“Goddlemighty, how do I know? I’ve not never thought on it one way or another! I don’t reckon anybody has ’em because they want ’em, do they? They jist come. Hit wouldn’t frash me none if I never had ary one.”
I picked up a corn shuck and commenced splitting it. “Twenty year from now she’d be in her fifties, wouldn’t she? An’ you’d jist be in yore thirties. Reckon how that would be?”
He raised himself up off the floor and heaved the sack of corn to his shoulder. “Twenty year from now I might be dead, too.” He stepped down out of the corn crib and then he turned around to look at me. “Listen, kid. I’d marry my own grandma if I could better myself by so doin’. Don’t weary yerself none about me an’Annie. The day you hear we’re married, you kin figger I’ve done all right fer myself. An’ that’s all I aim ever to weary about. So don’t lose no sleep over it.”
Well, I’d said my say, and he’d said his. I could of just kept my mouth shut, for you never could argue Rady Cromwell out of nothing. Set in his ways, he was. Not to say stubborn. But just looking at things from all round, making up his mind and then not swerving.
So I went on home, and he went to the mill.
It was the next week, as best I can remember, Rady came by. “Go with me to the county seat,” he said.
“What fer?”
“That’s my business. Either go or stay, but no need to ast questions.”
“Got ary thing to do with the law?”
“If you mean have I got to go to court, no Dammit!”
I laughed and got my hat.
I knew well enough what he was going fer and I was right for when we got there he headed straight for Judge Morgan’s office. The county seat is a little town built on a square around the courthouse, and the judge’s office was on the first floor of the courthouse. I always liked to go in his office. It smelled like bourbon, law books and cigars. The judge had an old roll top desk over in one corner, and that’s where he set mostly. In front of that desk. Brass spittoon set right handy to his swivel chair. The judge was a hefty man with ruffled white hair, and when you talked to him he puckered his mouth in at the corners and watched you over the tops of his bifocals. He looked up when we went in. “What kin I do fer you boys?” he said, right off.
Rady shifted his weight, but that was all the sign he gave that he was a mite nervous. “I’d like to ast a question, sir,” he said, “a law question.”
“Well, that’s what I’m here fer. ’Course it might cost you to git a answer.”
“Yessir. How much?”
“Depends on how much trouble it is. If I know it right off, it mightn’t be but five dollars. If I got to look it up, then of course I got to have something fer my trouble. That’s ten dollars, usually. If I got to go all over the place huntin’ it down, it’s liable to cost fifty dollars. Jist depends.”
Rady got out his roll of bills. He had most of his tobacco money on him in cash. The judge commenced laughing. “Now, wait a minnit, young’un. Jist a common, ordinary question that I got right in my head, hit might be I wouldn’t charge nothin’ fer. Let’s wait an’ see.”
Rady wadded the bills back in his pocket. “What I’d like to know, sir, is if a man is thinkin’ of marryin’ a woman, an’ she’s a widder an’ got property, what happens when she gits married? To the property, I mean.”
“I figgered that’s what you meant,” the judge said, kind of dry. “I allow I know what happens to the woman.” He looked at Rady over his spectacles “You aimin’ on gittin’ married?”
“I’m thinkin’ on it.”
The judge aimed at the spittoon and hit it dead center. You could tell he’d had a heap of practice. “Yer thinkin’ on it in case the widder’s property goes with her. That it?”
Rady grinned and the judge shook his head. “Kind of a coldblooded way to git married, seems to me. They ain’t no romance left in you young squirts,” he complained. “All you think of is gittin’ yer hands on some widder’s property.”
“I don’t mind gittin’ my hands on the widder, too, Judge.”
The judge took off his spectacles and polished them with a red bandanna handkerchief. “Well, now, that’s nice. That eases my mind considerable. What kind of property is it? Real or personal?”
“Personal, I reckon. Hit belongs to her. It’s real, too, though. Hit’s a farm.”
The judge puckered his mouth. “Nothin’ much realer than a farm, is they?”
“No sir. I wouldn’t say so.”
“All right. What is it you want to know?”
“Hit’s Harm Abbott’s widder. I want to know if he left a will cuttin’ her off should she git married agin. They’s been talk he done so.”
