Sweetwater Run

by Jan Watson

  Now Darcy hurried back, glad to have in her possession something Henry Thomas had touched—unmindful of the portent of a once-thriving plant now broken and bruised. She thought only of her lover and the promise in that kiss.

  CHAPTER 10

  CARA WALKED SLOWLY HOME, carrying her pots and pans in a gunnysack slung over her shoulder. She put herself in mind of that old riddle: “Yonder it goes, here it comes, uphill, downhill, rain or sun, served many a hoof and leg, yet has never moved a peg.”

  Pots shifted, clunking against each other. She paused to readjust her poke and brush a wayward lock of hair from her eyes. She’d been so excited to go to church this morning that she’d tried a new hairstyle, a twist she’d once seen Miz Copper wear. It looked pretty with Miz Copper’s thick red tresses but not so good with her own. Her light brown hair was so fine and silky the combs kept slipping out. Cara’s back slumped. Yes, she was as plain as the path she trod, a brown wren compared to a bright cardinal. Useful, though. She’d really enjoyed preparing the meal that everyone ate at Fairy Mae’s.

  Darcy looked pretty today but distracted. She kept catching Cara’s eye like there was something she wanted to tell her, but they never got the opportunity what with the kids running in and out and dishes needing doing. And then, just when they were ready to say their good-byes, Darcy disappeared. Good thing Remy Riddle was still there with Fairy Mae or they would have had to linger on. Cara could tell Fairy Mae was tuckered out by that time. Darcy took good care of her mammaw though. Nobody could fault her. But it was good she had Remy to help out now and then.

  The closer Cara got to home, the quicker she walked. She was anxious to get to her knife and her whittling wood. Darcy had given her an order for half a dozen fan handles and paid her cash money for the one she’d already made. Cara had taken pains to curve the handle to fit a woman’s hand. All along the flared top she’d drilled tiny holes for Darcy to stick fancy feathers in. Now Cara had some change in her pocket and the promise of more. That was a good feeling. Maybe she’d look for some shoes that fit next time she went to town.

  Cara was as distracted as Darcy had been. When she reached her house, she walked right in the front door, although her mind clearly told her there was something out of sorts. She paused. What was that on her porch? Maybe her eyes were playing tricks. She cracked the door and chanced a peek.

  Just to the right side of the steps sat the finest rocking chair Cara had ever seen. Seat and back of woven rush, arms wide enough to hold a cup of coffee, rockers carved with as much thought as her lady’s fan—it was a work of art. But where in the world had it come from?

  Hesitantly, she searched the periphery of the porch for clues. A well-worked wad of tobacco lay in an ugly lump beside the stepping stones. She didn’t know a single man who chewed, not a one who would bring her such a gift as a rocking chair. Taken aback, she rushed to the open door. Her mouth formed his name before her mind remembered his absence. “Dimmert!” she cried. But there was no solace there.

  Dusk, that most melancholy of times, was settling in, ushering in the night. It was too late for her to go back to the Sheltons’. She’d have to chance the dark alone. Again. Taking a seat on the top step, she tucked her skirt under her jittery knees. It seemed a thousand eyes watched her from the woods beyond her yard—waiting, waiting. For what?

  “Take a hold of yourself,” she said with a mental shake. “What kind of threat is a rocking chair?” Probably her daddy had brought it, though it was many a mile to his house. And Daddy didn’t chew. And where would he get a rocking chair anyway? And if he came, so would her mama, and she would never leave without seeing Cara. Mama would stay all night if necessary.

  Cara’s mind teased the riddle like a cat with a mouse while her knife carved a length of rosewood. The heft of the woody tissue soothed her. She had found its heart and it bowed to her command, taking the shape she desired it to. Lines from this morning’s sermon came to her. “The wind and the wave obeyed His will,” Brother Jasper preached. “Would you do less than the wind? less than the wave? Would you dare not bend to the Savior’s will?”

  Was God trying to shape her? Was He trying to bend her to His will? How did a body know what He wanted? Standing, she stretched out the kink in her back, then took her work inside. The Bible was where she’d left it. She held it close and wished she could read it through her fingers like her touch read whittling wood.

  Making ready for bed, she braided her hair and turned down the covers. The floor was hard under her knees as she prayed an extra long time, but she finally felt unafraid. So unafraid that she chanced to open the door onto the darkness of the night and drag the pretty rocking chair inside.

  The next morning ushered in a fine spring day. May had been nice thus far. A breeze blew soft and sweet as Cara grabbed her hoe and started for the garden. She needed to check on the salad yield. She’d taken a chance planting so early. A cold snap would kill it all.

