by Willow Aster
by
* * * *
In the Fields
Copyright © 2013 by Willow Aster
Cover by Tosha Khoury
Formatting by JT Formatting
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the author of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
All rights reserved
WARNING: The details described in this book may not be suitable for readers below the age of 18 as descriptions of rape, alcoholism, child neglect, and abuse are depicted.
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Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1 – New Beginnings
Chapter 2 – Friends & Enemies
Chapter 3 – Truth & Consequences
Chapter 4 – Glimpse of Isaiah
Chapter 5 – Birthday Wishes
Chapter 6 – To-Do Lists
Chapter 7 – Harriet’s
Chapter 8 – All in a Day’s Work
Chapter 9 – The Almost Perfect Day
Chapter 10 – Complications
Chapter 11 – Isaiah
Chapter 12 – Empty
Chapter 13 – Field of White
Chapter 14 – Getting Out
Chapter 15 – Goodbye
Chapter 16 – New
Chapter 17 – Ancient
Chapter 18 – Isaiah
Chapter 19 – This Changes Everything
Chapter 20 – Swollen, Puffy Mess
Chapter 21 – Movin’
Chapter 22 – New Routines
Chapter 23 – Saved
Chapter 24 – Blessed Distraction
Chapter 25 – Isaiah
Chapter 26 – Renovations
Chapter 27 – Feelings
Chapter 28 – High Expectations
Chapter 29 – Steal Away
Chapter 30 – I’ve Been Here
Chapter 31 – Jumbled Up
Chapter 32 – Isaiah
Chapter 33 – Full Circle
Chapter 34 – Alive
Chapter 35 – The Good
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Dedicated to anyone
who has ever felt like they
don’t quite belong.
There’s a place for us all.
THERE IS NOT one specific minute, hour, or even day that changed my life. It was one summer; one twisted summer when everything derailed into endless complication.
It was the summer I said goodbye to my childhood.
THE MEMORIES ARE suffocating me. I should have never come back.
I walk into the kitchen, a place so familiar and yet, I’m a stranger here. My hands shake as I pour my umpteenth cup of tea. I lean against the counter and stare out the window. It looks the same as it did all those years ago. I see the place it happened. I feel the sweltering heat of the day. I hear the cries and curses that were spoken.
My breath is ragged as I abandon the tea and walk into my old bedroom. Pale lavender, with a few stuffed animals sitting on top of the chest of drawers—nothing has changed. When we left, Nellie kept everything together for us, never giving up hope that we would be back. I’m not sure if I left everything because I thought she might like to have my things, or if I simply never wanted to see them again. Maybe a little bit of both.
I make my way into my parents’ bedroom. I will always think of it as their room, even though they haven’t slept here together in years. A picture of Gracie and me sits on the nightstand, turned toward the bed. The tears fall then, and as much as I try to fight them, they’re unrelenting.
In my dad’s closet, I pick up one of his shirts and try to smell it, hoping to feel connected to him somehow. I don’t smell anything but cotton. I hang it up again, feeling disappointed with myself and the shirt.
The screen door slams and I hurriedly swipe the tears away. Leaving the bedroom and hopefully some of the ghosts along with it, I square my shoulders and take a deep breath.
Gracie stands at the sink, her ringlets bouncing with each movement. Her face is shining with sweat, but she doesn’t seem to mind the heat. She’s eating a peach and with every bite, the juice drips down her chin. I hand her a towel and she grins up at me. Her face falters when she sees my splotchy face, but I put my hand over hers with a smile and she relaxes.
“You all right, Mama?”
“I will be, baby girl.”
She lays her head on my stomach for a minute and pats it, and then leans back over the sink.
“This is the best peach I’ve ever eaten,” she says with her mouth full.
“Mr. Talbot’s peaches—I’ve had a few of them in my day,” I say.
“I filled up a basket and put it on the back porch. Do you think we can make a pie?”
“I don’t see why not. We don’t have to be at the funeral home for a few hours yet. We’ll be overrun with pies shortly from all the little old ladies in town, but I happen to have all of Miss Sue’s recipes right here.” I tap my right temple. “All other pies are just a waste of time.”
Gracie beams.
Anything to distract myself from the memories of this place is a welcome relief. As we get all the ingredients assembled, Gracie chatters nonstop, not minding if I answer or not. I’ve been distracted since we got here, but she’s been too excited to notice. She has heard stories about Tulma for as long as she can remember. I felt I had to keep it alive for her somehow since I knew I’d never be back, but here I am. Inside this God-forsaken house.
Before I know it, she’s putting the pie in the oven. My heart turns over with love for her. I hope and pray that everyone will be kind to her. A fierce protectiveness overtakes me at the thought of anyone mistreating her. If someone so much as looks at her cross-eyed tonight, we’ll leave. Another middle-of-the-night getaway. She doesn’t even know to be anxious, and I seem to be enough for both of us.
