Step carefully
oh divining daughter,
How deeply runs,
that hidden water
T. W. C. 12-25-54
It wasn’t the prettiest thing I’d ever received, but it meant more to me than a store-bought gift. He was different since Daddy’s passing, as if the absence of his firm hand and watchful eye had turned him more spiteful, and mean, like he was souring from the inside out, turning into a stranger.
Long as I can remember I’d trailed behind my brothers, wanting to be part of whatever they were up to, if they’d let me. I worshipped both of them, but Trent had only thought of me as this worrisome little pest who wouldn’t leave him alone. There was a day, when I was around eight, he’d shoved me down for staying on his heels, asking him questions. I skinned my knees and banged my chin. Mama tended to the cuts and scrapes, painting my skin orange with Mercurochrome while Trent stood in the doorway, defiant.
She waved him away. “Go to your room and wait for your father.”
When she said, “father,” and not “daddy,” we knew the thing we despised most was going to happen. I begged her not to have Daddy whip him.
I pleaded over and over, “He didn’t mean to. He didn’t mean to.”
All Mama said was, “It’ll teach him to be more careful. He’s got to learn his lesson.”
I was so worried, I thought I might get sick. Daddy came in from the field and Mama pointed to my bandaged chin and knees, while I sobbed they didn’t hurt, they didn’t hurt at all. Daddy wasted no time taking his belt from his pants, and went down the hall toward my brother’s bedroom. I followed him, and stood by the door as he went in.
I cried even harder when I heard Trent saying, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
Daddy said, “Don’t apologize to me. When I’m done, it’s your sister you’ll apologize to. Son, this is gonna hurt me worse than you.”
He always said that. Then he told Trent to drop his pants, and when the sound came, I jumped. The noise of it hitting his bare skin was sharp and quick as were Trent’s howls of, “Ow! Ow! Ow!”
It was never more than three licks, but it seemed like a lot more to me.
Daddy always ended our punishments with “Now, you sit there a while and think about what you did, and when you’re done, you apologize.”
“Yes, s-s-sir.”
Daddy came out, the belt coiled around his hand.
He gripped my shoulder and pulled me along with him, saying, “Let him be, Sonny. Let him cool off.”
Later, the apology Trent offered was quick, done out of duty than any real remorse. His face still splotchy, he was mad as a hornet held in a jar. He let me hug him, he didn’t dare push me away after he’d just been punished, yet the way he held his body, unyielding, told me it was all he could do to stand my embrace.
I overheard Mama telling Daddy, “Where does he get these moods?”
“You.”
Mama gave a soft laugh. “To a degree.”
Trent got back at me later on, but I kept my tongue. He pushed me down, at least twice, each and every day, an act of opportunity, on the sly, and away from everyone else’s eyes. It went on until one day, I stayed down, my knees bloody once again, my clothes grass stained and dusty, my head bowed. Satisfied, Trent walked away. I never followed after him again.
I glanced down at the willow branch in my hands. It meant nothing to Mr. Fowler. He’d never believe I could find water, just like I’d never understand Trent. I took it back to my room, and after getting a hoe out of the shed, I followed the tractor path down to the field where Ross plowed. I got to chopping with a vengeance, a way of ridding myself of what I was thinking and feeling in that moment. Ross turned around at the end of the field and was on his way back when I motioned at him. He idled the tractor down, and I climbed up, and told him what Mr. Fowler said about Daddy getting snake bit.
He wiped the sweat off his face, and pushed his hat back a little before he spoke. “I don’t care nothing for him, but keep quiet about it, understand? We’ll see this through to the end, get our money and be done with him.”
“I ain’t gonna say nothing.”
Ross nodded and said, “It’ll all work out, wait and see.”