  But so far so good. The cut-and-come-again lettuce looked good enough to eat, though still quite small. The radish she yanked from a burgeoning row was not much bigger than a marble, and the early bunch onions’ green tops were still pencil slim. Her mommy always made a fuss over the first mess of lettuce, radish, and onion—“kilt salad,” she would call it. Cara supposed it was because she killed the lettuce by smothering it with hot bacon grease. Sometimes Mama made the dish with dandelion greens for a different taste.

  Kneeling, she tested the soil—still too early for most vegetables or her flower seed. But she should go ahead and get the potatoes ready. A light frost wouldn’t hurt. They’d do fine as long as a freeze didn’t come. Ace had laid off two rows three feet apart with his mule and a one-horse plow. She’d put the hills every foot and a half down the furrow. That was more potatoes than she could eat, but it was good to have more than you thought you needed. Plus, she could barter some at the store.

  The root cellar was in back of the cabin. Cara opened the door, went underground, and hauled a bushel basket of seed potatoes up the wooden steps and out into the light. The morning was so pretty, so warm and fresh, she sat in the yard to cut the potatoes, making sure there were two eyes to each piece. When she was done, she spread the pieces out on the porch, leaving them to callus over. That would take a few days, but it was necessary to prevent rotting in cold or wet weather.

  She’d also brought out the last of the winter apples, and now she sliced a piece and popped it into her mouth. Suddenly the unmistakable bray of a mule blared from the direction of the open barn door. Startled, Cara nearly stabbed herself with her own knife. Ace must have come round with his mule while she was cutting up potatoes. Curious, she walked that way, enjoying her apple as she went.

  Hee-haw . . . Hee-haw . . . The sound became louder with each step.

  Oh, my stars. Cara was losing her mind. The apple and the knife slipped from her grasp, and she covered her mouth with both hands. There stood Pancake in his stall, his teeth bared like a possum’s. Cara shook her head to clear her vision, but it was Pancake all right. She’d know that smile anywhere.

  “Oh, Pancake.” Cara threw her arms around the mule’s scruffy neck. It was almost as good as hugging Dimmert. “I’m so glad to see you.”

  Pancake rubbed his long nose along the crook of Cara’s neck as if to say, “Not as glad as I am to see you.”

  If mules could cry, Cara thought while he snuffled into her shoulder, then Pancake surely was bawling.

  She felt like crying tears of joy herself as she fetched the fallen apple and watched a grin return to Pancake’s face. After finding the halter where Dimmert had left it, she led the mule from the barn. Soon both were on the way to the Sheltons’. Cara couldn’t wait to get Dance’s and Ace’s opinions on the strange goings-on at her place.

  The Sheltons were in the garden when Cara rode in. The children scattered up and down the rows like chickens searching for bugs, except for Jay who wielded his own pint-size hoe. Cara could see Dance nudge Ace, then point at h
er before all sizes of Sheltons swarmed her way.

  Cara slid off as Jay said, “Is that there Pancake?”

  “The very same.” Cara nodded.

  “How in the world . . . ?” Ace started.

  “He just showed up this morning,” Cara replied.

  “He must have wandered away from the Wheelers’. We’d best take him back.”

  “No, Ace. Pancake didn’t wander. He was shut up in his stall when I found him.”

  The children wanted turns on the mule’s back, so Ace lifted them one at a time to sit on Pancake as the grown-ups pondered the situation.

  “What if the Wheelers accuse you like they done to Dimmert?” Dance asked.

  Cara hadn’t stopped to think of that. She turned to Ace. “Could they?”

  Ace traced the brand on the mule’s rump. “I wouldn’t put it past them.”

  Cara tugged the leather lead until she could rest her face against Pancake’s. “What am I to do?”

  “Now I know you don’t much like him,” Ace said, “but I figure we’d best call on Henry Thomas. He can tell us if we need to get the law involved.”

  “I can’t afford to pay that flimflam man again!”

  “I figure his advice will be free now that he’s calling on Darcy,” Ace said.

  “How did you find out?” Cara said, then wished she could take it back. It was Darcy’s news to share or not.

  Ace hefted Jay up for his turn before settling the baby in Jay’s arms. “Ain’t they a pretty picture?” he asked, changing the subject.

  “Ace, stop your teasing,” Dance warned.

  “Didn’t you see Henry waiting for her after church on Sunday, Cara?” he asked.

  “Sunday . . . are you for sure?”

  “He was waiting for her outside the rock wall. They rode off together.”

  “I reckon I was too busy gathering the children, but Darcy never said a word during Sunday dinner.” Cara felt foolishly betrayed. It seemed like Darcy would have told her something so important.

  Dance took baby Pauline from Jay’s arms, allowing the boy to nudge Pancake into a ride around the barnyard. “Mark my words about that Henry. I seen his eyes the day Dimmert was taken from your place, Cara, and they was cold as a snake’s belly in January. He’s no good, I warrant.”

