by Ron Rash
“Get stoned,” Thomas said, his eyes fully open now. He laid a hand on Wendy’s thigh, caressed it a moment, and removed his hand. “Make love, not war.”
“And everybody’s young,” Wendy said. “You have to go there to believe it.”
“I want to go there someday,” Sabra said.
“Then one day you will,” Wendy said, “and once you get there, you will never want to leave.”
“Well, when I do,” Sabra said, “the first people I’ll look for are you all.”
“Of course,” Wendy said. “You can stay with us until you find a pad of your own, can’t she, Thomas?”
“Sure,” Thomas said, “but why wait when you can hitch a ride on the magic bus.”
At first Sabra thought Thomas was joking, but he wasn’t grinning or even cracking a smile. Wendy wasn’t grinning either. Sabra thought about what it would be like once Thomas and Wendy left. She’d see no one near her age until Sunday. But even then it would be the same people and they’d be talking about the same things and in the same way.
“You mean go with you?” Sabra asked. “Tomorrow, I mean?”
“Tomorrow or even tonight,” Thomas said.
“I would like to go with you,” Sabra said softly, wanting to pretend a bit longer that she actually might.
“You would be welcome,” Wendy said, “but it might be better if you waited awhile. I mean, how old are you?”
“Seventeen.”
Thomas looked at Wendy.
“Hell, you were just a year older when I found you. A lot of girls out there are as young or younger. This is what it’s all about, babe, being free while you’re young enough to realize what freedom is.”
“I guess so,” Wendy said.
Thomas nodded at the strand of beads coiled in Sabra’s palm.
“Why don’t you try them on,” he said.
Sabra slipped the beads over her head, tugged at them so they settled next to the other strand. She thought about what her father would say if he saw them on her. Or her mother, she’d not like them either. Thomas sifted more marijuana onto the smoking papers, twisted the ends.
“What’s it really like then?” Sabra asked. “The marijuana, I mean?”
“Like dreaming, except you’re awake,” Thomas said.
“But only good dreams,” Wendy added, “the kind you want to have.”
“But it doesn’t hurt you?” Sabra asked, looking at Wendy.
“No,” Wendy said. “It helps heal you, makes the bad things go away.”
Thomas lit the joint and held it out to Sabra.
“You can try it if you like, or I’ve got some serious mind candy.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out an aspirin bottle, the label half torn away. Inside were round pink tablets mixed with blue-and-red capsules the shape of .22 shorts.
Sabra took the joint.
“Breathe in and hold it in your lungs as long as you can,” Thomas said.
“Not too long at first,” Wendy cautioned, “because it will make you cough.”
Sabra did what they said, stifled a cough, and handed the joint back to Thomas, who took two quick draws, exhaled. They’d passed the joint around twice more before Thomas reached out his free hand, twined a portion of Wendy’s hair around a finger. He pulled his finger back slowly, hair tugging the scalp a moment before he let the hair slip free.
“Come here, baby.”
Thomas inhaled and Wendy moved closer, let the smoke funnel into her mouth.
“Now you,” Thomas said.
When Sabra didn’t move, he slid over to her.
“Open your mouth,” Thomas said.
She shut her eyes, did what he asked, felt his warm smoky breath in her throat and lungs. As Thomas’s breath expired, his lips brushed hers.
Thomas pushed himself back against the stall door, took a long final draw, and rubbed the residue into his jeans. Wendy covered her face with both hands. She giggled, then lifted her hands to reveal a wide grin.
“I am soo stoned.”
“I told you it was good shit,” Thomas said.
“It is good,” Sabra agreed, though she felt no difference except a dryness in the throat.
“If we had brought the transistor we could dance,” Wendy said.
“I doubt they play much Quicksilver or Dead around here, baby,” Thomas said. “Motown either.”
Sabra thought of the record player, but even if she’d had some 45s there’d be no place to plug it in.
Wendy’s face brightened.
“I can hum songs, though. That will be almost as good. I’ll be like a jukebox and play anything we want.”
Wendy moved the flashlight so that it shone toward the barn’s center. She stood and placed a hand around Thomas’s upper arm.