When we sat down to eat later on, the atmosphere around the table was stagnant with unspoken words. Ross and I were in a snit about Mr. Fowler’s comment while Trent fumed at the idea of us enjoying Mama’s crispy fried chicken, tasty gravy, and fluffy biscuits. He stared down at the scrawny, somewhat charred squirrel, and leaned against the back of his chair, his demeanor saying he might put up a fight. He looked around the table at everyone’s plate, then back down at his.
Mama said, “You can have what we’re having after you finish that, but by God, you’re gonna eat it.”
Trent glared at the squirrel like it was the squirrel’s fault for being there on his plate.
Mr. Fowler helped himself to gravy, and out of the blue, he said, “Do as your mama said.”
Ross and I shared a disbelieving look while Trent leaned forward and grabbed hold of a leg. If Mama thought anything about Mr. Fowler inserting himself, it was hidden as she rose from the table to pour him some sweet tea.
Chapter 11
June went into July with no rain in sight. In the mornings, the sky was a steely blue, and by afternoon, large billowy clouds appeared like ghosts on the horizon. The most they offered was a quick splattering of a few large drops lasting seconds, and then the sky cleared again, and soon there was serious talk about drought. Ross and I went to pick up a couple things Mama needed and I saw something that scared me, even though I had nothing to worry about. It was as if the weather set off a fever in some folks, gave them a case of heatstroke so they would act out, do things they ought not be doing.
Ross said, “Damnation. Look there.”
He didn’t need to tell me to look ’cause how could anybody miss it. Smoldering in a front yard of a family I knew to be colored was the remnants of a burned cross.
Shocked, I couldn’t stop staring, and I had to twist around in the seat to keep it in sight until we rounded a curve.
I faced forward and said, “When you reckon that happened?”
He pressed on the gas pedal, putting distance between us and what we’d seen.
His voice was low, and he said, “Looks to have been just last night.”
We’d heard of such before, but had never caught sight of such doings. Daddy had once brought up another similar incident after reading about it in the newspaper. Hearing and seeing sure was different though.
Without thinking, I said, “I’m glad I’m not colored.”
Ross made a noise and said, “It shouldn’t matter.”
“But it does, doesn’t it. I mean, if we were colored, we might have somebody burning a cross in our front yard.”
“It ain’t supposed to matter, is what Daddy used to say.”
“I know, but it does, doesn’t it?”
“To some around here, it seems to.”
“You mean them people who dress up in white. They look scary to me.”
“Them, and even some ain’t part of that.”
“Well, if I was colored, I’d be scared.”
“You’d have a right to be.”
We both grew quiet. I don’t know what Ross was thinking, but I was thinking how the front door of that house stood wide open, and how the screen door swung back and forth in the breeze, like whoever’d lived there was long gone. I couldn’t blame them, except they’d had to give up their own home, like they had no right to it, or no right to live their life like everyone else all ’cause they had darker skin. It stuck with me the rest of the ride into Flatland, and nagged at me as we entered the store, my sense of it causing me to seek out if there were any coloreds inside. There weren’t, but I realized from that point on, I’d probably pay more attention to what went on with them.
After we got what Mama needed at the A&P, we stopped to get a drink at Slater’s Supp
ly.
Ross gave me a warning before we went in. “Don’t say nothing about that cross back there.”
“Why not? Don’t you reckon everyone’s seen it?”
“Oh yeah, sure enough, but they’ll act like they don’t know nothing about it.”
We went in and Ross headed for the drink machine off to the side. He slipped a dime into the coin slot and pulled the narrow glass door open. He handed me a sweaty Pepsi, got himself one and all the while, there was a running commentary by men standing near the register at the back. Nobody cared about that cross. They were all focused on what appeared to be a more important matter. The lack of rain.
“We’re long overdue, I ’spect.”
“Ain’t seen it like this in a while.”
“It hit the mid-nineties yesterday. That’s ten days going.”
“Corn already done dried slam up over to McNeely’s place.”
Ross grabbed some Nabs off the shelf and made his way to Mr. Slater, who looked happy to see us.
