by BobA. Troutt
It was August and September grew near. As autumn began to fall, the worst part of the summer’s scorching sun had all but paralyzed us. The year was 1927 in Windle, Missouri, in Holt County. We lived in a little community called Weeping Waters, just off State Highway 44. Weeping Waters lay at the bottom of the hills and mountains of the Ozark. It lay flat across the valley of Mount Pierce, stretching north to the southeast. Its timber dressed it, the meadows lay in want, and Dutch Creek fed it.
I had bought a farm and house up in Jack-leg Hollow a few years before. There I began to homestead with my new mail-order bride. Her name was Rosemary, but I called her Rose or Rosey for short. My name is Grady Pedigo. Rose was everything she said she was in her letters and more beautiful than the pictures she had sent. I was ten years older, but she didn’t seem to mind. We both felt like we were twenty again. I was 48 and she was 38. We were so happy, and that was all that mattered.
She had long auburn hair that fell about her waist, but most of the time she wore her hair up. She was light skinned with some freckles about her face, her brown eyes glittered, and she spoke with a British accent. I was just a rugged farm boy, dark hair, and dark complexioned; my hands were calloused from hard work. My smile was slight, along with my dry humor. My face, with just a shadow of a beard, was weathered from the repeated days in the sun.
The farm had an old weatherboard house with a lot of the paint chipped off. On the land was a barn, smokehouse, hen house, a cellar, a tractor shed, and a tobacco barn.
Rose loved the farm and all the animals—chickens, cows, mules, horses, hogs, turkeys, and guineas. My two old dogs lay on the porch most of the time, trying to stay out of the sun. There was a coon dog, and an old stray that I named Poot. Sometimes when I took the dogs hunting, they would tree a coon. I would bring it home, dress it, and put it in a pot of boiling water. I would put some barbecue sauce on it, and put it in the oven for a while. Sometimes I put sweet potatoes around it. It made some fine—eating about as good as turtle. Most of the chickens were kept up but there were some that ran about in the yard. You could see them under the porch through the cracks in the floor.
I’ll never forget Rosey’s first day home when she met my old rooster, Naked Ass. He got after her and chased her about the yard. I laughed, but it was more funny to me—not to her. I shared with her later that I named him Naked Ass because he didn’t have any tail feathers. Rose was afraid to go out, but she soon got over that. She caught Naked Ass and put him into a pot!
We believed we had the world by the tail. She was my world, and I was hers. I took her into town not long ago to let her see the goat man. He was an old man who traveled about the countryside with a wooden wagon and a team of billygoats. He was a sight to see, but the smell you could hardly bear. She was amazed, but she had to hold her nose.
I planted her a flower garden, and she dressed it with daylilies, holly hocks, red-hot pokers, daisies, and black-eye Susans. The early flowers of buttercups, wild bluebills, ferns, and trillium brought spring in early after the bitter bite of winter. But autumn had fallen by now and a voluntary Indian turnip had bloomed in the fall.
There was a giant, scaly bark hickory that rested by the well. I was told when I bought the place that the well was dry. It was about fourteen feet deep. The owners, years ago, had it dug for water but found none. They said the man who witched for water was traveling through. We spent evenings gathering hickory nuts and walnuts from the trees on the banks of the driveway.
Things don’t always stay the same forever; things change. The first three years were perfect. But as time passed, I sensed she was growing restless and becoming more withdrawn. I guess the excitement of the honeymoon period was slowly fading. At night I sat on the porch smoking my pipe after a long day in the field. She didn’t like my pipe and asked me to smoke outside. That didn’t bother me; I paid it no never mind. I liked listening to the crickets and frogs down by the pond. But sometimes when the wind was stirring in the dark night skies, I could hear the weeping waters cry. There’s an old waterfall up the creek form the house, and there is an old Ozark folklore that says when the wind blows a certain way through the waterfall it sounds like a child or woman crying. Sometimes it sounds like a man. I have heard it several times. I have noticed that when you hear the strange eerie sound, not a cricket or frog can be heard. Rose heard it right off on the first few nights she was here. She’s afraid of it. Sometimes late at night we were awakened by the haunting cry. It sent chills down your spine. She thinks it’s of the devil and it’s evil. But, you get use to it after a while.
