The Forgiving Kind

by Donna Everhart

  Ross scrubbed at his head. “Now what’re we gonna do?”

  I waited for her answer, but she didn’t have one.

  Chapter 4

  Mama kept the list Daddy made which included a new cottonseed called pima, a special variety he’d wanted to try, and which Mr. Slater had ordered. Not only was it more expensive, it was a kind of cotton that required a special picker, or even hand picking, and no one was going to buy something particular and new for one kind of cottonseed, or hire a bunch of people either.

  Mr. Slater had offered up his advice about Daddy’s decision. “Could a been a good thing, risky, but good. Sells at a higher price, but considering all, it was mostly risky. I was going to talk to him about the new policy. Never got the chance.”

  Mama tried to get Mr. Slater to do what he’d always done, on credit, but on account of some not paying, he was no longer allowing that. Daddy had gotten loans from the bank before, but for the past few years, he’d settled up with Mr. Slater at the end of the season.

  Ross said, “I wished Daddy hadn’t sold off all the seed from the crops last year. We’d at least have that to plant.”

  Mama said, “Can’t nobody see into the future now, can they?”

  None of us said much on the ride home.

  We were at loose ends without the usual field work to consume every minute of the day. Ross and Trent went to work mending areas of the fencing even though we had no cows to keep where there were pastures. After that, they patched up some holes in the chicken coop and then it seemed all they had to do was bicker about stupid things.

  “When you put that screen on that hole, it ain’t gonna hold up ’cause you ain’t done it right.”

  “Shut up.”

  “You shut up.”

  There was a scuffle and a thump. “If I say shut up, then . . .”

  Why did they always have to fight like two cats with their tails tied together? Mama yelled out the back door, like a referee directing two boxers.

  “Ross! Ain’t you got something else needs fixing? And Trent, get your tail end over there and help Sonny weed that garden!”

  Trent mumbled something and stomped his way to the toolshed, yanked the door open and got out a hoe. Mama took a minute to cool off, her body a silhouette caught between the two sides of the house as the breeze blew through the dogtrot and fluttered the skirt about her knees. She’d quit wearing Daddy’s work pants, since sometimes she needed to drive into Flatland to return something she’d mended, or it might have been that wearing them made her sad. She’d been calling around, talking to folks about maybe taking in some ironing and sewing.

  She had a nice Singer sewing machine Daddy got her one Christmas and she’d turned out some pretty dresses to wear to church. After the funeral service, Mama said we were taking a break from going to services on Sunday.

  “I can’t face them people, God bless’em. I just can’t. Besides, I need to spend what time I can on sewing, making ends meet. Somebody’s got to be needing them a new skirt or blouse.”

  “Yes, Mama.”

  She felt God understood, and then she said she knew He did when someone accepted her offer to sew them a new dress. Her voice, as they worked out pattern style and material went from hesitant to excited, like the moment you get any sort of good news. She had a couple of other jobs crop up too. Mrs. Aiken asked if she could make her some curtains, and repair a couple skirts since she couldn’t see none too good anymore. Mama had also found out Mrs. Poole’s daughter, Bobbie Lynn, was getting married, and so she was set to iron a stack of tablecloths for the wedding later in the week. All of it together might bring in twenty dollars.

  I hacked at the weeds even harder, my own frustration getting the better of me. Mama’s grief was poured into her pursuit of money. She’d directed me to gather eggs once a day, put them into a crate with some straw, and have Ross to drive me into town where I was to sell them.

  She said, “Every little bit helps, right?”

  “Yes, Mama.”

  One of the first times we went, I urged him, “Geez, don’t take me to nobody I don’t know.”

  “Huh? Why?”

  “ It’ll be easier if I know the person.”

  “Aw, Sonny, you’re only selling eggs, it ain’t like you’re asking them to buy a car. You can’t be choosy, and ’sides, we ain’t got gas to burn going all over the place.”

  Mama had no idea how much I hated doing it, just as much as when I had to get up in front of my class to give a book report—which I despised the way I did taking a spoonful a castor oil if my stomach was off. She said I’d get used to it after I’d done it for a while, but my legs shook just as hard as I walked up to the door at every place we stopped.