He snapped open a small brown bag, dumped the crackers in, took Ross’s quarter, and asked, “How’s that newfangled cotton crop turning out?”
Ross said, “Like everyone else’s, I reckon. Needs rain.”
Mr. Slater said, “Sure could use it. Everything’s drying up.”
There was a murmuring of agreement, boots scuffling against the floorboards, creating a soft rustling, like dried corn stalks rubbing together. I looked at the sun-burned faces, creases around eyes as deep set as a furrowed field, hands as roughened as the sides of a weather worn tobacco barn. They’d been farming long enough to know what they talked about. I recognized a couple of the men standing around, the ones who’d had Daddy dowse their land. They didn’t seem quite as worried. Daddy had said our pond was spring fed, and it would take a real mean drought for it to ever get low, but long as we didn’t have a pump and generator to get water to the fields, it wasn’t doing us much good. Mr. Fowler already made it clear he’d find it difficult to accept my word on finding water anyway. I couldn’t quite figure out why he wouldn’t want to help things along, considering the money already spent. It was like he was wanting us to fail somehow.
Mr. Slater said, “Frank Fowler’s been in here a few times, said he’s working over to your place right much.”
Ross’s answer was shorter this time. “Yeah.”
Mr. Slater looked like he wanted to keep asking more questions and the others gathered grew quiet which told me everyone was curious about what was happening at the Creech farm. Daniel’s words came back to me about Mr. Earl and Mrs. Grissom getting married so quick after Mr. Grissom’s passing. Is that what everyone here was thinking?
Ross grabbed the little bag and said, “We got to go.”
Silence followed us and I was relieved to get outside. There was an odor in the air, one of things drying up, an arid, parched scent like cut hay in the fall, and it was blended with the underlying aroma of the large chicken houses, powerful and strong. They could be miles away but on a day like this, you could smell them like you were standing right next to one. The door handle sizzled when I touched it and I had to use my shirttail to pull it open. I slid into the cab, and the vinyl seat burned through the backside of my dungarees and T-shirt. I pushed my hair off my forehead and fanned myself with my hand, then took another swig of Pepsi.
I glanced at Ross and said, “Everyone thinks it’s weird about Mr. Fowler.”
Ross said, “That’s ’cause it is.”
He pulled out of the parking lot and I dug into the bag for a pack of Nabs. I looked at the fields of cotton growing, along with tobacco, the soybeans, and corn. The corn was lost. Some of the cotton crops looked about like ours, the leaves going limp, instead of bearing up under the relentless sun. Then there were those who had irrigation lines set up, the portable pumps and diesel generators stationed, flinging water over the plants and that cotton looked great. It was a fascinating thing to see, like defying Mother Nature. We rode with the windows down, munching on the crackers, chasing them with cold swigs from our bottles, and I remembered all the times before when we’d done this very thing, back when Daddy was still alive. In the course of a few months, Ross was not only walking and acting like him, he’d even started to look more like him, more mature, with his upper lip and jaws showing he’d started to shave, evident by a tiny nick here and there. He’d also been spending time with Addie Simmons, and I figured they were getting along good ’cause he usually came back looking pretty happy. He slowed down as we neared Turtle Pond Road.
He cleared his throat and said, “Reckon you could find water?”
Ross believed in me, and with his encouragement, I wanted to try.
“I think so. But he doesn’t think I can.”
I didn’t have to clarify who.
Ross said, “What? Why?”
“’Cause I’m twelve.”
“He don’t know a damn thing.”
I pictured Ross and Trent digging where I showed them, then bringing up bucket after bucket of underground water. With proof, Mr. Fowler ought to have no problem buying whatever was necessary. Soon there would be water running down the neatly chopped rows, and the cotton plants would draw it in, and stand tall and green once again, as if Daddy’s hands had guided my own, as if he’d finally answered me.
I said, “I want to try.”