Then one day while I was out in the garden, I heard her screaming inside the house. Suddenly she ran out in the yard, screaming and shaking all over. I ran over and pulled her into my arms. As she held back the tears she screamed out that there was a snake in the house. I laughed, and she slapped me on my chest and yelled that it wasn’t funny. I told her I would check it out. As I slowly entered the house with a hoe in my hand, she stayed outside. I began to look around but saw nothing. I continued through the house but still saw nothing. Then I reached into the closet and got an old shoe. I placed it in a pan and doused it with some kerosene, setting it on fire. I watched and waited. The rubber-smelling smoke, they say, will drive a snake out so you can kill him and get him out of the house. Patiently, I waited as the old black smoke filled the air. Suddenly, I saw him crawl out from under the couch. I turned the hoe up and came down on the snake, killing him. As I turned, Rose stood on the porch. I picked the snake up by his tail and headed for the door. It was an old chicken snake that must have crawled up through one of the cracks in the floor. As Rose stepped aside, I carried the snake out toward the edge of the field and threw him on the ground.
Eventually, trouble came to paradise. Rose became distant. At first I thought she missed England and her family, and I guess, in some ways she did. As the days went by I began to notice she was taking long walks during the day, and would be gone for hours. I would ask her if something was wrong, and she would just say she needed some time alone. So I went along with her. As the days went by I waited, hoping she would get better, but it got worse. When we went to bed at night she started turning her back on me. She never was in the mood, always tired and showed no interest at all. I went along with her; days became weeks, and then months, but still, no changes. Something was wrong, and it was starting to eat at me. This wasn’t right.
A couple of weeks later, I had to go into town. Windle was about an hour and a half drive from Weeping Springs. I wanted to get an early start because I wanted to get back to do some work in the fields. I asked Rose if she wanted to go with me and do some shopping, but she said she was going to stay home and do something around there. I told her that was alright and I would be back later in a few hours.
I jumped into my truck and headed out. I guess I had been gone about forty-five minutes when it dawned on me I had left my bank papers at home. So I turned around and headed back home. As I neared the house my old truck started to cut out and miss. Then it finally stopped. It acted like some water had gotten into the tank somehow, and it had quit on me. So I decided to walk the rest of the way and bring my gas can back to put more gas into my truck. I knew it was okay because I had it in the shed.
It was hot that day as I approached the house. I went in and got my papers. I didn’t see Rose anywhere. I figured she was on another one of her walks. I turned about to head for the shed for the gas can. When I stepped out on the porch, I thought I heard something in the barn. At first I paid it no mind. Then I heard it again. I quietly stepped off the porch, across the yard to the barn. Peeping in, I saw rose and another man. I didn’t know him or even where he came from. We lived in a remote area, and we hardly ever saw anyone. I watched for a few minutes more. They both acted like teenagers. He looked to be younger than her. I gritted my teeth in pain and anger. A lot of bad thoughts raced through my mind,
and I pulled back and buried my face in my hands. It all was coming together now. I bowed my head for a minute, and then turned and walked away. I went to the shed and headed down the road back to my truck. They never knew I was there.
A lot of things changed with me that day. Inside I felt like a dead man, empty and hollow. Little did I know that as time passed my bitterness would eat at me, driving me into uncontrollable anger. I never confronted her about what I had seen. I played along with her game until my moment came. She continued her walks, and I followed from a distance. Upstream, not far from the house, was an old water shed that I had forgotten about. An old shack sat near it. There’s where she met the man from the barn. His name was Joseph, a nice looking young man with wavy hair and dark eyes. I watched them as they disappeared inside and not long after they reappeared. My anger raged, but I was able to contain it, for I knew my time would come. As she kissed him goodbye, she headed for the house. She knew it wouldn’t be long until I’d be home. She thought I was on the back side of the farm, but I was only a few feet away. The best I could tell, he must have been a drifter who had taken up shelter in the springhouse, and she may have met him when she started her walks. I noticed that when she came back from her walks she was always in a big way, except when I tried to touch her. Then she turned cold and turned away. But little did she know what I knew.
At night it was the same, and I lay facing the other way planning my revenge in a way it would benefit me. Sometimes at night, I would get up and sit on the porch, dark except for the light of the moon. Sometimes the cries from the waterfall rambled about in the night. I often wondered about the man in the old springhouse, about the weeping waters across the way, how he felt. The cries seemed to come more often than before, and even to me, they have become more frightening.