Gracie goes back outside and stretches out on the hammock my dad put between the two oak trees closest to the house. If it had been there when I was a child, I would have spent a lot of time reading there. I finally move away from the window and hope the past will finally be put to rest.
DO YOU EVER wish to be invisible, but when you are, feel desperate to be noticed?
This morning I woke up at 6 o’clock, took a quick bath, unrolled the pink foam curlers my mom insists I wear every night, made scrambled eggs, ate them, put the leftovers in the refrigerator for my parents to eat when they got up, let Josh the dog out, picked up my dad’s beer bottles from last night, ironed my mom’s shirt for work, dusted off her Miss Tennessee picture, and was on the bus for school all before 7 o’clock.
This is my daily routine. There are a few variations, but it mostly stays the same. To mix it up sometimes, I make waffles instead of eggs or iron my mother’s shirt first, but I find that any change throws me off schedule.
I hate routines. I wish I could sleep in and that when I went into the kitchen, my mom would be standing at the stove, saying, “I’ve got your breakfast all ready, sweetie.” I’d say, “Oh, thanks, Mama, how did you know I was hungry for pancakes?” She’d tuck a loose strand of hai
r behind my ear and kiss my cheek while I ate my delicious breakfast. My dad would saunter in, smelling like aftershave and say, “How are my girls this morning?”
I’m going to be fifteen in a month. I hope to get my wish for a normal family then.
TODAY MISS GREENER has a baseball cap with a pink feather peeking out over her ear. Her grey hair is going every direction, tamed only by the cap. Most days, she doesn’t care about her mop-top. She’s proud of her hat collection and can’t be bothered by whether they ever match her outfit or not.
As she opens the door of the bus for me, I feel the gust of wind on my face and it cools me off for a second. May is usually the nicest time of year, not too hot yet, but we’re having record temperatures this spring. Yesterday, it hit 100 degrees and the humidity was so thick you could bounce it like a ball.
“Caroline, how are you this refreshing morning?” Miss Greener is perpetually sunny.
“I’m good, Miss Greener. I thought of you this morning. The peony bush out back looks almost as pretty as yours.”
“Oh my, I’ll have to take a look at that on Saturday. Are you still up for me bringing over my azaleas?”
“I can’t wait.” I take my place on the right side of the bus and take my book out while we stop every other minute on the way to school.
I’m fully engrossed in my Beverly Cleary book by the time Clara Mae gets on and plops down beside me. She immediately starts telling me about a crazy dream she had and once I tear myself away from my book, I’m fully engrossed in her story, laughing at the way she goes on about it. This makes her sit up taller and talk even faster.
I can’t figure it out. Outside my home, in the real world, people like me. I could do jumping jacks all day long in front of my parents and they wouldn’t even blink, but at school and even around town, where I’m horribly shy and would rather just be left alone, people reach out to me. Maybe my shyness disguised as standoffishness makes kids at school try harder. I guess I can just pretend to be mysterious, when really I’m about as bold as a bowl of noodles.
The black girls love my long hair. It falls in soft waves with a halo of frizziness around my scalp. I don’t care for it very much, but they think it’s beautiful and soft. Jackie does six tiny, perfect cornrows on my head before she gets in trouble from the teacher. My hair gets greasy from all the hands, but it doesn’t bother me a bit. When they play with my hair, it makes me feel like I’m one of them, and I like that. I like to take out Jackie and Beck’s braids and arrange their hair in pretty, cottony curls.
My mama used to tell me that if I let all those little black girls play with my hair all the time, I’d turn into one. Don’t let them touch you too much, she’d say, or it’ll wear off on you!
It backfired on her, because I never minded that thought one bit.
Black folks intrigue me. If I was black, then I could be done with the pink foam rollers. I could sing like Sister Bessie. I heard her at a funeral once and the next Sunday I asked if we could go visit the church where Sister Bessie sings.
“That would not be appropriate, Caroline,” my mother sniffed.
To me, not appropriate is not wearing a slip under a white skirt, but I didn’t say this.
My family is not racist. Really.
“We don’t have anything against black people,” my parents say.
I rolled my eyes at my mom for saying that once and got my mouth popped.
“I ain’t got nothin’ agin niggers,” my grandpaw says. “They’s good people, I got lots of nigger friends.”
The n-word is his favorite word. This has always really bugged me about him.
“They need to be with their kind; we need to be with our kind.”
Well, that settles it then.
THE ONLY TIME my mom seems proud of me is when we’re out in public. When we’re at the store, someone will inevitably stop her to say hello. She’s the teller at Tulma First Bank on Pope and Third Street, so everyone feels like they know her.
“Such a pretty little thing,” they say, sometimes reaching out to touch my hair or pat my cheek.
My deep down shyness rears up and I try not to stiffen. My skin gives me away, turning a mottled red on my neck and cheeks. My mother practically falls over with the big head every time I’m paid a compliment.
