by Jan Watson
“Come on in,” Dance called from just inside the door.
“I’ll sit here a minute,” Cara responded, “until Jay hears his riddle.”
The screen door squeaked open. Dance handed over baby Pauline. “Then take this’n for a while.” The screen door squeaked again. “And this’n too. I’ve got beans that need a stir.”
Cara settled in the porch rocker with three-month-old Pauline in her lap and thirteen-month-old Cleve on the floor. If she sat just so, she could steady Cleve between her feet and still rock Pauline. Wonder where Merky and Wilton were.
“Ace took the middle young’uns with him, else I never would have got these beans on the stove,” Dance said from the kitchen as if she’d read Cara’s mind.
“He’ll have his hands full with those two.” Cara pictured four-year-old Wilton, a little ball of fire, and two-and-a-half-year-old Merky, the prettiest baby girl she’d ever seen.
“He needs to have his hands full,” Dance said, stepping out onto the porch with a wooden spoon dripping brown bean soup. “You know what that man had the nerve to say to me this very morning?”
“I couldn’t venture a guess,” Cara answered.
“I was nursing this’n—” she pointed the spoon at Pauline—“and chasing that’n—” the spoon leveled at Cleve—“when Ace says to me, ‘Dance, ye need to turn off your baby maker.’”
Cara laughed so hard her feet lost purchase on little Cleve and he rolled over on his belly.
“It ain’t one bit funny,” Dance said. “Ye wouldn’t be laughing if it was you.”
Cara choked to a stop. “I’m sorry. What did you tell him?”
“Didn’t tell him nothing—just bounced the skillet off his thick head.”
“Dance!”
“Oh, it was just the little two-egg skillet.” Dance held the spoon down for Cleve to mouth. “Didn’t hurt him none.”
“Forgive me. . . .” Cara guffawed, tears of laughter leaking from her eyes. “Forevermore. What if you’d had the chicken fryer in hand?”
“Reckon we’d be walking around his body,” she said before the screen door slapped behind her.
Cara shook her head. There was no hope for those two. “I brought your shoes back, Dance,” she said toward the open door. “Thank ye for the loan.”
“You can keep them. I don’t go nowhere that calls for shoes no way.”
“They’re too tight for me. I’ve got blisters on my blisters.”
“I’ve got a pair that used to be Mommy’s,” Dance replied. “I’ll find them for you before you go.”
“Here you go,” Jay said, handing Cara a cup of cold well water. “Now can I have my riddle?”
“All right, listen close: Way down yonder at the forks of Sweetwater I found a pile of timber. I couldn’t rack it. I couldn’t whack it, for it was awful limber. What is it?”
Jay concentrated so hard his freckles stood out like raisins in a dish of oatmeal. “Couldn’t rack it. Couldn’t whack it,” he repeated. “That don’t make no sense.”
“Riddles don’t make sense until you figure the answer,” Cara said. “That’s what makes them fun.”
Jay ambled out into the yard, picked up a stick, and started knocking the tops off a stand of weeds. “Rack it! Whack it!” he yelled each time a horseweed fell.
Cara felt in her skirt pocket to make sure Jay’s penny was still there. She had precious few left. Sitting with the two babies, drinking the cold water, and watching Jay, she was truly happy for the first time in days.
“Jay,” Dance shouted, “stop that foolishness and go fetch some taters—if they’s any left.”
“What can I do to help?” Cara asked.
“Nothing better’n what you’re already doing.” Dance walked out and settled Cleve on her hip. “Jay! Go on now! These young’uns . . .” She shook her head. “I tell you the truth.”
“This is the best water I ever tasted,” Cara said.
“Ace found a spring up yonder. He rigged some sort of trough to run down to the well house, then fashioned a spigot that drips cold water into a wooden bucket.” Dance rolled her eyes. “It has to be a wooden bucket. Took him two weeks—he could have been helping with these young’uns.”
“Still, it is good water,” Cara said as she rocked on, content as a mother robin on a nest. Seemed like children either settled you down or drove you to distraction, one or the other. Though, to give Dance credit, Cara didn’t have to take them home with her. That thought made her heart pinch up. It didn’t seem fair, Dance having more than she wanted and her having none.
