A Home in Drayton Valley

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  “Oh, we knows you do, honey.” Ruth patted Tarsie’s shoulder. “Me an’ Simon, we done seen how you give an’ give without ’spectin’ nothin’ in return. Nobody’s faultin’ you.”

  Tarsie’s defensiveness fizzled. She heaved a heavy sigh. “I’m not enough. If he can be sneaking out at night while his children lie asleep, he hasn’t changed at all from the man he was in New York.”

  From the yard, childish voices exploded in an argument, and a wail followed. Ruth jumped up. “That’s Naomi’s ‘I-be-upset’ cry. I’ll go settle the chilluns.” She bustled out.

  Simon clicked his tongue on his teeth, his sorrowful eyes pinned on Tarsie’s face. “I’s sho’ sorry, Miz Tarsie, for your heart-achin’, but I gotta confess . . . you comin’ here today an’ tellin’ ’bout Joss an’ his downfall done give me the answer I been seekin’.”

  “About what?”

  “Pro’bition. An’ how I’s s’posed to vote.” He paused, his brow furrowing. “You see, I was feelin’ plenty torn. On the one hand, I got a boss who’s been real good to me an’ my family. Mistuh Tollison’s daddy, he buy my pappy’s freedom an’ brings him here to Kansas, where there ain’t no slaves. I’s born a free man thanks to ol’ Mistuh Tollison’s kindness, an’ my pappy always tol’ me we owe the Tollisons a mighty big debt.”

  Tarsie listened intently, marveling at some men’s inhumanity—enslaving others—and other men’s kindness—setting slaves free. The Tollison family had her respect, though she’d never met a single one of them.

  “I lived my whole life right here, an’ Mistuh Tollison, he give me a job managin’ the vineyards. Managin’ white men.” Simon’s eyes widened in wonder. “You know any other white man who’d give a colored man such a job?” He shook his head, whistling through his teeth. “No, ma’am, it don’t happen. Not even in free states befo’ the war what ended slavery. But it happened here”—he jabbed his finger at the table—“thanks to Mistuh Tollison. But now . . .”

  Tears flooded Simon’s dark eyes. Tarsie’s heart pinched in response to his obvious distress. Without thinking, she placed her hand over his. The difference in their skin color seemed more pronounced, so close. She knew many people would condemn her for daring to touch a black man. But she left her hand there as a symbol of their friendship. Of their kinship as children of the same mighty God.

  Simon cleared his throat. “I been prayin’ an’ prayin’ on what God would have me do—vote against pro’bition an’ honor Mistuh Tollison, or vote fo’ pro’bition. An’ now I knows. Even to please the man who done give me a ’portant job, I gotta vote to get rid o’ alcohol in our state. Long as men can buy it, they’ll be seekin’ answers in a bottle ’stead o’ where they oughta.” He chuckled. “Oh, I’s not fool enough to believe some men won’t still find a way to drink. Men’ll always find a way to indulge the flesh. But if it ain’t legal, it’ll be a heap harder to wallow in evil. So . . .” He sat up straight, slipping his hand from beneath Tarsie’s. “I’ll be castin’ my vote in favor o’ pro’bition.”

  Tarsie nibbled her lower lip. As much as she gloried in Simon’s convictions, worry still plagued her. “But what of your job, Simon? If the vineyard closes, what will you do?”

  Simon drew in a deep breath that raised his shoulders a notch. “I’ll trust. That’s what—I’ll trust. Took me a while to wrap my mind around it—I ain’t educated like some men, so I be a mite slow in thinkin’—but while you was talkin’, just seemed like God was sayin’, ‘Simon Foster, I allus met your needs in the past. Why you wastin’ time worryin’ about the future? Do right an’ I’ll see to the rest.’” He smiled, flashing white teeth. “God’ll provide, Miz Tarsie. Same way He’ll provide for you an’ Joss an’ your chillun. Wait an’ see.”

  Ruth stomped into the room and stopped in front of Simon’s chair, hands on hips. “Them boys o’ yours . . .”

  Simon chuckled, rising to his feet. “If they’s mine, they’s been into mischief.”

  Ruth snorted. “Mischief an’ then some. They got to flingin’ mud patties at one another an’ caught their li’l sister in the middle of it. She’ll be needin’ a dip in the creek fo’ sho’ to get all the mud outta her hair.”

  Simon ambled toward the door. “How’s ’bout I take all the chillun to the creek. Let ’em do some wadin’. Hot day like this, that watuh’s bound to feel mighty good.”