A few weeks later, I was sitting at home drinking some of my homebrew, when she came back in from one of her walks. I dropped my head slightly because I was drunk and mumbling things. When she turned, I reached out and grabbed her by the hair of the head and slung her up against the wall. Then I pressed her against the wall and ripped her dress off of her, leaving nothing but a bra and panties and a belt around her waist. Next, I carried her into the bedroom. She cried out, screaming and hollering. She may have been putting up a good fight, but between my anger and homebrew she was no match for me. In a few minutes, she rolled me off of her, and I passed out on the bed. She jumped up screaming and crying, and ran out the door toward the creek.
In a few minutes, I awoke and stood in the doorway. As she raced across the field she was crying out for Joseph. She had reached the springhouse by the time I caught up with her, but I stayed at a distance. I saw her crying and trying to explain what had happened. But he just laughed and paid her no mind. It was easy to see that he didn’t care for her. I worked my way back to the house and fell asleep in the bed.
When morning came, I was alone in bed. I went into the living room and found her asleep on the couch. I fixed me some coffee. I woke her up without speaking, and she went upstairs to the bed.
About a month went by after that, and we spoke very little. I had moved from the bedroom to the couch. She had started being sick a lot, and she kept to herself. I spent most of my time in the fields with the crops. About all I remember her saying during that time was that I, Grady Pedigo, was a hard man. Then one morning she came to me and told me she was pregnant. At first I said nothing, but questioned in my mind who the daddy was. Inside there was a glimmer of hope for the son I had always wanted. Maybe this hope could turn us around—our home, and our marriage. But I still held back because the child may not be mine; I told her I needed some time.
That evening she took her walk. This time I stayed behind. I assumed she was going to confront him about the child. When she returned, I could tell by the look on her face it must not have gone very well. From what I could understand from her mumbling and crying, he didn’t want any part of her or the baby. She cried the rest of the evening and fell asleep.
After that things seemed to start to turn around for us. We began to talk more and spend a little more time together. She still took her walks, but not as many as before. But I knew she still had him in the back of her mind. Eventually he must have moved on for she finally gave up her walks and stayed around the house more. She had begun to show and the more pregnant she became the more it didn’t matter to me who the father of the child was. Besides, the child couldn’t help it. I had longed for a son, one to pick up where I left off. A man to work the fields, marry and give me grandchildren. A girl would be good, too, but a son could walk in my shoes in the fields. Rose, I believe, had a sense of who the daddy may have been, but she never let on.
The crops were nearing harvest time and the pregnancy appeared a good thing out of bad circumstances. She did well at first, then she started having some problems. She began to have pains and had to stay off her feet for a while. I stayed close by for the next few days, and then she took a turn for the better. The complications may have been because of her first child.
I had started turning things around within myself. Hate is such a wicked word and forgiveness brought peace to my soul. I had already thought of some names for the child. I told her some of them and she just smiled a little and pitched some names back at me. She wanted to name it after her mama if it was a girl. We both agreed on Joshua if it was a boy. I never could bring myself to let her know I knew about the affair. It didn’t seem quite as important now.
Late in the evening we sat out on the porch. I smoked my pipe and she sat on the steps as we exchanged small talk. I had moved back into the bedroom. I slept on my back and she lay beside me. I still had some bad thoughts of things, but I tried not to let them settle in my mind, nor trouble me. I, too, have done some wrong in my life, some things more wrong than her wrongs. I like to think back of the first three years we had, the laughter, the love, and happiness.
When morning came the next day, I left home and headed for a nearby tobacco patch to start cutting tobacco. Rose had said she felt better and she wanted to pick some late ripe tomatoes out of the garden. I guess I had been gone about thirty minutes when all of a sudden I heard someone screaming. Quickly, I threw down my tobacco knife and ran toward home. The hired hands that were helping me followed closely. “Grady, Grady!” was all that I could hear and I knew it had to be Rose. When I got to the house I heard her voice from the garden. I raced over to her as the others followed me. There I found Rose lying on the ground in a puddle of blood. I turned to the workers and told them to bring the truck around, that I was going to have to take her to the doctor. One of them grabbed the keys and pulled the truck up next to the garden. The others helped me get her into the truck. She was in so much pain. I looked on the ground in the puddle of blood and there lay a small object. I knew then what had happened; she had miscarried. As I jumped into the truck, Rose cried out in pain.
When we arrived at the doctor’s office he examined her and I was right. She had lost the baby, but Rose would be alright. I remember the look on her face as he took me by the hand and said, “I’m sorry, Grady.” My world stopped right then. The doctor gave her some medicine and let her go back home. She was to stay off her feet for a while and rest as much as she could. It had been a long drive back home. Neither of us said a word. Then she spoke up. She dropped her head and said she had something to tell me. I kept my silence. I knew what she was going to say.