After a noon meal of fried potatoes and pinto beans, Cara gathered kindling to start a fire under the washtub in the side yard. It wasn’t hard to tell from the overfull basket in the corner of the kitchen that the washing hadn’t been done on Monday. Soon water was boiling and she was stirring a pile of whites with the laundry paddle. Jay was a good help, lugging water for rinsing and cords of wood to keep the fire going. If she hurried she should get half a wash done in time to dry. It looked like it had been a while since Dance did anything but diapers. Diapers you had to do every day.
“Want me to rinse them out?” Jay asked. “I know how.”
“No, honey,” Cara replied, the pail of dirty diapers in hand. “You watch the fire—now don’t get too close—and I’ll take these to the outhouse.”
“Law,” she said when she opened the outhouse door, “this needs a scrubbing.” After dipping the used diapers several times in a bucket of water laced with lye soap, she poured the slops down the outhouse hole.
It was with considerable pleasure she hung a dozen snowy white nappies on the line. A quick spring breeze sent them flapping in the sunlight. She knew from doing many a wash for her brothers and sisters that sunshine was a sure cure for diaper rash, and she had noticed a fine red spray on Pauline’s tiny bottom.
Cara thought she’d take to coming over on Mondays. She could do her little bit of laundry along with the Sheltons’. It would take a load off Dance, plus give Cara something to do. Just the thought gave her new vigor as she scrubbed down the outhouse. There ought to be enough wash water for the porch too. Cara loved wash day for that very fact—all that leftover soapy water for scrubbing. She was never more content than when she had a broom in hand. It made a body proud to see how much work could be done in one day.
Once the porch was done, she slipped into the house, mindful of the babies’ naps. Dance lay curled like a puppy around Pauline. Toddler Cleve lay across the same bed, his pudgy feet touching the small of his mother’s back. Dance’s eyelids fluttered open. She looks so pale, Cara thought. Her skin held no more color than skim milk.
Pauline fussed, waving her little hands about.
Dance opened her blouse to the baby. “I’m so tired, Cara. I can’t hardly stand it.”
Cara spoke quietly, telling Dance about her Monday plans and asked what else she could do. “You know I’m glad to help.”
“Ace is like a banty rooster strutting round here like he’s in charge of the world. He thinks we don’t need help.” Dance’s sigh spoke volumes.
When Cara went back outside, she found Jay sitting forlornly by the burned-out fire. “I guess I won’t get a penny today,” he said. “I can’t figure that riddle you gave me.”
“I’ll give you one clue. Go get your daddy’s rasp.”
Jay ran off and returned with the tool.
“Take this piece of wood and run the file over it. That’s right—back and forth several times, Jay.”
Tongue stuck out, Jay labored with the file until finally he stopped and looked at the little pile of dust he’d made. “Can’t rack it. Can’t whack it. Sawdust! Yippee! Do I get my penny now?”
It was dusky dark when Cara made her way back down the path to home. She had overstayed, purposefully lingering at the Sheltons’ until Ace got home, then making an excuse to get him alone for a minute. “I’m worried about Dance,” she told him. “How has she been, other than being run-down, I
mean?”
Ace rubbed the pump-knot on his temple. He’d soon have a black eye to go along with the knot. “Well, ye can see she’s got good aim. Hit me smack upside the head with a cast-iron skillet this morning. I’m glad I’d already eaten my eggs.”
“She might have had good reason for that.”
“I know. You’d think I’d learn.” He shook his head. “She had a bad spell last week—took to crying and wringing her hands, said her head was splitting. She sat and stared at the wall awhile before she came out of it.”
“I could take some of the children for a time.”
“I won’t never split my kids up. Thank ye anyway, Cara.” Ace drummed his hat against his leg. “She always gets a time of grace after the bad spells. Besides, I leave Jay home when I have to be gone. He watches out real good.”
“Whose funeral did you preach today?” Cara asked.
“Some feller I didn’t even know by the name of Orban Hanson. He lived over to Meeting House Branch. There was a right smart crowd.”
