When Junie commences telling something there’s nothing to do but get comfortable and listen, so I laid easy and folded my arms under my head and tipped my hat over my eyes. She peered under the hat brim. “Are you listenin’?”
“I’m listenin’. Annie said she wasn’t askeered of nothin’ but mebbe the doctor couldn’t fix her up.”
“Well, it beats all! I says, ’Annie,’ I says, ’why are you so set on havin’ a young’un all of a sudden?’ I says, ’Hit’ll likely be awful resky’ But she jist shook her head an’ says she’ll take the resk. I says, The Lord would of sent you a young’un before now,
Annie, if He was minded fer you to raise one. Hit appears to me to be goin’ agin His will.’ She says, ’I allow He won’t be keerin’ if me’n the doctor helps Him out a mite.’ I says, ’Well, as for me, I’d a sight ruther not commence nothin’ like that. You got things easy, Annie Cromwell, an’ hit looks like you’d want to leave ’em thataway.’ Now what do you think of that?”
“I think that it’s hers an’ Rady’s business, that’s what I think of it,” I say, setting up. “You told her what you had a mind to, an’ now jist keep yer nose out of it. Don’t go talkin’ it up an’ down the ridge.”
She got so mad the sparks flew. “Well, fer heaven’s sake! I’ve not said ary word to a soul but you, an’ I’ve knowed fer a week or more I reckon I kin keep a confidence when I’m a mind to!”
“Jist see that yer a mind to, then. Tellin’ me was all right, but don’t tell nobody else.”
She just sniffed and stuck her nose up in the air. But I got a bite then and I paid her no heed.
She watched me land the fish and bait my hook again and then she said, “Of course I never come out an’ said my whole mind about it. I never said hit was about the boldest thing I’d ever heared tell of!”
I strung the fish. “What’s bold about it?”
“Why, her goin’ to a man doctor over in town an’ talkin’ to him so, an’ Lord knows what lettin’ him take the advantage of!”
I was plumb disgusted. Of course Junie had Granny Williams with all of ours, but yet had she wanted a doctor I wouldn’t of had no objections. “Christ’s sake, Junie,’ I said, “the man’s a doctor. I reckon he’s used to women gittin’ ready to drop a young’un.”
“Mebbe so,” she said, “but he wouldn’t git no usedter to it with me!”
“If they’s ever ary thing wrong with you, Junie,” I says, “that you need to see the doctor, I’m takin’ you to him, an’ you might as well make up yer mind to it!”
“Hit had not better be no higher than my knee, then,” she says, “fer I ain’t h’istin’ my skirt fer no man, doctor or not!”
I couldn’t help but laugh. But I will say it’s a right smart comfort to a man, knowing his woman is like that. Ain’t much chance him being made a fool of behind his back. But all I said was, “Jist mind what I told you an’ keep outen it.”
Going by what Rady’s said to me that time about it’s being a God’s blessing not having young’uns, I wondered what he was going to think about this. It didn’t go queer to me that Annie would be wanting a kid. It sounded right natural to me. I just hoped the best for her and kind of snickered at the idea of Rady being a papa. Boy, was I ever going to have fun with him The bigger they are, the harder they fall, I thought, and I knew why the menfolks would take Rady for a high old time when that young’un come I kind of wished for him a boy, but about that time my oldest fell in the creek and like to of drowned before I could haul him out. Then when I slung him onto the bank he landed on a fishhook and it cost me two dollars to have the doctor cut it out of his bottom! I figured then a girl would be better for Rady after all. Not having none, all mine being boys, I couldn’t say for sure, but they couldn’t be as much trouble to raise as boys. I wouldn’t reckon they’d go around falling into creeks and setting on fishhooks, leastways.
That was the last time Junie ever went fishing with me. She allowed if I couldn’t keep an eye on my own kids and keep them from harm’s way, it wasn’t safe for her or them to go along. Which suited me just as well. Women and kids don’t mix with fishing.