“Come on,” she said.
Thomas got up and Wendy pressed her head against his chest.
“What song do you want, babe?”
“ ‘White Rabbit,’ ” Thomas said.
Wendy began to hum and she and Thomas swayed side to side, their feet barely moving. Sabra wished she had some water for her parched throat. She was reaching for the milk when it happened. Thomas and Wendy, the barn, the night itself slid back a ways and then returned, except everything felt off plumb. For a few moments all Sabra felt was panic. She closed her eyes and tried to block out everything except Wendy’s humming. Soon the humming seemed as much inside of her as outside. Sabra felt it even in her fingertips, a pleasant tingling. When she opened her eyes, it did feel like a dream, a warm good dream. She watched Thomas and Wendy dance, holding each other so close together. They were in love and not afraid to show it. Never had anything so beautiful, so wondrous, ever happened on this farm. Never.
Wendy stopped humming but still pressed her head against Thomas’s chest.
“What song now?” Wendy asked.
“I don’t care,” Thomas said, “but Sabra should get a dance too.”
“Yes,” Wendy agreed.
“I don’t think I can,” Sabra said. “I’m dizzy.”
Thomas went over and helped Sabra to her feet, steadied her a moment, and led her to the barn’s center.
“What song do you want, Sabra?” Wendy asked.
“I don’t know,” she answered. “You pick one.”
“I’ll do ‘Both Sides Now,’ ” Wendy said. “It’s a pretty song.”
Wendy sat by the stall door and began to hum. Thomas put his arm around Sabra’s waist and pulled her close. She let her head lie against his chest like Wendy had. A few times she and Sheila had pretended to dance, copying couples on television who glided across ballrooms, but this was easier. You just leaned into each other and moved your feet a little. A part of her seemed to watch from somewhere else as she and Thomas danced, close yet far away at the same time. She could smell Thomas, musky but not so bad. He leaned his face closer to hers.
“Someone as lovely as you has to have a boyfriend.”
“No,” Sabra said, not adding that her parents wouldn’t allow her to date yet.
“I find that hard to believe,” Thomas said, “just as hard to believe that you’re really seventeen. How old are you, really?”
“Sixteen.”
“Sweet sixteen,” Thomas said. “That’s old enough.”
He placed his free hand against her back, brought Sabra even closer, her breasts flattening against his chest. The hand on her waist resettled where spine and hip met, all of her pressed into him now. She could feel him through the denim. Their feet no longer moved and only their hips swayed. Sabra looked over at Wendy, whose eyes were closed as she hummed the last few notes.
“What song do you two want next?” Wendy asked.
Sabra slipped free of Thomas’s embrace. The barn wobbled a few moments and she had to stare at her sneakers, the straw and dirt under them, to keep her balance. When the barn resettled it had shrunk, especially the barn mouth.
“It’s your turn, Wendy,” Sabra said.
Wendy opened her eyes.
“I’ve had him all day, so you get him now.”
Thomas settled a hand on Sabra’s upper arm.
“Wendy doesn’t mind sharing,” he said.
“I’m dizzy,” Sabra said, “too dizzy to dance anymore.”
Thomas nodded, let his hand slide down her inner arm, his fingers brushing over her palm.
“That’s fine,” Thomas said. “The first time you do things, it’s always a bit scary. It was the same for Wendy.”
“So another dance with me, baby?” Wendy asked. “Or is it time to unplug the jukebox?”
“Time to unplug the jukebox,” Thomas said. “Time to get back on the road.”
“I thought you were staying until morning,” Sabra said.
“This bus has no set schedule,” Thomas said. “When it comes by, you either get on board or you’re left behind.”
Wendy put the elastic and beads in the backpack and tightened the straps. She stood up, a bit unsteadily, and walked over to the barn mouth.
“So,” Thomas said, staring at Sabra, “ready to get on the bus?”
“I want to go, it’s just… ” Sabra paused. “I mean, I was thinking maybe you all could give me your address, or a phone number. That way I can find you.”