“I have been unfaithful,” she said. “I met this man, a drifter, one day on one of my walks, and I started seeing him down by the old springhouse. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for it to happen. I didn’t mean to hurt you, Grady. I don’t know what to say or how to feel. After I got pregnant, I found out he didn’t want me, that I had been used. But you stood by me. I believed all along that you knew, but never said anything. Did you?”
I didn’t say a word. I wanted her to ge
t it all out.
“After I got pregnant, he left and I haven’t seen him since.”
“Do you think the baby was mine?” I asked.
She paused for a moment and said, “Truthfully, I really don’t think it was. But I don’t really know.”
I felt a big knot in my throat. I squinted my eyes to hold back the tears.
“He’s gone now, Grady, and I pray that you will forgive me and let us try again.”
“We’ll see,” I replied. “It’s going to take some time and some hard work.”
“I don’t blame you if you hate me, but I hope and pray that someday you’ll forgive me.”
“I am glad you told me,” I replied.
When we got home, she went in and lay down. I grabbed a shovel and buried the remnants of the baby. I buried the baby beside the dry well under a Formosa Tree and made a cross for its marker. Then I took some roses from a rosebush in the yard and placed them on the grave.
Things went well for a while. I got the tobacco cut and put into the barn. Rose got back on her feet again and finished canning and putting up the garden stuff. I cut and bailed the hay and put it into the barn. The corn was about ready and there was wood to be cut and brought in. It seemed like as long as we stayed busy, it helped to deal with the pain. Every day I visited the grave and spent some time there. I would always leave fresh flowers; Rose stood back and watched out the window.
Things would never be the same between us again. I knew that and so did she. We were two people existing from day to day and it seemed what we had was all but gone.
Not long afterward, I noticed Rose had started taking her walks again. It didn’t take me too long to realize he must be back again or possibly it could be someone else. It was apparent, though, that the things she had stated earlier were nothing but lies. But I had a plan from the beginning. I just wanted to have the right time to carry it out.
In a day or so she looked out across the yard at a big pile of dirt, at the well. She asked me about it, and I grinned and walked away. Later that evening, I came in late; I had been for a walk. I had gone down to the springhouse and confronted the drifter (it was the same man). I let him know that I was aware of it all, even from the first and the baby. Then I struck him beside his head, knocking him down to his knees. Then I struck him again and he lay unconscious. I picked him up and carried him back to the house and I threw him into the dry well. It was dusky dark and I was sure Rose hadn’t seen me. Then I walked back to the house. Rose met me at the door.
“You’re late,” she said. “I was beginning to worry.”
She asked where I had been. I told her I had taken a long walk. She turned from me and turned back.
“Grady, I’ve been thinking, and I believe things will work out.”
Then I asked her to come outside because I had something I wanted to show her. I grabbed a coal oil lantern and we left. As we approached the well, she started to become a little afraid. We stepped up to the well, and I held the lantern over into it. She looked in. The light gave only a glimmer of a view of the drifter, but she got the point. Then I grabbed her by the neck and started to choke her. She fought back with all her strength. She tried to scream, but I choked her even more. I suddenly let go as she gasped for air. Then I picked her up and threw her into the well to her grave with her lover. I took the tractor and caved the rock well in on them, pushing the pile of dirt in, filling the well up burying them alive. Then I went in and grabbed my pipe and sat out on the porch and enjoyed my smoke.
Dawn came early the next day. I took the tractor and smoothed out the ground on top of the well, and sowed grass and strawed it; beside it was the baby’s grave. I planted some wild flowers on it.
As the months went by, no one ever did come around much on the farm. But when I was in town, some would ask about my old lady, and I would just smile and reply that she took off with some drifter, a salesman I believed. That was about all they would say. I never remarried, and in my latter days the hardness of my heart brought me to my end.
The old farm lay vacant for a few years until one day a young man and his wife bought it. Things were good for them the first three years. But it wasn’t long until she began to take long walks and she, too, turned her back on him. Late in the evening about dusky dark, the young man would sit out on the porch with a glass of iced tea, listening to crickets and frogs. As the darkness of night slowly moved in, he rose to his feet, stretched a bit, and then went in. But sometimes in the night, in the early morning hours, he would suddenly be awakened by the cry of a child, a woman, and the cry of an unknown, a drifter you might say.
*****
Beyond the Truth
A Cry in the Wind
To read other works by Bobby A. Troutt, visit bobbysbooks.8m.com