Chapter Nine
We had a hot summer that year. Hot and muggy, with a lot of rain. It rains considerable in our parts any season, but it kind of outdid itself that summer, coming a hard downpour might nigh every week. When it rains that often, a man’s hard-put to keep his work up, for the ground’ll be too soft to hoe or plow for a couple of days afterwards, and by the time he can give it a going-over, it comes another rain and he’s not got anywhere. The heat and the wet makes crab grass and careless weed grow rank and before you can say scat, it’s just about taken your crop. Wasn’t a man of us didn’t have his hands full the whole season.
I saw Rady in passing several times and he admitted it was taking the full time of him and the Pringles to keep ahead on both places and was times when it looked like it was more than they could do. But I misdoubt the old Scratch himself could of kept Rady from tending those crops, he was so bent on making good that year. And what he had out looked a heap better than most. Leastways the weeds never got so far ahead of him that him and the Pringles had to get down on their knees and uproot them by hand like I did! But they got started sooner of a morning than most, and I’ve met Rady going home of an evening when the moon was making light.
It must of been along in July Mister Rowe took a notion he wanted Rady to learn him how to play the gittar and sing some of the song-ballats he knew so many of. When Rady was putting the team up one Saturday night, a little earlier than common on account of it being meeting night and Annie wanting to go, Mister Rowe came out to the barn. “Cromwell,” he said, “how about coming over a little while tonight and bringing your guitar and giving me a lesson? I’ve got a new book of arrangements of some of those old ballads and it would be fun to go over them.”
He’d fleshened up some, eight or ten pounds maybe, and while he still pulled at his mouth and gave other signs he was fidgety and twitchy, he looked better than he had when they moved to the ridge, and of late folks passing would hear the piano playing and figured it was him playing. At first he hadn’t ever touched the piano. Myself, I thought it was a pity his pa hadn’t let him take up piano-playing, for in my opinion he was powerful good at it. Not that I was an expert on judging, but he could really romp all over it, there wasn’t no two ways about it.
Rady was undecided what to do, for he’d given his word to Annie to go to meeting with her and he knew she’d be madder than a hornet did he back out on it. But he sure did like to play his gittar and sing, and it had been a time and a time since he’d done much of it. “I don’t know, Mister Rowe,” he said after pondering it a minute. “I kind of promised Annie I’d go to meetin’ with her tonight.”
“Meeting? Oh,” Mister Rowe said, “church. Do they have church here on Saturday night?”
“Yessir. We have it of a Saturday night, instead of a Sunday, bein’s they’s no regular preacher now. Hit’s more of a prayer meetin’ than church. But the folks git together ever’ Saturday night.”
“Oh, well. Let it go. It was just an idea. I thought you might enjoy it too.”
“I would,” Rady said. “Would tomorrer do? Hit bein’ Sunday I could come then all right.”
Mister Rowe looked sluggish and like it didn’t much matter. “I guess so. I needed a drink right away though,” and he looked at Rady and grinned kind of sheepish.
“What’s the matter? Yer bootlegger gone back on you?”
“Yes, dammit! He hasn’t been around in a couple of months. I haven’t had a drop except what you’ve brought me a time or two. When you see him, tell him I need a jug.”
Rady shook his head. “They’ve been layin’ off of late, Mister Rowe. Been skeered up a little. New sheriff an’ the boys ain’t takin’ no chances. I misdoubt I kin git Enos to bring you any.”
“Well, have you got any?”
“Jist a little. Not more’n a pint. But you’re welc
ome to it. An’ I kin fix you up tonight. I’ll leave it at the gate as we go past yore place on the way to meetin’.”
Mister Rowe heaved a sigh. “That’ll be fine.”
Rady didn’t know whether Mister Rowe knew Miz Rowe had told him he wasn’t supposed to have any. He kind of doubted Miz Rowe telling him she’d told. But he didn’t see how a little, just a couple of drinks now and then, could hurt anybody. So he’d passed a pint to Mister Rowe once or twice when it looked like he needed it real bad. “That’ll be fine,” Mister Rowe said, and then he laughed. “How’ll you keep Annie from seein’ you?”
Rady laughed too. “Well, a guy kin alius stop to take a leak, can’t he?”
“What if she stops to wait for you?”
“She won’t. I’m real modest about takin’ a leak.”