“What’s yer name, boy?”
“Rady Cromwell.”
“Old Preacher Cromwell’s boy?”
“Yessir.”
The judge stood up and laid his hand on Rady’s shoulder. “I reckon you kin do with a little property, can’t you? The widder’s mite is alius welcome, be it for the good of the Lord or for the good of them raised in the fear of the Lord. No, he never left no will. I wish you well, son.”
Yessir. How much I owe you?”
“Well, I reckon I kin give you that much advice free of charge. I tell you. Bein’ an’ old bachelor I’d like to go down in posterity. Jist name the first young’un after me.”
“That’s a deal,” Rady grinned, and commenced backing out.
Outside, he looked at me and then he did a coon jig right in the middle of the street. “That’s all I wanted to know,” he said, “all I wanted to know!”
“You goin’ to let me stand up with you at the weddin’?” I asked.
“Who else?” he said, clapping me on the back. “Who else?”
He’d made his mind up what to do. He went over to Annie’s that very evening. Since the tobacco’d been through he hadn’t had any excuse for going over there regular, so he’d been slipping off two or three times a week after dark. But he never waited for dark this day. He got there just before suppertime. Annie was taking a pie out of the oven and her face was pink and hot from the heat and the curls on the back of her neck were loose and damp. She straightened up when he came in, taking care not to jiggle her pie, and looked at him. “You must of knowed I was makin’ custard pie,” she laughed, “comin’jist at this time.”
“No,” he said, “but I’ll git around to the pie. Put it down now. I want to talk to you.”
She set the pie on the table and brushed her hair back from her forehead.
“Annie,” he said, “let’s git married.”
She looked at him queer-like. “I must be hearin’ things. Hit went to me like you said ’let’s git married.’”
“That’s what I said.”
“When did you make up yore mind you wanted to git married?”
“I’ve allus wanted to.”
“All the time?”
He nodded. “Right from the start. But it looked presumin’. Me with nothin’. But I got a little cash on hand now, an’ I got a strong back. We git along real good, an’you got to have somebody tend yore place. Besides, I couldn’t never look at another woman now.”
She sat down in her little rocker and commenced crying. “I never thought to hear you say it! I’ve yearned fer it an’ almost eat my heart out. But it never looked like you’d be wantin’ to marry … well, I’m some older’n you, an’ … well, I jist never thought it would come to pass.”
He went over and sat down on the floor by her chair and put his head against her knee. “Annie,” he said, gentle and soft, “Annie. I don’t want you never agin to name bein’ the oldest. I’m old fer my ways, an’ you know what’ll happen? You’ll jist stand still an’ I’ll ketch up with you in no time at all! That’s jist what’ll happen. Jist wait an’ see!”
To give him credit, he meant it. It didn’t matter to him that Annie was might near double his years. And it wasn’t hard for him to be gentle and sweet to her. He wasn’t putting on noth
ing. He was fond of Annie. She had everything he wanted in a woman. She was good in bed and she had a good farm. Like he said, he’d of married his own grandma to better himself, and Annie was a sight better than his grandma. I reckon he’d of married Annie right then had she been another ten years older and as withered as a hag. He thought it was just his good luck and he was much obliged to her for being sightly like she was, and able to set him on fire to boot. The whole thing suited him fine.
She dried her eyes and got up to see to the pie. “You kin have a piece now. Hit’s cooled sufficient,” and she cut a quarter of it and slid it onto a plate for him.
“They’s jist one thing, Annie,” he said, swallowing a chunk of the pie down and talking around it, “I don’t want no talk. I want this to be decent before ever’body. So I ain’t comin’ no more of a night. I ain’t aimin’ on touchin’ you no more till we’re married. I don’t think they’s been no talk up to now, an’ I aim to see none commences.”
He had a feeling of pride inside of him, times, that was downright funny in one so given to cutting corners and taking what he wanted as he pleased. He had that feeling now about getting married. Whatever his own reasons, he wanted it to look good in front of the settlement. He wanted it to be decent and proper.