“But you’re coming,” Thomas said, locking his eyes on hers. “It’s just that you’re not sure you should leave tonight.”
“Yes,” Sabra said. “That’s what I mean.”
“The moon has turned sideways and is making a smiley face,” Wendy said, “really and truly.”
Thomas picked up the flashlight and leaned against a stall. He let the beam shine on the floor between him and Sabra. She could barely make out his face.
“Sometimes if you’re chained,” Thomas said, “other people have to set you free.”
“I’m not chained,” Sabra said.
“If that were true, you’d leave right now,” Thomas said. “I can teach every part of you how to be free, your mind and your body.”
“I’ve got to go,” Sabra said.
A match flared. Thomas slowly lowered the match into the stall. His hand came back up empty.
“Like I said, sometimes it takes someone else to set you free.”
“That’s not funny,” Sabra said. “I think you need to leave too.”
“Come see the smiley face,” Wendy said.
Sabra heard the fire first, a crackling inside the stall, but she didn’t believe it until she smelled smoke. Flames began licking through the stall slats. Sabra snatched the horse blanket from the barn floor, was about to the open the stall door when Thomas’s arm stopped her.
“Come on,” he said. “We’ve got to leave.”
“No,” Sabra shouted, and tore herself free.
She opened the stall door and swatted at the flames, but they had already leaped into the next stall. The blanket caught fire and she couldn’t put it out. The fire climbed into the loft and soon Sabra could barely see through the smoke. She stumbled out of the barn. Smoke wadded like cotton in her lungs and she coughed all the way to the spring trough. The farmhouse lights were on and her father was running toward the barn, Jeffrey and her mother trailing behind. In the high pasture she saw a beam of light pause where the fence was, then move onto parkway land and disappear.
Sabra didn’t know if she had slept or not, but she was awake when the dark in the east began to lighten. Her mother came into her room a few minutes later and told Sabra that barn or no barn, the cow would need to be milked. Sabra got dressed. When she passed through the front room, her father was asleep on the couch, still in his overalls. Soot grimed his face and hands and he smelled of smoke. The black patch where the barn had been yet smoldered, the milk pail nearby, lying on its side. The cow was drinking at the spring trough and looked up as Sabra walked by. She went on past the charred ground and into the high pasture and slipped through the fence.
The bus wasn’t there, but the flashlight was in the grass by the curb. She switched it off and made her way back up the slope and into the high pasture. Below, the cow had left the spring trough and stood by the barn’s ashes, waiting to be milked, not knowing where else to go.
The Dowry
After Mrs. Newell took away his plate and coffee cup, Pastor Boone lingered at the table and watched the thick flakes fall. The garden angel’s wings were submerged, the redbud’s dark branches damasked white. Be grateful it’s not stinging sleet, Pastor Boone told himself as Mrs. Newell returned to the rectory’s dining room.
“You’ll catch the ague if you go out in such weather,” the housekeeper said, and nodded at his Bible. “Instead of hearing yourself read the Good Book, you’ll be hearing it read over your coffin.”
“Hear it, Mrs. Newell?” Pastor Boone smiled. “Do you dispute church doctrine that the dead remain so until Christ’s return?”
“Pshaw,” the housekeeper said. “You know my meaning.”
Pastor Boone nodded.
“Yes, we could wish for a better day, but I promised I would come.”
“Another week won’t matter,” the housekeeper said. “Youthful folk have all the time in the world.”
“It’s been eight months, Mrs. Newell,” he reminded her, “and, alas, they are not so youthful, especially Ethan. Two years of war took much of his youth from him, perhaps all.”
“I still say they can wait another week,” the housekeeper said. “Maybe by then the Colonel will die of spite and cap a snuffer on all this fuss.”
“I worry more that in a week Ethan will be the one harmed,” Pastor Boone replied, “and by his own volition.”
The housekeeper let out an exasperated sigh.
“Let me fetch Mr. Newell to hitch the horse and drive you out there.”
“No, it’s Sunday,” Pastor Boone said. “If he’ll ready the buggy, that’s enough. The solitude will allow me to reflect on next week’s sermon.”