Leaving that pint at the gate was why Mister Rowe never felt like singing song-ballats the next afternoon. Not that he couldn’t of got over a pint by the next afternoon, but it made him sick, drinking it all down so quick that night, and he couldn’t lift his head off the pillow the next day without heaving.
When Rady came with his gittar Miz Rowe opened the door to him. She must not of known Rady was coming for she looked kind of surprised when she saw him, especially with his gittar strung around his neck. “Are you going to serenade someone?” she said, motioning to the gittar.
Rady ran his thumb across the strings and the gittar whanged. “Me an’ Mister Rowe was aimin’ to practice up on some song-ballats this evenin’. He said come over.”
“He’s sick.”
“Why, he was feelin’ real peart yesterday evenin’ Was it somethin’ he eat?”
She stepped back in the hall and swung the door wide. “Oh, come on in. No, it wasn’t something he ate. He got hold of some whiskey again.”
Rady was real busy with the cord on his gittar, getting it over his head. “Well, I declare,” he said, “that’s too bad.”
Rady was used to having to keep womenfolks in the dark and it went easy for him. But he never liked it that the whiskey had made Mister Rowe sick. It looked like Miz Rowe was right and he hadn’t ought to drink a drop. It was kind of a bad place to be in, with Mister Rowe nagging for it all the time.
Miz Rowe led him into the room where the piano was. “Now that you’re here,” she said, “you might as well play and sing for me.”
Rady felt shy about playing for her. It was different with a man, or the ridge folks. But just to cut loose and sing in front of Miz Rowe scared him a little. “Hit might bother Mister Rowe,” he said.
“No, it won’t. He’s asleep right now. Go ahead. Where do you want to sit?”
“Anywheres’ll do. Jist so it’s a straight cheer.”
When he’d set down he fiddled with the gittar strings, putting off getting started, but Miz Rowe set down across the room from him and folded her hands in her lap like she was ready to listen, so he figured he had to plunge into it. “I’m not very good,” he said, “an’ hit’s a time sincet I picked a gittar, so likely I’ll make a lot of mistakes.”
Of course Miz Rowe never knew it was manners to discount yourself no matter how good you were. Rady knew he was better than most on the gittar. Miz Rowe just said, “I’ll never know the difference. Go on.”
“Well, all right,” and he swallowed his Adam’s apple and commenced. He sung her about half a dozen … “Down in the Valley,” “Barby Allen,” “The Tree in the Wood” and some more, and he wound up with “On Top of Old Smokey.” All as pretty songs as you ever heard.
Miz Rowe listened polite enough, but when Rady kind of run down she never thanked him nor said the songs were pretty nor she’d liked them or anything. She just set a minute and then she laughed, kind of short. “Music hath charms …” she said. And then she swung her hair back from her face and laughed again. “That was quite a concert, Cromwell. Very educational. The original and doubtless the most admirable of the old folk songs. But what the hell,” and she turned towards him and spit the words out as fierce and pointed as darts, “what the hell is admirable about folk songs? Just why is ’On Top of Old Smokey’ worth saving? I find it dreary!”
Rady felt like a fool for having opened his mouth, and he wished he’d had sense enough to turn on his heel when he found out Mister Rowe was sick. That was what come of showing off, he thought, for he knew that was what he’d been doing. And it made him mad at himself for having done it. And mad at her for having showed him up. So mad that the bile spewed up in his throat and mouth, and his hands shook as he laid the gittar down. The bitch, he thought. The gahdamned, cold-blooded, mean-tempered, frostbitten bitch And because his hands were shaking so, and because she was still standing there looking at him, he put them deep in his pockets for fear the only way he could steady them would be around that white neck of hers, where he could squeeze tight and choke off her scorn and laugh and the spiked, needling words. He held onto himself hard and looked at her straight.
He couldn’t help but look at her neck, and then, thinking how it would feel to squeeze his fingers around her neck, it come over him how soft it would be. How smooth her skin was, and how white. And how his hands would lie against it, hard and callused, feeling the softness in his palms. And how his hands would move, then, to the rest of her softness and whiteness … over and cupping the fine, bold breasts, around and under into the soft, cushiony armpits where the flesh was tender as a baby’s. Down and around the curving waist and on, until, finding, a man’s hands could finally rest. He wanted to lay her then and there. Strip her and have her and get rid of his own swollen wanting. And he hated her because he couldn’t have her. He hated her so strong he didn’t dare to open his mouth or he’d have said things would of made enemies of them forever. He wanted to spill out all the ugly, mucky words he knew and dirty her with them and humble her.