She smiles her pageant smile and says, “Thank you,” and then, “What do you say, Caroline Josephine?”
Sometimes I’m even swept up in her beauty when she gives me that smile. If it would only pop out at home—I might be more inclined to believe in it. She will never let me forget she was Miss Tennessee. Or that her waist was only 22 inches when she got married. Or that every man in the county wanted to date her. I do think she’s beautiful, but I’d like to think it on my own without her ever lovin’ constant reminders. And just for once, I’d like for something besides beauty to matter to her, especially my beauty.
When I’m feeling a mite bit rebellious, I think dumb thoughts like:
I wish my teeth would all fall out. Then what would Mama say…
Maybe when she’s telling me to quit eating because I’ll get chubby one day, I’ll just stare at her and shove all the food in my mouth. At every meal. Until I do get chubby and then she’ll be so mortified.
If I didn’t wash my hair for two weeks, she wouldn’t puff up with pride every time someone stopped us on the street to compliment me. It would sure save time at the grocery store.
I’m afraid my mama doesn’t bring out the best in me. And I must be a real wimp because I just bite my tongue and do whatever she says. Yes, ma’am. No, ma’am. Whatever you say, Mama.
Because that’s what good girls do.
TULMA HAS A population of 6,579. We did have 6,583 until Mr. Jefferson, Jocelyn Sanders, Berlin Smith, and baby Edna passed away. It’s a river town with one bridge leading the way in and out. Tulma Elementary, Tulma Middle School, and Tulma High are all connected with each other, sitting in a row on Main Street. It’s the most impressive structure we’ve got in town, which is kinda sad when you think about it.
Today in gym, we’re learning to waltz. I love to dance but feel nervous at the thought of having to pick a boy partner. There’s only one boy I want to dance with. Ever. My hands start to sweat.
I look over and catch his eye. Isaiah. Isaiah Washington. He walks over.
“Hi, Caroline. Do you have a partner yet?”
“No, do you?” I try to act nonchalant.
“I do now,” he takes my hand, “if it’s okay with you.”
I smile my answer.
As all the other boys in class cut up with their partners, rolling their eyes at how juvenile it is to dance with a girl of all things, Isaiah and I dance the waltz like we were born doing this very thing.
Isaiah has mesmerizing eyes, flecks of gold in green. His hair has soft, short curls. His skin is smooth and clear and the color of milk chocolate. He is the most beautiful person I have ever seen.
He smiles at me. “What are you thinking right now, Caroline Josephine Carson?”
“I’m thinking...I hope we don’t get a lot of homework tonight.”
His eyes crinkle. He knows I’m lying.
My heart returns to normal as I walk back to my class. The dance ended way too soon.
ISAIAH AND I had a class together last year. He’s a year ahead of me, but we’ve shared some of the same classes. We became friends while working on a project together in Miss Spain’s history class. While we were supposed to talk, study, and basically breathe everything pyramid-related, we were getting to know each other. Isaiah was a straight A student, possibly the smartest kid in school. I admired that. Any awkwardness flew out with the chickens when he cracked a silly joke about elephants in the refrigerator. He was smart and funny. I was in love.
Once our project was completed, I didn’t get to talk to him much, but I’d catch him watching me. Whenever our eyes met, he’d give me that smile of his that seemed like I was the only girl in the world. I thought I might be imag
ining it, but a month later, he passed a note to me in gym that said:
Caroline, your smile is better than my mama’s chocolate pie, which is one of my favorite things.
I like you.
If you don’t like me the same way, just ignore this... I’ll understand.
If you do, can I call you tonight?
I sent a note back with my phone number. He smiled when he read it and tucked it into his jeans’ pocket. As soon as I walked in the door that afternoon, the phone was ringing. I ran to answer it and we talked for an hour.
And the next day and the next. Nothing was different at school. We didn’t talk, didn’t sit by each other, didn’t do anything to draw attention to ourselves, but in the afternoons, I began walking home from school and so did he. He had always taken his bike to school, but we realized that after everyone else in the group got to their houses, we had fifteen minutes to walk together, just the two of us.
Isaiah was romantic from the very beginning. He knew I liked wildflowers, so he picked them for me as we walked. He wrote poems for me like this one, which I still have in a little box he gave me for Valentine’s Day…
Someday…
I will hold your hand
Dance in the sand
With our favorite band.
Someday…
I will steal a kiss
Little miss,
It will be bliss.
Someday…
I will shout that you’re mine,
Caroline…
Till the end of time.
Someday.
Since that first day he called, he has been my favorite person and I’ve been his.
I still feel empty every day when I turn to go to my house and leave Isaiah for the day. Sometimes I see his mother standing in the doorway of their tiny ramshackle house. He never invites me in, but he waves until I’m out of sight.
“Bye, Miss Caroline,” his mother calls.