“How do you work that out—with the children and all?”
“There’s always some lady or two just itching to get their hands on a little one again. They never fail to make my kids welcome.” Ace rubbed his jaw. “I might start taking Cleve along too. Dance can handle Pauline, I reckon.”
His words lingered in her mind as she walked home. She hoped Ace was right. Dance’s mommy’s shoes hung over one shoulder from the knotted strings. A briar plucked at her dress. She stopped to pull it off and saw dozens of sticker weeds on her skirt tail. They’d be hob to get off. In the distance a dog howled. She picked up her pace. It would soon be dark.
CHAPTER 3
TUESDAY CAME and with it Ace to carry her back to town. Cara met him on the porch. She fretted about him leaving Dance alone until he told her he’d dropped the whole bunch off at Dance’s grandmother’s. “Fairy Mae was that glad to see them,” Ace said.
“That’s wonderful,” Cara remarked, “but how did you get Dance to go?”
“I was surprised myself when she took a notion to go over there. Usually takes a shoehorn to pry her off the place.”
“How is Fairy Mae?” Cara asked.
“Frail, crippled up from rheumatism.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Cara said, stepping to the door. “I’ll be just a minute, Ace. I’ve got to get my shoes and my bag.”
Soon they were on their way to town once again. Cara prayed for better luck this time. “What if Mr. Thomas’s office is still closed?”
“We’ll sit on the stoop until he gets around to opening it,” Ace said.
“Can’t we just give the money for Dimm’s fine to the sheriff?”
Ace flicked the reins and the horse picked up speed. “Don’t work that way. You’ve got to get a receipt so nobody can pocket the money and say you didn’t pay. Lawyers know all about that stuff. Mr. Thomas will protect your interests—so to speak.”
“I just pray he’s there,” Cara said.
“You worry too much,” Ace replied. “It will all work out. You’ll see.”
Cara wished she’d thought to slip her Bible into the linen sack along with the leather poke of money and the packet of cold ham biscuits for her and Ace to eat. She had taken to carrying the Bible around since her talk with Miz Copper. Just knowing it was there would give her comfort. She’d burned the midnight oil last night, darning socks and patching the knees on a pair of Dimm’s work pants, her nerves jangled and her stomach in knots, anticipating the trip to the jail. Finally she’d fallen asleep at the table with her head resting on her arms, a dark whisper of smoke staining the lamp’s glass chimney like a warning.
If it had not been such a daunting journey, Cara would have enjoyed being in town. Their first stop was Mr. Thomas’s office, where the sign in the window read, “Closed: Back in one hour.”
“One hour from what?” she asked Ace.
He pulled on a watch fob and withdrew a fancy round watch from his pocket. With a practiced move he snapped the case open. “Well, it’s ten o’clock now, so we’ll walk around for a while—give it half an hour or so.”
“But what if he comes and leaves again? What if he puts another sign in the window?” Cara twisted a hankie with her gloved fingers.
“Cara, look around. This ain’t New York City. You can see every building on this street from wherever you are.”
“Sorry. I just feel like I’m jumping out of my skin.”
Ace unsnapped his watch from the fob. “Here, you carry this and watch the time. That’ll make you feel better.”
Touched, Cara felt a spurt of tears as she fingered the heavy, filigreed case. “This is very nice, Ace.”
“My folks gave it to me when I was ordained into the ministry. They came all the way from Maryland for the ceremony on Troublesome Creek.”
“How’d you wind up in Kentucky if your folks are from Maryland?” They walked along companionably, window-shopping. Cara’s nerves began to settle like birds on a wire, quiet for the moment.
“There was a big camp meeting over in Virginia that my folks went to. I met Dance there—she was with her family then, though generally she lived with her mammaw Fairy Mae. I was lost from the moment I first spied her. When she went home to Kentucky, I followed like a lovesick hound dog.”
They paused in front of the pharmacy. Cara gawked to see so much merchandise displayed in the window. White granite basins, rolls of tape, thermometers, and metal bed warmers with long wire handles vied for attention. “That bed warmer sure would feel good on winter nights,” she said.