But he didn’t. He kept his mouth shut, and it was Miz Rowe who spoke first. “That was beastly of me, Cromwell. I’m in a foul mood today. I always am when Jim gets hold of whiskey. But, oh God, why must men be such fools!”
Except for his hands still shaking Rady had got hold of himself now and his voice came steady enough when he answered her. “I’ve never noticed they was any bigger fools than wimmen, Miz Rowe. Hit seems to be human nature in general fer a body to make a fool of hisself once in a while. Jist as I’ve done today. I’d ort to of knowed you’d think the song-ballats was foolish an’ tiresome.”
She made an impatient move with her hands. “Oh, no. Your songs were just something to catch at. Just one more thing. One more man who likes music I’ve said I’m sorry. Now let’s forget it.”
It never took very deep studying to figure that Mister Rowe’s piano-playing was what she thought made a heap of his trouble. And likely it did. If a man’s heart is set on a thing and it’s denied him and he can’t put it out of his mind, it’s likely to rankle pretty deep. Rankle till, like it was doing to Mister Rowe, it makes him sick and sour inside. It was plain and clear to Rady that Miz Rowe didn’t much like music, and he vowed she’d never hear another note out of him. “I’d best be goin’,” he said.
“No, I want to talk to you,” she said. “Come on out to the kitchen and I’ll make some sandwiches. I’m hungry and we can talk as we eat.”
He followed her to the kitchen and she made a plate full of sandwiches and a pitcher of lemonade and they set at the kitchen table and eat. It was nice in the kitchen. The heat was going out of the day and the kitchen was on the shady side of the house and felt cool and big. It was low-ceilinged, like all our ridge houses, and she’d had the sheathing taken off the ceiling so’s the old house beams showed, and she’d painted them white. She had lots of ideas like that, different from ours, and the funny thing was, queer as they went at the time, they always turned out all right. Like those beams now. Wouldn’t none of us of thought of having them showing that way. We’d of considered it rough and unfinished. But she’d got her way in spite of what the men did the work said, and now they looked nice �
�� cool and low and white, with an old oil lamp hanging over by the table, and strings of red peppers and garlic and onions over by the wall. She thought they were pretty too.
They set and eat, Rady feeling kind of uneasy eating like that with her, and he never to say liked sandwiches. They had some kind of cheese and soft stuff mixed up in them, and like most men he always thought sandwiches had too much bread and not enough filling. But he figured she had something on her mind and he’d best give her a chance to get it told. So he swallowed them down and drunk the lemonade, and waited till she was ready to talk. Which was soon enough. “Are we going to make anything this year, Cromwell?” she asked when they’d both eat.
“Why, yes, ma’am. Ort to do right good.”
“This rain hasn’t affected the crops?”
“Well, hit’s kept us humpin’, but we’ve stayed ahead, an’ the crops is in right good shape.”
“You’re not worried about them, then?”
“I ain’t the least bit wearied, Miz Rowe. I don’t do much wearyin’, you might say. Usual, if they’s ary thing to weary about, I git busy an’ do somethin’ about it.”
She heaved a sigh. “That’s good. I’ve been worrying. We need a good crop this year.”
“Yes, ma’am. Mister Rowe told me.”
She looked at him sharply. “Did he?”
“Yes, ma’am. He said you all had put might nigh ever’thing you had into buyin’ this place, an’ you’d have to make money on it to live.”
“Well, that’s near enough the truth. His father won’t do anything more for him.”
“This is kind of his last chance then?”
“You might say that … yes.” And she stood up and commenced cleaning the dishes off the table. Having said what she had to say it was like she was dismissing him again, and Rady got up too.
“Well, they’s nothin’ to weary about this year, anyways. An’ I’ve got plans to do better next season.” He said it as innocent as a new-born babe, but he wanted her to know how the land lay.
Hill Man Page 12
