"We've never had a speck of trouble from the O'Donnells, Frank."
Mr. Frank says louder, "I don't care, Irene. We can find some of her people. They'll have to take her in. Anyplace but ours." I hear Mr. Frank say some other words I've never heard. Miss Irene shushes him, and then I hear him say "filthy."
Least he doesn't say I'm ugly.
Miss Irene, she says there are some things she can fix, and even though I can't see her face, I can tell from the sound of her words that she's smiling sweet.
Mr. Frank sets his mule in motion, and the three of us are riding again, passing the oak where General Jackson is said to have hitched his horse while taking a rest off Jackson's Military Road.
As soon as we cross the stream and head out of No-Bob, we pass the two Indian women Little Bit and I saw down at the creek. They are walking single file on their way to the Cohay bottoms where they will probably camp and make more swamp cane baskets to trade.
I am a squatter like the Indians. I should go with them and make camp too. But no, if I go down to the river and camp like an Indian, Momma will not find me when she comes back to get me.
Queen Anne's lace waves at us, lining the dirt road out of town, our passing wagon raising red dust. I wonder which flower or herb would make a good healing tea for the hurt I'm feeling now.
Mr. Frank's dwelling house is all log, and he even thought to build it up off the ground away from dirt, bugs, and termites. The corncribs and the smokehouse are built with logs too, but they are built right on top of the ground. There are stalls too, though there is no horse or plow in sight. They've already had a barn raising and someone thought to plant a grove of young pecan trees out front, which will make for good shade when they mature.
Wooden steps lead us up to a front porch where two piles of firewood are stacked high up to the roof. Inside they have a fireplace made out of rocks with big hooks fastened into the side to swing pots round on. Meal and flour barrels set in one corner of the kitchen, and an old muzzle-loading shotgun leans up in another corner, near a spinning wheel, the shuttle to the loom, and a closet built with lock and key. Pegs driven between the logs in the wall hold saddlebags, shot pouches, and a holster. The floor is not bare earth, but laid logs split into planks. I can smell the newness of the pine wood. There are chairs around a table and a setback for all the dishes.
Miss Irene takes my hand gently and tells me Mr. Frank carved the closet doors. All their doors close with wooden latches. That Mr. Frank, he went all out and bought seven panes of glass for all seven of his windows. And now he has glass windows such as I've never seen. It looks to me that Mr. Frank built his house to last a good long while.
Miss Irene has already come and decorated the walls with pictures of flowers and baskets of fruit, but I don't understand why she would want a picture of a dead fish hanging in her front room.
Mr. Frank hauls in a mattress from the barn and sets it near the fireplace.
"You'll stay here the night," he says. "We'll see about tomorrow."
Miss Irene fixes up the mattress with a sheet and a quilt. "Perhaps your mother will come tomorrow," she says. "Sweet dreams, Addy."
Lying down on the mattress, I listen to them talk, late into the night. I hear Mr. Frank saying "Garner O'Donnell." Garner is my uncle, the one who shot Pappy. I hear Mr. Frank tell his new wife that Garner tried to cheat him out of his own land. Mr. Frank says that even though the judge in Raleigh ruled for Mr. Frank, he's still sore at that Garner and all the other O'Donnells.
"Mean makes mean and more mean," I hear Mr. Frank say.
"Oh, Frank," Miss Irene says. "That was one man. You can't blame them all for what one did."
I listen to Mr. Frank's voice and it sounds like he still has some of what Pappy used to call "grudge business" to take care of with Garner and maybe even with all the other O'Donnells.
"The O'Donnells are trouble, Irene. She'll only bring harm."
My toes touch the smooth surface of warm stones at the foot of the mattress and I breathe in the smell of pine needles and dried moss it's stuffed with. Miss Irene boiled rocks and put some under the quilt to keep my feet warm. Even though it is not cold, I can't stop shivering.
I wonder if I should stick a pin in an egg for Momma. I know about hoping and praying for something, and I've heard prayers myself when I've paid attention in church, but I still don't know the words. So I lay there in the dark, tapping my toenails against the rocks, saying my own words of prayer.
"Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday," I whisper. "Friday, Saturday, Sunday." I say that over and over.
This is the farthest I've ever been from home.
Already, I have forgiven Momma. At least she didn't send me to the orphans' home in Jackson. These here are hard times. Not but a month ago Hazel O'Donnell sent her two girls, Mattie Lou and Dora, off down the road to fend for themselves. They were fourteen and fifteen, both not much older than me.
It's a shame I'm making so much trouble, and this on their wedding night. I could climb out the window right now and leave. I'm not scared either. I remember my momma talking to that man with the mule. I hope he is a nice man. I hope he takes good care of her until she finds Pappy. "Now go on." That's what she said to me.
I hook my thumbs in the armpits of my too-tight cast-off dress from a cousin whose momma said she'd never take in a child from my momma. I don't know why the O'Donnells didn't like Momma. A castoff. That's who she was and that's what I am now. I should leave, I should. I don't got no momma, no pappy, and no home. I might as well be dead.
The rocks heat up my feet plenty so I can start to sleep. It's a long time, but just feeling the rocks with my toes and thinking about Miss Irene being so nice makes me feel good enough to sleep.
I get up before the sun, bring in some wood from the front porch, and build a fire. Mr. Frank and Miss Irene have a good new log house, but not much else. There sits a three-legged skillet over hot coals, so, remembering how Momma used to make me and Pappy johnnycakes, I get together a poke of cornmeal, mix it with some cold water, put it on a clapboard, and set it near the hot coals. Momma complained about my cooking, but she never complained that I cooked. I eat one piece of bread to show Mr. Frank I won't take up too much room or food.
If Momma was here, she'd be going through their house. She'd see what she could find of theirs to make her own. But I shake Momma thoughts out of my head and look outside the window.
Mr. Frank is smart. I can see he is already outside working, digging up the ground himself with a grubbing hoe, laying in crops, growing them something to eat.
Nobody has to show me to work. Like most folks, they have a smokehouse in the backyard, an outhouse, a barn, a pen for their one hog, and the pasture way out back. Out past the pasture are the woods, the longleaf pines taller than anything else around. The outhouse is near the hog pen, which I think is smart—it's all just one big smell, in one place, unless of course the wind changes direction.
I head out to the barn with a clean bucket. Someone must have given Mr. Frank and Miss Irene a cow for their wedding, so I milk this cow, run my hands over her back, and pet her until her eyes close and I know she wants to be left alone. I toss hay to the mule and clean out her stall. I pet her hair and nuzzle with her. I want to get up on her back and lay there for a while, but instead, I get corn from the corncrib and feed the chickens. I don't see any eggs so I crouch down to the chickens and say hey, thinking that might make them give me an egg.
Miss Irene keeps her water bucket on the back porch, not the front porch, and I bring in a bucket of fresh water, knowing they'll want coffee.
They have a nice well dug deep in their front yard. They don't have a springhouse and I think to lower the milk into the well wall to keep it cool and fresh. The wind blows and the mouth of the well plays music. I hum along.
Inside Miss Irene is grinding coffee for a fresh pot and she is a might pleased with my johnnycakes. She struggles with the weight of the water bucket, slopping the water, t
rying to pour it into the kettle to boil. I say, "How 'bout we make the water my job?"
Mr. Frank comes in smiling, looking at his Irene.
"Look at what Addy made us for breakfast, Frank."
It's like Mr. Frank forgot I was there and his smile disappears. He eats fast and heads outside again. He's got corn and cotton planted and I can see his eyes making plans for more. His land has a big reed brake and he's opened up a nice farm on this tract. This Mr. Frank, he knows about land and how to make it make food and maybe even a little money.
I fill the wood box in the kitchen with wood and tote out the ashes. Near about midmorning when I come back in, Miss Irene stands over the kettle stirring up black smoke from something burned and terrible-smelling.
"Mr. Frank's ma and pa are coming," she says. "Can you cook?" Miss Irene is nice and soft but she cannot cook.
At noon Mr. Frank's ma and pa arrive with jars of pickled peaches, stewed tomatoes, and Little Bit and her little brother, little Jack.