  Sometimes I got this reaction. “Hey now, sugar, ain’t you Sonny Creech? I’m sure sorry about your daddy; that was so unexpected! Here you go, I’ll take a dozen.”

  Some said, “Oh my, how nice, but no thank you, I get mine down to the A&P in Trenton.”

  And some said, “Have mercy, this what you Creeches are doing now your daddy passed on?”

  They weren’t any more shocked than we were.

  Beyond the egg selling, lots of little things bothered me more than ever. Like how Trent was hacking at the weeds at the moment, coming so close, I was sure he intended to chop my foot off.

  “Trent, can’t you see my foot’s right there.”

  He only whacked harder, staying just as close. He made me so mad I could spit. I took my hoe and walked out of the garden.

  He yelled, “Get back here!”

  “No!”

  Trent yelled, “I’m not doing this alone!”

  “Sonny! Trent! What in God’s name is wrong with you kids?”

  Mama stood on the back steps, her face flushed, eyes red rimmed. Her mouth was set in a thin line of frustration. I wanted to tell her, only that was being a tattletale, plus she looked like she’d had a bait of it, between all of us.

  She lifted a hand and let it drop, a sign of exasperation as she turned to go back inside. “Cut out the damn fighting.”

  Ashamed, I headed for the cotton field near the house where the center of several rows remained mutilated and damaged through the middle, like a drunk had somehow stumbled around before finding his way out. This was where I’d run, and my brothers had half-dragged Daddy to the house. I stared at the crooked, broken path what resembled my own insides, just as twisted and torn up. Trent continued slashing at the weeds like a madman and I entered the field, stooped over, and began to fix the soil, my motions tender and soft, as if repairing the earthly wounds.

  The sun quickly heated up my back as it penetrated through my thin blouse. I didn’t look up much. It was too hard not seeing Daddy in a distant field on a tractor, or driving the truck up and unloading something we needed, or walking to the shade of one of the trees in the yard, where we would eat our noon dinner together. He’d always been with us, his steady hand and words creating the stability we needed, showing us what hard work could do if we kept at it. He’d always answered Ross’s questions, resolved the irrational actions of Trent, considered all I said as if it was the most important thing he’d heard all day. My parents had leaned on one another the way Preacher Moore leaned on the arm of God and his congregation. They had encircled us with their love and held a deep regard for all our petty little gripes. There was a section missing in our familial loop, our way of living, thinking, and doing spilled out of the brokenness, creating a weakness whereas we’d always been so strong.

  I finished smoothing the rows, rebuilding the hills, but it didn’t really make me feel any different, any better. I went to put my hoe up only I noticed Trent wasn’t nowhere in sight, and weeds still grew thick around the corn.With a sigh, I went back to the garden, and before long, I found myself hacking at them the way he’d been, working out all that was in me until my mind slowed down and my back hurt. I finally finished, and put the hoe away. I figured something had to give sooner or later.

  Tha
t something showed up a few days later.

  Down Turtle Pond Road came a truck going faster than most would go. Ross and I were just back from selling eggs and he’d gone around to the back side of the house while I lifted crates out of the truck bed. I shaded my eyes, trying to figure out who was driving like the devil was on their tail. This beat-up truck pulled into our drive, parked, and when the door opened, Mr. Fowler got out. Though it had been at least three years since I’d seen him, he looked the same as I remembered, only the truck was as mismatched to him as a hammer with a screw. The paint was two-toned, blue and white, the darker blue starchy looking, dulled from sitting out in the sun. There were a couple of rust spots on the lower half, the metal so corroded, I could actually see through it. I’d have figured him to have something spit shined and polished.

  He left the door open and I got a glimpse of the inside. There was no trash on the floorboard like ours where Ross’s accelerator foot was always colliding with a Pepsi bottle rolling around, or peanut and candy wrappers. Mr. Fowler acknowledged my presence with a glance, then looked toward the house. He turned to stare at the barn, the chicken coop, and finally, he stared at the fields.