Annie cut herself a piece of the pie and sat down across the table from him. She laughed a little at him then. “Ain’t you thinkin’ of the decencies a mite late?”
“In a way, yes. An’ I’m sorry, Annie. Had I knowed, I’d never of touched you.”
“Yer sorry?”
“I mean I’m sorry … well, we’d ort to of waited.”
She came over and stood by him, leaning against him, letting her bosom lay soft and heavy against his cheek. “Yer sorry?” she said, whispering, and bending over him.
He laughed and grabbed her. “Jist oncet then. Jist oncet more, Annie.”
They were lying on the bed, after. Annie was turned away from him and Rady was twisting one of the curls on her neck, thinking how soft it was and how nice her hair always smelled. He put his nose down on her neck and smelled again, and then he rolled close to her. “Annie,” he said, “Annie. Let’s get married soon.”
It was dusky dark and the only light in the room was from the fire. It made red shadows across the bed and lit up their bodies. Made them look pale and melted. Rady looked at his own body, curved smooth and hard, and like copper in the firelight, his legs ropey and tough with young muscles. And he looked at Annie, whose skin gave off the fire like a piece of fine silk. All at once he felt too good to hold it. High and mighty … good. Clean and young and unbending strong. Like a bob-cat, crouched to spring, ready to rip. Wound up and tight-sprung, he was about to burst with the good way he felt, and he stretched long and touched the foot of the bed with his toes. “Let’s git married soon,” he said, “I want to git that hill pasture seeded come spring.”
But he courted her proper for a month. Went to see her of a Sunday in broad daylight. Took the day with her. Walked her home from meeting of a Saturday night. And he made the old man loan him the team and wagon to take her to a quilting down at the far end of the ridge. He told the old man he was marrying Annie, and it was like he had stepped out from under and stood on his own feet. Now he was a man in his own right. Now he’d have a better farm than his pa. Now he could tell the old man, “I want the team today,” and never say it asking. Just say it telling.
Annie thought that was a good time and place to give out the news. To settle it. She knew, being seen with Rady now, that they were talking. And wondering. So with all the womenfolks setting around the quilting frame she thought to tell them right out. She waited until the first of the gossip was laid by, and then she let it fall, like a stone in a still pond. And she set back and watched it ripple around the room. “Me an’ Rady Cromwell is goin’ to get married,” she said.
Not bragging. Not even prideful. Just right. Just casual and level and careful. It’s not good manners to brag. Each word separate and clean and unaccented, she said it. They made out to be surprised, which was right. There was a hum and a buzz. “You an’ Rady Cromwell” they said. “Why, we thought Lige Sherman was … well, we thought you an’ Lige … well … well, now ain’t that nice? Rady is a awful good boy. He’ll alius do good, Annie. He’s jist plumb clever. But you shore pulled the wool over our eyes You shore put one over on us!” Like they hadn’t mouthed it up and down the ridge from the first time he took her home from meeting. But being mannerly to the last.
Annie let it go on a time. Behind their words she knew what they were thinking. She knew what the slanted looks meant. She knew they would talk different when she was gone. Knew they’d be saying, “Well, I never! Oh, I knowed they was somethin’ up Well, upon my word an’ honor Her an’ Rady Cromwell! An’ her old enough to be his ma! Who would have dreamt Rady Cromwell …” and then with a shrug, “he’s smart, that Rady. She’s got a real good farm” Oh, she knew.
She let the talk run along and then she stepped in and took it over. “Lige is a nice man,” she said, thoughtfully, considerately. “But he’s gittin’ on in years.” She did it on purpose. Lige was no older than their men, and well she knew it. He was no older than Harm had been, but she had to pay them off for what they were thinking, and for what they had not said, but would say when she was gone. “But Rady …” and she laughed sweetly, knowing how quickly the vision of him would spring before them, young, strong and hickory-stout, like their own sons … and they, withered with bearing sons, wrinkled and old, while she, passed by, kept her bloom … “but Rady,” she said, and looking around the room she took all of them into the sweet mystery of Rady, “Rady is so strong-headed. He jist … well, he jist swept me off my feet!”