The snow showed no signs of letting up as he released the brake handle, but the buggy’s canvas roof kept the snow off him, and the overcoat’s thick wool provided enough warmth. The wheels shushed through the town’s trodden snow. There were no other sounds, the storefronts shuttered and yards and porches empty; the only signs of habitation were windows lambent with hearth light. He passed Noah Andrews’s house. The physician would scold him for being out in such inhospitable weather, but Noah, also in his seventies, would do the same if summoned. Above, a low sky dulled to the color of lead. An appropriateness in that, Pastor Boone thought.
When the war had begun five years ago, he had watched as families who’d lived as good neighbors, many kin somewhere in their lineage, became implacable enemies. Fistfights occurred and men carried rifles to church services, though at least, unlike in other parts of the county, no killing had occurred within the community. Instead, local men died at Cold Harbor and Stones River and Shiloh, which in Hebrew, he’d told Noah Andrews, meant “place of peace.” The majority of the church’s congregants sided with the Union, those men riding west to join Lincoln’s army in Tennessee, but some, including the Davidsons, joined the Secessionists. Pastor Boone’s sympathies were with the Union as well, though no one other than Noah Andrews knew so. To hold together what frayed benevolence remained in the church, a pastor need appear neutral, he’d told himself. Yet there were times he suspected his silence had been mere cowardice.
Now Ethan Burke, who fought for the Union, wanted to marry Colonel Davidson’s daughter, Helen. The couple had come to him before last week’s service, once again pleading for his help. They had known each other all their lives, been baptized in the French Broad by Pastor Boone on the same spring Sunday. When Ethan and Helen were twelve, they’d asked if he’d marry them when they came of age. The adults had been amused. Since the war’s end last spring, Pastor Boone had watched them talking together before and after church, seen their quick touches. But when Ethan called on Helen at the Davidsons’ farm, the Colonel met him at the door, a Colt pistol in his remaining hand. You’ll not step on thi
s porch again and live, he’d vowed. Ethan and Helen had taken Colonel Davidson at his word. Every Sunday afternoon for eight months Ethan, whose family owned only a swaybacked mule, walked three miles to the Davidson farm and did the chores most vexing for a one-handed man. While Helen watched from the porch, Ethan replaced the barn’s warped boards and rotting shingles, cleaned out the well, and stacked hay bales in the loft. Afterward, he stood on the steps and talked to Helen until darkness began settling over the valley. Then he’d walk back to the farmhouse where his widowed mother and younger siblings awaited him.
The congregants who’d fought Union seemed ready to leave the war behind them, even Reece Triplett, who’d lost two brothers at Cold Harbor, but not Colonel Davidson, nor his nephew and cousin, who’d served under the Colonel in the North Carolina Fifty-Fifth. Easier for the victors than the vanquished to forgive, Pastor Boone knew. Colonel Davidson sat stone-faced through the sermons, and unlike Ethan and the other veterans, including his own kinsmen, the Colonel wore his butternut field coat to every service. When Pastor Boone suggested that it was time to put the uniform away, Colonel Davidson nodded at the empty sleeve. Some things don’t let you forget, Pastor, he had replied brusquely. Give me back a hand and I’ll be ready to forgive, as your Bible says.
Ethan had been there that Sunday, and knew, just as Pastor Boone knew, that the man was serious. Even before the war, Colonel Davidson had been a hard man, quick to take offense at the least slight. Once a peddler quipped that Davidson’s stallion looked better suited for plowing and it took the sheriff and two other men to keep him from thrashing the fellow. A hard man made harder by four years of watching men die all around him, and, of course, the hand cleaved by grapeshot. But others had suffered too. Pastor Boone had seen it in the faces of old and young alike. He had witnessed families grieving, sometimes brought news of the death himself. Those who didn’t have men in the war endured their share of fear and deprivation as well. Hardships he himself had been spared. Even in the war’s brutal last winter, he had never lacked firewood and food, and, childless, no son to fear for. No outliers had abused him. Almost alone in that dark time, he, Christ’s shepherd, had been blessed.