  “Take ’em.” Ruth flapped her hands at Simon, then sank down at the table. “Splash the ornery out of ’em while you’s there.”

  Simon laughed and headed out. As soon as he’d departed, Ruth folded her hands on the edge of the table, her smile bright. “Now that it’s quiet ’round here, you reckon the Lawd’d mind if we done work on His day? Sho’ would pleasure me to study on a few mo’ words. I already knows how to spell the name o’ my Maker. Now I wanna learn my Savior’s name. Can you teach me how to spell Jesus?”

  Tarsie grinned, eager to move on to happier topics. “Fetch your Bible.”

  The women bent over the book and, for the next half hour, studied the first chapter in the book of Luke.

  Slowly, painstakingly, Ruth read aloud the glorious words of the angel who visited Mary. “‘. . . behold, thou shalt conceive in thy womb, and bring forth a son, and shalt call his name Jesus.’” Eyes closed and nostrils flaring, she drew in a breath as if savoring the name. She turned to face Tarsie. Tears glistened in her eyes. “Ah, I nevuh knowed such pleasure as this, bein’ able to read fo’ myself the very Word o’ God. Thank you, Tarsie. Thank you fo’ teachin’ me.”

  Tarsie started to tell Ruth the pleasure was all hers, being allowed to share reading with her friend, but before she could speak, the patter of footsteps intruded.

  E.Z. bounded into the house, his brown eyes wide and fear-filled. “Mama! Miss Tarsie! Pappy says come quick! Nathaniel—he done hurt hisself real bad!”

  Joss awakened with a start. He blinked into bright sunlight, confused. Why was he under the tree? The sun hurt his eyes, and he cupped his hand to shield himself from the rays, trying to make sense of his whereabouts. Slowly, realization crept over him. Buying that bottle Saturday night, creeping into the yard after Tarsie and the youngsters left for church, drinking the entire thing. A sour taste filled his mouth, and he smacked his lips, trying to rid himself of the foul flavor. How could something that tasted so good going down leave such an unpleasant aftertaste?

  He squinted skyward, noting the position of the sun. Late afternoon already. He’d near slept the day away. He’d meant to string ropes on the frames he and Simon had built the evening before so Emmy, Nathaniel, and Tarsie wouldn’t have to sleep on the floor anymore. But he wouldn’t get them done now. Tarsie’d surely be putting supper on the table soon.

  His stomach spun. He hadn’t eaten a thing, avoiding breakfast because of his headache and then sleeping right through lunch. Clutching his belly with one hand, he pushed to his feet and staggered into the house. He stood for a moment, studying the table with its plates set out in a circle. The plates meant a meal was coming. But no food simmered on the stove. Where was Tarsie? She usually rested on Sunday afternoons, just like the young’uns, but she ought to be up already, getting their supper cooked.

  Dragging his heels, he crossed to the dividing wall and paused. “Uh . . . Tarsie?” No answer. He spoke again, a little louder. “Tarsie?” Only silence greeted him. She must be sick, to sleep so sound. He peeked behind the dividing wall, then drew back, startled. Her pallet was empty, as were the children’s. Where could they be?

  He snorted. Of course. Where else would they be except out at the Foster place? He couldn’t recall her words—the whiskey still muddled his mind—but he remembered Tarsie kneeling in front of him, harping at him, looking angry. And sad. His stomach twisted again, but this time for reasons other than hunger.

  He dropped onto the bench, lowering his head to his hands. Pain throbbed in his temples, and his tongue felt dry and swollen. Why did he do this to himself? The brief escape he received
from numbing his brain—was it worth all this? No. But he never could seem to remember the ill affects when he was craving a bottle. He’d be forever trapped in his desire to drink. Just like Pa had been.

  With a snarl, he pushed the table aside and bolted to his feet. He’d go fetch Tarsie and the young’uns. He could wait for them to walk back, but that’d take too long. He wanted supper now. To rid himself of the flavor of his morning’s binge now. Cringing at the fierce pounding in his head, he stumbled out the door and down the hill toward the livery.

  Nathaniel screamed like a banshee, his face so red and veins so purple Tarsie feared he might burst something. For a small child, he proved amazingly strong, flailing his arms and legs with such force it took both Ruth and Simon to hold him still long enough for Tarsie to examine the cut on the sole of his foot. Bile filled the back of her throat. Although a clean slice, it was deep. She glimpsed bone.