Ross rubbed his head, thinking, and as we rounded a curve, an out of place red spot appeared ahead of us in the road.With hope, I leaned forward, and sure enough, as we got closer I could see who it was pedaling so furiously.
“Hey, there’s Daniel!”
Ross said, “Now there’s a crazy fool in this heat.”
He honked the horn and Daniel glanced over his shoulder, then came to a stop and waited until we pulled up beside him. His red shirt was damp, and his hair too. He put a hand over his eyes, shielding them from the glaring sun and I noticed the shine of sweat on his arm. His face was flushed, but Daniel looked so handsome to me in that moment, I was almost as starstruck at the sight of him as I would have been at Elvis Presley.
He was breathing hard and said, “Hey . . . y’all.”
A slight breeze caught hold of his hair and waved it about his head. He shook it out of the way, and my heart did that new little fluttering thing again, while any words I would have normally spoken lay puddled inside my mouth.
Ross said, “How about a ride?”
Daniel nodded with relief. I watched in my side mirror as he lifted his bike into the back, noting how the muscles in his arms twitched. I forced my eyes forward, staring out the windshield instead. I slid over so he could climb in on my side bringing a whiff of sweat, pine trees, and the sun. I inhaled deep as I could, and let my breath out slow. Ross put the truck back in gear and we continued on. I offered Daniel some of my Pepsi. He took the bottle and drank, wiped his mouth and handed it back. We’d shared many a cold drink just this way, but I’d never considered my mouth being where his had been, and liking the idea of it. I thought about that as I drank a swallow or two. I offered him more, and he took the bottle again, and between us we finished it off quick.
I asked an obvious question, just to hear his answer. “Were you coming to see me?”
Daniel rolled his eyes and said, “I sure ain’t coming to see ole what’s his name. Oh, Ross, Sarah said hi.”
Ross merely grunted.
It only took us a couple more minutes to get back to the house. On the back steps, as predicted, sat Mr. Fowler smoking a Camel. A tiny groan came out of me when he stood like he’d been waiting on us. We got out of the truck and he stared at the empty drink bottles we held.
He threw his cigarette on the ground and said, “Where y’all been?”
Ross started for the house with Mama’s things, tossing an explanation over his shoulder, while holding up the box of detergent. “Mama asked me to get her some stuff in town.”
Mr. Fowler said, “Wait just a minute,” and he pointed at the drink bottle I’d held. �
�I’m thinking them drinks ain’t part of what your mama asked for.”
Ross paused, and then with careful deliberation, he said, “And I don’t recall you being put in charge of everything we do around here.”
I wished I’d been the one brave enough to say it.
Mr. Fowler’s eyebrows went together, a solid dark line of agitation. “Oh, I get it now. I bet you thought you were supposed to be the one in charge after your old man died, is that it? Is that it?”
Ross looked uncomfortable like Mr. Fowler hit a nerve.
Mr. Fowler said, “Shit, you’re still wet behind the ears, boy. You got a long ways to go before you know what you’re talking about, much less what you’re doing. You listen now. You better think twice before you say something like that to me again. You better learn to appreciate what’s being done for you.”
Ross said, “We’ve been busting our tails ever since you got here, doing everything you tell us.”
Mr. Fowler’s voice got louder. “We got a long ways to go, and that means we ain’t got no goddamn time for y’all to be riding about the countryside, drinking cold drinks, and picking up the likes a him on the side of the road.”
Ross said, “Thirty minutes hardly accounts for much riding around when we work till dark as it is.”
“Every single minute counts, boy.”
“I ain’t got to listen to this, and his name is Daniel.”
Mr. Fowler looked like he might not be well. He grew shaky and pale at every comeback Ross had. I peeked over my shoulder again, looking for Mama, but she was nowhere in sight. I considered running to get her when it looked like they might actually start fighting. Mr. Fowler stepped closer as Ross backed away.
The Forgiving Kind Page 11