Little Bit is all pigtails and giggles and she jumps off the back of the wagon and hugs me like I'm her sister, like fighting the way we did yesterday is what we always do. A pecan-colored man named Sunny Rise and his son Jess Still Rise drive the wagon. They work for Mr. Frank's ma and pa. Miss Irene gives me two plates heaped full of food to give to the colored man and his son.
"Why they call you Jess Still?" I ask the little boy. His left eye stays fixed on me while his right eye checks out what else is going on.
"On account of I stands still all the times," the little boy says. His father laughs.
"He's a good boy," his pa says. I look at Jess Still and can't help but wish I could be so good without having to try so hard. While they pull the wagon around, I watch their backs lean in together and all of the sudden I miss my momma and pappy something terrible.
Miss Irene has spread out a nice table. She says she wants this to be an extra-special lunch because she feels bad that she took away their Frank. She says when Mr. Frank's pa and older brother left to join in the fighting, Mr. Frank got real close to his momma on account of all the time they spent together during the war years, and what with the grandpa leaving, and the grandma dying, and then the terrible news that his brother Henry was killed—well, it was hard, hard on everybody.
In no time flat Miss Irene learned me and Little Bit how to wait on the table. While they eat, Mr. Frank talks about all that he wants—a carriage for Irene, a grist on his property, and a sawmill too. Then they wouldn't have to keep going to the mill and gin near the Jones County line. They laugh to think of all this dreaming.
"Have you heard from Buck?" Mr. Frank asks his ma.
She shakes her head. "Not since he wrote to say he couldn't come for the wedding."
"Who's Buck?" I say.
They all look at me, remembering I'm still here.
"Buck was a slave," Little Bit says.
"And Buck was a friend," Mr. Frank corrects her. "He was like a brother to me."
Little Bit goes on like she's telling me some once-upon-a-time story. "Pa and Frank walked Buck to the river Strong. Pa give Buck a pair of eyeglasses and his freedom papers and then he crossed over."
"Pa gave Buck," Mr. Frank says.
"He's in New York City now," Little Bit goes on.
"They say that when a person crosses that river called Strong, the Lord gives you what you want," Mr. Frank's pa says. "When we were there, I told the Lord I don't want nothing much, only to get back home. And here we are."
Mr. Frank smiles and makes a toast to his pappy. I nod, wondering about this family. What crazy people set their slaves free before the fighting was over?
We eat the pickled peaches and I say to myself, These here peaches are now my favorite food.
I clear the table while Miss Irene and Mr. Frank's ma clean up in the kitchen. Miss Irene says she's sorry because she doesn't have enough sugar for the coffee. She sent me over before noon to borrow a cup from a neighbor, and the neighbor lady sent the sugar back with me with a note saying to pay back in full measure. Miss Irene sent me to take the sugar back.
"That woman will not lecture me on rules of conduct," Miss Irene says to Mr. Frank's ma, who has a nice, gentle laugh.
I serve the men their coffee on the porch and listen to their talk about Mr. Frank starting a general store. He's saying how hard it is for people in the county to get things. He says they have to drop everything just so they can go to New Orleans or Montgomery for three days when he could get a whole lot of things himself, bring it back, then sell it all off for a profit. It's such a fine idea, I can hardly believe someone else hasn't thought it up.
Mr. Frank's pa talks about a store that opened on the Taylorsville-Williamsburg road. The owner hung a coffeepot over his door and served coffee made with fresh spring water and beans from New Orleans, using molasses drippings to sweeten it. A person could get either long or short sweetening, but no cream.
"Well, there's no post office here that's accessible and folks like a place to sit and talk," Mr. Frank's pa says. He says he'll back him and they clink coffee cups to seal the deal.
Mr. Frank's pa leans on the porch pole, itching his stump while he looks me over. He moves slow. I know that he lost his arm in the war. Everyone has a story. But I'm not clear how the big story really started. All I know is that they were mad about something so they had a war.
"You could have this girl, Addy, do your work in a few years. Like Buck."
"She's not a slave, Pa."
I stand still while the two of them look me over.
"And she's not staying here forever."