  “He’ll need stitches for sure.” She cringed, thinking about poking a needle through the little boy’s flesh.

  Nathaniel’s screams turned to harsh sobs. Emmy’s wails carried from the yard, where Simon had instructed the other children to remain when he’d carried Nathaniel back from the creek. Tarsie should go comfort Emmy, but she needed to tend to Nathaniel first. A woman needed at least six arms at a time like this. Thankfully, Simon and Ruth could help.

  Simon shook his head sorrowfully. He smoothed Nathaniel’s sweaty hair from his forehead while the child continued to buck weakly in Ruth’s restraining arms. “Sure am sorry you got hurt, boy.” He lifted his gaze to Tarsie. “Wish I’d’ve seen that busted glass in the watuh. All the rain we had last month done muddied things up—watuh ain’t clear like it used to be. I sho’ di’n’t see it. Not ’til Nathaniel starts howlin’.”

  “Ain’t yo’ fault.” Ruth pressed Nathaniel tight to her bosom and rocked. “I sent y’all down to that creek. Shoulda known, what with all the ruckus we heard from there a few nights back, there might be busted bottles.”

  She pursed her lips, her big hand patting Nathaniel’s bottom as she rocked forward and back, forward and back in rhythmic movements. “Fool men anyways. Oughta know chilluns use that pond for wadin’. Oughta not be breakin’ their bottles on the rocks. But what do they care? Just little colored chillun, they think. Who cares if one of ’em gets hurt? When them men’s all liquored up, they care even less’n usual ’bout anybody ’sides themselves, an’ that’s the truth.”

  A shadow fell across the floor, and Tarsie shifted her gaze from Ruth to the doorway. She gasped. Joss stood in the opening, Emmy clinging to his leg. Had he heard what Ruth said?

  His eyes bounced past Tarsie to his son cradled in Ruth’s arms. A fierce scowl marred his face. “Emmy said Nathaniel got cut.” His flat, emotionless tone revealed nothing of his thoughts, but he cupped Emmy’s head with his hand, his fingers gently stroking.

  Tarsie swallowed tears. “It needs stitching.” She gazed into Nathaniel’s sweet little-boy face, still red from his wild crying. He was quiet now, but he wouldn’t be once she put a needle and thread to work. She looked at Joss again. “I’ll need help.”

  Joss set his mouth in a grim line as he stared at Nathaniel. Her husband held his body so taut and still Tarsie wondered if he even drew breath. Then he gave a brusque nod. “Let’s get him home. I got the horse out here so I can carry him back.”

  Ruth glanced in Joss’s direction, and her arms curved protectively around Nathaniel’s little form. “You sho’? Here, Tarsie’s got me to help her with this’un. At home she’s only got . . .” She didn’t need to complete the sentence. They all knew what Ruth was asking.

  The muscles in Joss’s jaw clenched, and his eyes squinted for a moment. But then he said, “I’m sure.” He turned to Tarsie. “Better to fix him up at home. Then you can tuck him into bed . . . afterward.”

  Simon limped toward Joss. “I’ll hitch Ransom to my cart an’ tote Tarsie an’ Emmy. Only take a minute.” He shuffled out.

  Joss set Emmy aside and strode forward. He stopped in front of Ruth, his hands balling into fists and then opening, as if testing their ability to function. Tarsie, watching him, marveled anew at his size. Such a big, powerful man—and handsome, too. He reminded her of the biblical man named Samson who possessed great strength. What might God accomplish through Joss if he used his strength and ability to bring God honor?

  Joss’s arms stretched out. His hands slipped beneath Nathaniel’s armpits. He lifted, and the boy tumbled, unresisting, into his father’s embrace. Without looking at Tarsie, Joss turned toward the door. “Let’s go.”

  28

  Can’t you hurry?” Sweat dripped from Joss’s forehead, stinging his eyes. But the sting in his heart was worse, hearing his son’s pained cries while Tarsie stitched the gash closed. How could someone so small fight so hard? Although Nathaniel couldn’t move his arms or legs, trapped in his father’s embrace with Joss’s leg thrown across Nathaniel’s much smaller ones, he continued to screech and buck his body, determined to free himself.

  “I’m doing the best I can considering his squirmin’. Glad we battled his britches off of him. At least I’m not having to push his muddy pant legs out of the way anymore. . . .” Tarsie’s face looked white in the harsh light of the lantern. Joss hoped she didn’t pass out before she finished. He wouldn’t be able to poke that needle through his son’s tender skin. He also hoped Nathaniel didn’t damage his lungs with all the screaming. He was getting hoarse.