“Dimmert will soon be home to warm up your cold feet,” Ace replied.
“I sure hope you’re right about that,” she said.
“We’ll want to cross here.” Ace steered her into the dusty street. “You don’t want to go past the pool hall. There’s some rough customers haunts that place.”
While Ace was busy watching for a safe time to cross, Cara clutched his arm and looked back. Men lounged on benches in front of the hall, spitting tobacco juice onto the wooden sidewalk and even out into the street as if trying to best each other’s aim.
Unbidden, her eyes met those of a burly, red-bearded man slouched against the rail of the hitching post. The man gave a little two-fingered salute. “Missus,” he said.
She dropped her gaze as Ace towed her across the busy street. Big Boy Randall had served his time it seemed. “That man scares me,” she said.
Ace stopped smack-dab in the middle of the street. “Who’s that?” he said, taking a gander at the pool hall. “Oh, you mean Big Boy Randall?”
She tugged on his arm to get them out of the street. She could feel her face flame with embarrassment. “Ace—”
“You don’t need to fear Big Boy. He’s like Robin Hood—steals from Peter to pay Paul.”
“Still, he was in jail.”
“So is Dimm, and we know how trumped up the charges against him are.”
True enough, Cara thought.
Who should they run into on the other side of the street than Dimmert’s sister Darcy? Darcy was a close friend and had been her confidante until Cara moved away from Troublesome Creek. “Darcy,” she called in delight, reaching out to hug her friend.
Darcy’s face crinkled with a smile. Dimples deepened on either side of her round and rosy face. “Oh, my goodness, Cara, I ain’t seen you in a coon’s age. Ace, Mammaw’s right glad you brought Dance and the babies over this morning.” She stared hard at Ace. “What in the world happened to you?”
Ace fingered his black eye. “It’s a long story.”
“What brings you to town, Darcy?” Cara asked.
“I’m going to Coomb’s Dry Goods to pick up some dress material and a new bobbin he ordered for my machine. Want to go along?”
“Better not.” Cara checked Ace’s watch. “We’ve got to get to Mr. Thomas’s.”
Cara could swear she saw a blush sweep over Darcy’s face at the lawyer’s name. What was that abo
ut?
“Dimmert’s being turned loose today,” Darcy said, “right?”
“Supposed to be,” Ace answered. “We’re here to make it happen.”
“Mind if I come?” Darcy slid her hand through the crook of Cara’s folded arm. “I’d surely like to see when Dimm gets out so I can tell Mammaw he’s okay. Having a grandson in jail has just about broken her heart.”
The little party walked on down the street and saw Mr. Thomas’s door was finally open. The lawyer leaned on the doorpost as if he’d been watching for them. Darcy’s hand trembled on Cara’s arm.
“Henry,” Ace said, “this is Dimmert Whitt’s wife and his sister Darcy.”
“Ace,” Mr. Thomas replied and then with the sweep of an imaginary hat, “Ladies. Please come in.”
Mr. Thomas’s office was spacious and very tidy. The dark wood floor was oiled to a gloss; papers were captured in brown manila folders and placed in a neat stack on a substantial oak desk that sat at the end of the room. A horsehair settee graced one wall, and two gentlemen’s armchairs upholstered in burgundy leather faced the desk. Oil paintings of Indian chiefs wearing ornate headdresses and riding muscled horses adorned the walls over the settee and behind the desk. A large shadow box on legs sat in front of the settee like a table. Under the glass, Cara saw chert spear tips, arrowheads, bird points, and scrapers nicely arranged in a radiating pattern, like the spokes of a wheel. A tomahawk adorned by a large brown feather accented the display.
“Miss Whitt.” Mr. Thomas indicated the settee, then pulled out one of the gentlemen’s chairs for Cara. Ace took the other. Mr. Thomas settled into the rolling chair across from them.
Cara could hardly stop herself from stroking the supple leather of her chair. All along the bottom of the seat and at the edge of the arms were fancy brass tacks. She wished she could go outside and dust her skirts before she sat.
“Now what can I help you with?” Mr. Thomas asked.
