out of the house, and Joss stepped back to examine the shoulder-high wall constructed of wagon boards set horizontally. Behind him, Tarsie’s lesson took a turn.

  “All right, Ruth, you’ve done well learning all the sounds. Now it’s time to put sounds together. That’s how words are formed. You ready?”

  “Oh, I’s ready, Tarsie. Uh-huh, I be ready!”

  Tarsie’s laugh—a light, joyful, eager trickle of sound—sent pleasure tiptoeing up Joss’s spine. He kept his face aimed at the wall but listened intently to a soft whish-whish that indicated the pages of a book were being turned. Then Tarsie’s voice again. “Look here at this word. Only three letters. Sound it out.”