  Tarsie tied off the black thread, then sat back on her heels, a sigh slumping her shoulders. “There. All done.” She held out her arms. “Let me have him.”

  Instead, Joss stood and swung Nathaniel around. The boy’s arms flew outward, wrapping around Joss’s neck. Joss held him close and paced back and forth across the floor while Nathaniel continued to cry—wracking sobs of hurt and frustration.

  Emmy scuttled out of the corner where she’d hunkered, crying softly, during her brother’s ordeal. She threw herself on Tarsie, and Tarsie soothed the little girl the same way Joss tried to soothe Nathaniel. Emmy quieted a lot quicker, though. For a moment, Joss considered handing Nathaniel over to Tarsie. Maybe he’d settle down faster if she took him. But he wanted to be the one to calm Nathaniel. He needed to calm him—needed to know if he could.

  So he walked and patted and murmured nonsense while Tarsie moved to the stove, Emmy holding on to her apron, and started chopping potatoes into a pot of water. By the time steam rose from the pot, Nathaniel’s harsh sobs had faded to jerky hiccups. Relieved, Joss leaned over to set the boy on the bench at the table, but Nathaniel wailed, “Nooo!” He gripped Joss’s shirt in his fists.

  Joss started to jerk Nathaniel loose—to tell him he’d done enough crying. But just as his fingers tightened on Nathaniel’s arms, a memory surfaced—his father’s hand, flying out to smack Joss hard on the cheek. His mind echoed with Pa’s snarl: “Didn’t I tell you to stop that snivelin’? No more, or I’ll give you somethin’ to snivel about!” The remembered pain and humiliation of that moment roared over Joss as harsh and strong as if it were happening now.

  He caught Nathaniel’s hands and gently disentangled them from his shirt. “I’m not goin’ nowhere. Gonna sit here beside you.” He heard his growly tone and cleared his throat. “You’ll be all right.” Joss sank onto the bench next to his son, and the little boy curled against him.

  “Foot. Owie. Hurts.”

  “I know.” Joss slipped his arm behind Nathaniel, holding him close. Had he ever held the boy this way before? He couldn’t remember. Amazing how Nathaniel allowed it. Amazing how good it felt.

  Joss glanced at Emmy, who watched from a safe distance, her eyes—blue, with thick lashes just like Mary’s—fixed on him. He offered his daughter a hesitant smile. “Come sit, too, Emmy.”

  She shook her head.

  Resentment pricked. He opened his mouth to insist she get herself over there now, but once again he caught himself. After drawing a few breaths, he said, “Na
thaniel’d probably like it if you would.”

  For a few moments Emmy stood, hand curled around Tarsie’s apron strings, her face puckered with indecision. Then she released the apron and scampered to the bench, wriggling in next to Nathaniel. She held her brother’s hand. The three of them sat, Joss giving Nathaniel little pats now and then and Emmy flicking puzzled glances at her papa. Joss understood her confusion. He didn’t quite understand himself, either.

  Tarsie ladled bowls of potato-and-green-bean soup with a few chunks of ham floating in the thin broth. Joss did his best to encourage Nathaniel to eat, but, fussy, the boy barely finished three bites. Tarsie ate in silence, her pensive gaze shifting from Joss to the children and back again. When they’d finished, she cleaned up the dishes without a word, leaving Joss to carry Nathaniel to his pallet and help him into his sleep shirt. Emmy dressed herself and then climbed in with Nathaniel.

  He should’ve gotten those beds done so the children could sleep separately. Tangled up so close together on that pallet, Emmy’d probably be kicking Nathaniel all night long. “Don’t bump your brother’s foot tonight,” Joss said.

  “I won’t.”

  Emmy’s indignant tone reminded Joss of his own, and he grimaced. Simon was right. Children did what they learned. He sure hadn’t taught them much good. He pushed up from his knees and stood for a moment, gazing down at the blond-haired pair. Who was he fooling, playing papa? He’d never be more than his own pa had been. These kids’d be better off without him. Sooner he left, the better for everybody.

  “Sleep good,” he ordered in his familiar gruff tone, then returned to the main room of the house. Tarsie washed dishes in the dented basin set on top of the dry sink. He crossed to her and leaned against the wall, arms folded. “You didn’t put any herbs or wrapping on Nathaniel’s foot. Don’t you think you ought to?”