  “I wonder why there ain’t no cotton?”

  He wondered that, while I wondered why he talked like I wasn’t there. Didn’t he read the papers? Did he not go into Flatland and maybe hear some mention of Daddy? He remained by the truck, hands hanging loose by his side as if unsure of what to do. He wore work clothes, a pair of dark blue pants, and pale-blue work shirt, only his were clean, pressed, and without stains. Daddy’s clothes, even though they might have been clean, always had some sort of stain Mama could never get out. I recollected when we’d dowsed Mr. Fowler’s fields, several men, mostly colored along with one or two whites, worked in and around the outbuildings. And while they’d always worked in a spot we weren’t, somehow I doubted Mr. Fowler ever lifted a finger around his place. Instead, he’d point, do this, do that, and his spotless clothes proved it.

  I could smell him even though he stood a few feet away as he looked around. He smelled like he’d only just got out of a bath, the sweet odor of soap and maybe aftershave. His gaze returned to me, and he angled his head toward the house.

  He said, “Is Mrs. Creech in?”

  He didn’t ask, is your mama home?

  “Yes, sir.”

  He pushed his hair back off his forehead, also in that way I remembered, using the palm of his hand. His mouth was curled up at each corner, like he was smiling a little, only he wasn’t, since his eyes didn’t crinkle up. He went to the back end of his truck, propped himself there against the dropped-down tailgate, arms crossed, and stared at the prepared fields as if waiting. I turned and ran inside, the screen door slamming behind me, earning a look of aggravation from Mama. She was on the phone with someone else, and in the process of saying good-bye to whoever she’d called. She exhaled a cloud of smoke, and stabbed the cigarette out as she eased her way out of what sounded like an awkward exchange.

  “Well, I figured with you having them two babies you might need some help with the washing and ironing, or some new baby clothes. They grow so fast! Oh, no, it’s fine, Betty. We’re fine. No, we don’t need a thing, but thank you again. Bye, bye.”

  Mama set the receiver in the cradle, and gave me a look that said she hated what she was having to do as much as I hated selling eggs.

  I stuck my thumb over my shoulder while leaning in, like Mr. Fowler might hear me. “You ain’t gonna believe who’s here.”

  She got up off her chair and went to look out the door where he remained propped against his tailgate. “I hope it ain’t nothing wrong.”

  “He asked if you were home.”

  Mama narrowed her eyes at him, then stared down at herself. She untied the apron she had on and went out the door like she meant business, head held high, and with a confident step. I followed, right on her heels. As soon as he saw her, he unfolded his arms, and stood straight.

  Mama was direct. “May I help you, Mr. Fowler?”

  The change in him was remarkable. His mouth stretched big and wide, and that standoffish manner he’d held with me flew the coop as he extended a hand to her. She hesitated before she took it. After that, she crossed her arms over her chest. For the first time since Daddy died, she allowed a tiny polite smile to soften her face as she tilted her head to look at him, like she was curious why he was here. I found I didn’t really like her smiling at him, and I wasn’t sure why, although maybe I was jealous on Daddy’s behalf, as if no other male ought to have her smiles, only him. I wondered whether or not Mr. Fowler had ever been married. He looked to be about the same age as Daddy, maybe a little younger.

  Mr. Fowler said, “Noticed them empty fields. Used to seeing cotton growed up a good bit by now. Decided I’d see for myself what was going on.”

  Mama was no longer smiling. “Have you not heard about my husband, Mr. Fowler?”

  “It’s Frank.”

  Mama shifted away from him a little, and looked toward the fields. She’d shut down, digesting the way he’d responded to her question.

  He pushed his hair back. “Heard about it. Condolences to you, and your family.”

  Mama said, “Is there something else?”

  “Don’t mean to get into your business, but, ain’t you planting this year?”

  Mama started to reply, but he kept on, sounding like he was quite disturbed about the empty acreage as they stood side by side, facing the empty fields.