Bitterly they listened, gall flowing beneath their tongues. When had a man looked at them with favoring eyes! When had they been swept off their feet, if ever! When had any man, save the broken and shambled one that slept in their beds, laid a hand on a one of them! And their envy was green and acid. “I reckon,” she went on innocently, “I reckon we’ll git married on Valentine’s Day.”
They nodded their heads. “Hit’s a good day fer a weddin’. Where you aimin’ on gettin’ married?”
“We’re aimin’ on havin’ a real nice weddin’. We ain’t goin’ to the county seat an’ stand up before the judge nor nothin’ like that. We’re aimin’ on gittin’ the preacher to come an’ have it at my house. I’d like you all to come.”
So on Valentine’s Day they were married. In the fireplace room at Annie’s house. Annie wore a new flowered silk dress she’d ordered from the mail order and Rady wore a new blue suit he’d got in town. They looked fine and handsome standing up there in front of the preacher and the folks. But being the one to stand up with him, I was close enough I could see the beads of sweat break out on Rady’s forehead during the ceremony. It makes any man break out in a sweat to stand up in front of a bunch of folks and get married. I don’t know why. Most time he’s doing what he wants to do, of his own free will. But right at the last minute, when there’s no backing out of it, when he’s roped and hogtied and no getting loose, he gets shaky and unsure. I like to of sweated clean through my coat the day I got married. And getting married was what I wanted to do the worst way. But outside of sweating a little Rady didn’t show a thing and his hands never had a tremor when he put the ring on Annie’s finger.
I’ve not been to many weddings but what few I’ve been to it always seemed to me there was an awkward time the first minute or two when the preacher got done. Like neither the bride nor the groom or the folks present know quite what to do. But when the preacher said the last amen, Rady turned real quick to Annie put his arms around her and kissed her hard, just like nobody else was there. He never hurried a bit. It was like he wanted them all to see he couldn’t wait. Like he meant them to know he was crazy about her and proud she was marrying him. And when he’d finished kissing her and they turned around to face the folks he kept his arm around her waist all
during the handshaking and well-wishing. Like he couldn’t stand not touching her every minute of the time. I don’t know how much of it was that queer streak of pride in him and how much of it was real. But I reckon it was a pretty good mixture of both. Anyhow, like Annie the day of the quilting, he took his own way of denying he was marrying a farm instead of a woman.
We shivareed them that night. And man, it was a fine one When we shivaree a couple back here in the hills we wrap it up good That night we had shotguns, cowbells, dishpans, old iron bars, anything at all that would make a noise. During the wedding dinner a couple of us had sneaked into the bedroom and hung a cowbell under the bed. We’d tied a cord to it and run it though a hole under the window. So we crept up right easy-like that night and aimed to commence the shivaree by pulling stout on that cord to the cowbell. We figured they’d be in bed where any newly-wed couple had ought to be on their wedding night. I was the one got my hand on the cord first, and I got all set and give it a mighty yank It come loose free in my hand and next thing I knew I was turning a couple of somersets backwards from the strength of my haul. There I laid, like a complete idiot The breath knocked plumb out of me! I’d ought to of known you couldn’t put nothing over on Rady Cromwell!
Well, then somebody gave the signal and we commenced our noise. All those shotguns firing, all those dishpans banging, all the cowbells ringing and all the shouting and screeching and yelling It liked to of jarred the hills loose from their foundations Rady and Annie came out on the porch right away. Never kept us waiting hardly any time. They came out holding hands and laughing kind of sheepish-like. I don’t reckon there’s ever a time in a man’s life when he feels as good and at the same time as much of a damn fool as at his own shivaree. Kind of proud and kind of ashamed. There’s not much left to the imagination, for a fact. The whole thing is aimed and pointed at the joining of a man and a woman, and the jokes get pretty rugged and some of the action is not very misleading. But Rady and Annie took it right good.
The womenfolks made a dive for Annie and pulled her off the porch and dumped her into a big washtub and hauled her around the house three or four times, laughing and going on with some fancy screeching and yelling. And we got a rail off the fence and hoisted Rady. “Now take it easy, boys,” he said, laughing, “you wouldn’t want to cripple me! Not on my weddin’ night, anyways!”
Hill Man Page 6