As the day closes and Momma still doesn't come, I can see Mr. Frank making his surmising that Momma never did plan on coming back. If it were all up to him, I know he'd turn me loose. But he's aiming to please Miss Irene.
Momma knew what she was doing.
"Addy," he says after his pa, his ma, Little Bit, and Jack leave. "You don't need to be doing boys' work outside. Miss Irene will teach you to help out with the washing, ironing, baking, and the common et cetera of the house."
I know that Mr. Frank does not want me around him. Outside, he can be alone.
After he leaves the house, I have to ask Miss Irene if Mr. Frank always talks like a schoolteacher. "And who et Zet up?"
Miss Irene laughs, says for me to never mind, then shows me about rolling out dough because tomorrow it's baking day. I miss Momma, but I am glad that Momma's misery weren't no catching sickness. Mr. Frank and Miss Irene have been nothing but good to me and this makes me feel growed up and good myself. They make me want to do right. I am not hungry either and I feel quicker and not so mad. I try to remember the word for what I am feeling. And then I recall. Happy. I am happy.
Chapter 3
From May to September I work hard to prove to Mr. Frank that me and all the other O'Donnells aren't the lazy, mean good-for-nothings he thinks we are. Already it is October, and after I gather and put up the corn, after I dig the sweet potatoes and Miss Irene and I can the tomatoes and okra, after we make the maypop jelly and wild plum wine, after Mr. Frank kills the hog and we salt the meat down in the smokehouse so it won't rot, and after I bury the squash in the hay, Mr. Frank pays the one-dollar school tuition so that I can go to school with him and I can hardly stand it, I'm so excited. School is my reward.
All the work wasn't all bad either. Working with Mr. Frank goes fast. I tell him about everything—Momma, Pappy, I tell him about living when I lived in No-Bob. He listens and listens, taking it all in. I prove to Mr. Frank that I am a better worker outside than in.
Momma told me whistling inside or outside the house was bad luck, but I want to whistle right here, right now, so I do and I am glad that I am still able. I walk with Mr. Frank the three miles to the schoolhouse carrying a lard pail with our lunches. Meat and biscuits and two cold baked sweet potatoes. There is a puddle just outside the schoolhouse, and before I step inside, I step into the puddle to get my feet good and clean.
The schoolhouse is a pine log cabin with a dirt floor and a stick-and-dirt chimney. We children sit on split logs with pegs for legs. I take the back seat near a redheaded boy named Rew Smith so I can rest my back against the wall. The girl next to me says it is a hard matter to learn much after walking three miles to get here and then have to sit on these seats. I say I am just glad to be here.
We spend the morning studying our McGuffey's Reader. Mr. Frank says I'm not so far behind as he would have thought. He doesn't keep one switch in the room, and if students spell a word wrong, he doesn't whip us.
I need me some friends and I set to work. At lunchtime, outside, I start walking funny the way Pappy taught me. Pappy was the funniest man in No-Bob. Everybody liked Pappy. He showed me how to act like I'm hurting myself without hurting myself. He showed me how to make folks laugh, and they do. Little Bit laughs and so does her brother Jack. Even that girl Nona Dewitt laughs.
But then I hear Rew Smith say, "I won't play with that little O'Donnell girl. My pa told me not to." I hear: "That Addy. She's got the devil in her."
For lunch we all sit on the ground to eat. Little Bit says to look out for wild hogs who sometimes come up out of the woods and grab our food. Mr. Frank passes around a bottle of milk with letters marked on the bottle. There are no cups and we are to drink to the next letter. When Little Bit passes me the bottle, I hold it up. I am to drink to the letter M and I do. I pass it to Rew.
"I'm not drinking after her," Rew Smith says. His hair is the color of red apples and I'm wondering if being with it in the sun makes him hotter. This Rew seems to have the respect of the others, and I recognize it. He's mean the way an O'Donnell is mean. He looks at me and comes so close I think he will push me down. "She's gotta be part nigger. That's what my pa says." I look at him, ready to fight. But Mr. Frank rings the bell for us to come back inside the schoolhouse. We are to learn more spelling, and after that comes arithmetic.
When I Crossed No-Bob Page 2