  He gestured at the land, and then, like he was continuing this private conversation with himself, he said, “Sure, sure. Time’s needed for the grieving and such. Look here at these empty fields. Got to make do somehow though.”

  Mama didn’t say nothing, likely thinking he was a nut ball. Maybe thinking it wasn’t none of his business.

  When she said nothing, he went on talking again to himself. “Always been something in the ground by now. Reckon they could be in a bind.”

  He waited then, and said no more. Mama, strong woman that she is, put a hand up to her cheek, and embarrassment is what I read in her expression.

  She lifted her shoulders, and let them drop and said, “That’s about the extent of it.”

  He reached into his shirt pocket for a cigarette. He smoked no-filter Camels, cigarettes Daddy had said would singe the insides of your lungs if you weren’t used to them. He shook one out and offered it to Mama. She hesitated like she was deliberating on how it might appear, his offering her a cigarette, and then shook her head.

  She said, “No, thank you kindly.”

  He stuck it in his mouth.

  After he lit it, had a puff or two, he glanced at me, and the tone to his voice altered a degree, coming out a little less soft. “Where’s them two boys?”

  His eyes narrowed, and I had the thought he would snap his fingers under my nose for me to answer—quick—if Mama hadn’t been there.

  She answered before I could. “Ross is around back somewhere, and I’m not sure where Trent is at the moment.”

  He turned back to her. “They work the cotton?”

  “They do.”

  “They know what to do and all?”

  Mama said, “Course, they growed up doing it.”

  Mr. Fowler smoked some more, then said, “What about her?”

  He dipped his head toward me.

  Mama said, “Sonny works it too. Matter of fact, she’s like her daddy. Loves it.”

  “That so?”

  She nodded, turned to me, her lips curved upward and it made me feel a bit better ’cause when she could smile, it told me she wasn’t none too worried about the conversation.

  “Thinking on something, but it’s up to you entirely. No skin off my back if you say yes or no.”

  Mama raised her chin a bit and said, “Oh? And what’s that?”

  “A few years back, kind a had a little interest in the land here, only your husband, he won’t into selling. Offered him a nice, tidy sum seeing as it bac
ks right up to the end of my property.”

  I hadn’t heard about this before.

  I had a split second of anxiousness that’s what he was after again before Mama cut him off. “I remember, and I’m not inclined to sell, Mr. Fowler, particularly not now.”

  “Didn’t imagine you would be. Got a different proposition, more like financing the crop this year. Buy the seed, and you all tend to it, and come time to harvest, maybe get some help here, and when it goes to market, we agree on a cut. Should give you enough and some to set aside for next year.”

  Mama angled her head, as if studying on his suggestion. I couldn’t say I really knew his ways, other than to think he might have a little higher regard for himself than was warranted, but, although his idea didn’t sound so bad, why would he care when he ain’t never come over here in all these years?

  I was relieved she didn’t jump right on the idea. “Well, I’ve taken in some ironing and such, and if Ross can get a part-time job . . .”

  He stopped her. “Won’t make enough to pay bills and keep this place up to boot.”

  Mama’s shoulders drew up, and I recollected Daddy always talking about the cost of the upkeep with so much acreage. We had to keep fields mowed we didn’t plant in, which meant we needed fuel, plus there’d be repairs to equipment meaning the cost of parts, and that didn’t count the regular bills, or the fact that I liked to eat and so did Ross and Trent.

  Mama paused a moment, and then she asked, “What’s it to you, exactly? What’s the catch?”

  His eyebrows raised up, and he rubbed his hands together. “Why see? Knew you’d want to hear an offer ’fore you turned it down.”

  Mama said, “Why wouldn’t I?”

  She sounded annoyed. She didn’t much tolerate foolishness from anyone.

  “Figured a fifty/fifty split would be about right.”

  Mama said, “I don’t know about that. We’d be doing most of the work from the start and into the end of growing season. If I were to even consider it, I’d say more like seventy/thirty.”

  He actually chuckled, and it made him less severe, almost easygoing like Daddy. Maybe he took warming up to, and once he’d got to know folks, he allowed his true self to show.