  Ace removed his slouch hat and ran his fingers through his hair. “I know you’re disappointed in him, Cara, and I was right mad myself, but Henry ain’t so bad. He come up rough and now he’s made something of himself. You got to give him credit.”

  “I don’t have to give him nothing,” Dance said.

  “So what should I do?” Cara asked, anxious to deflect the argument brewing between Dance and Ace. You’d think Ace would know by now not to stir Dance up.

  “It’s either talk to Henry,” Ace said, “or make a call on the sheriff.”

  Just the thought of going to the law gave Cara palpitations. “I can’t go in that jail again. My heart couldn’t stand it.”

  “Pshaw,” Dance said. “You got to stop being so lily-livered.”

  Stung, Cara felt dreaded tears forming. Who was Dance to be calling names? She wished she hadn’t come here. Maybe she should ride Pancake to her mama and daddy’s and stay there until Dimmert came home. She picked up Merky, who was pulling at her skirt, begging for attention. Nestling the little girl in her arms, she bent her head to hide her face from Dance.

  “It’s up to you,” Ace said. “You know I’ll help you whatever way I can.”

  Cara’s head spun with a decision she was unable to make. Why was every little thing up to her these days? Why was her husband sitting in jail when she needed him so bad? Why wasn’t it her own baby in her arms? She cleared her throat of unshed tears. “I’ll have to think on it.” Then falsely bright, as if she had not a care in the world, she said, “I’d best get back to my garden.”

  “Jay!” Dance hollered in Pancake’s direction. “Come go with your aunt Cara!”

  “That’s a good idea,” Ace replied, giving his wife’s shoulder an affectionate squeeze. “Jay can run home for help if you need anything, Cara.”

  “That’s what I was aiming for, Ace,” came Dance’s sharp retort. “You don’t have to be explaining what I say!”

  Cara hated to hear the two still sparring as she guided Pancake out of the yard, but she was touched by Dance’s unexpected kindness.

  “Mommy and Daddy sound like blue jays fussing over a piece of corn,” Jay said from his roost atop the mule.

  A body couldn’t help but laugh.

  Cara and Jay spent the rest of the day chopping weeds. Come late afternoon, Cara baked a round of corn bread, though she’d had to stir the ingredients in a cooking pot, seeing as how she’d carelessly broken her mixing bowl. Jay greased the cast-iron skillet, and she stuck it in the oven to heat. The cornmeal mix sizzled when she poured it into the hot pan.

  As a treat, she’d picked a bit of the early lettuce, some small radishes, and a few slender onions. They’d have a salad and hot bread for supper.

  “Jay,” she said, “run down to the cellar and grab a pint of blackberry jam. We’ll have it for dessert.”

  It was warm enough to leave the door open, and she watched as her nephew disappeared around the corner of the house. Pancake was wandering around the barnyard, munching on new green grass. Later she’d have to put him up for the night and pray he would still be there in the morning. It was sure comforting having Pancake home.

  After laying a few pieces of thick-sliced bacon in a cold skillet, she checked on the corn bread. It was nearly finished. As she tore the lettuce, cut up the radish and the onion, and turned the meat with a fork, Cara felt content. The oven door squeaked when she lowered it. The bottom of the bread was just the right shade of brown when she flipped it onto a plate. The bacon was crisp as she pinched off a bite, the leftover grease still hot enough to wilt the lettuce after she added a measure of vinegar and a sprinkle of sugar.

  “Can I sit in the new chair for supper?” Jay said.

  “What word’s most likely to get you what you want?”

  “Please?”

  “You certainly can,” she replied, putting two pieces of bacon on the boy’s plate.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  Cara slathered a slice of hot corn bread with butter, then reached for her fork.

  “Wait,” Jay said. “We need to talk to the plate.”

  She folded her hands in her lap, bowed her head, and listened to the boy who was more in touch with the Lord than she would ever be.

  “Bless this food and the hands that made it,” he prayed in a perfect imitation of Ace, “and bless us that eat it. In Jesus’ blessed name we pray. Amen.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “That was very good of you.”

  “I think I should come live here,” Jay said between bites. “Looks like you need a man around the house.”

  “You’ve got that right,” she said, filling his glass again from the jug of milk she’d brought home from the Sheltons’. “But I don’t think your ma and pa would give you up.”

  Jay wiped his milk mustache with the back of his hand. “Probably not. I’m the onliest one who can keep Wilton out of trouble.”

  Cara laughed. “That’s a big job.”

  Jay nodded. “Don’t I know it.”

  CHAPTER 11

  DARCY HURRIED to finish her morning’s routine. Breakfast over, dishes done, floor swept, front window washed . . . only because Mammaw said she couldn’t see out. Darcy bit her tongue as she searched for the vinegar and some newsprint. There wasn’t a thing wrong with that window. Just because Mammaw used to wash her windows once a week didn’t mean Darcy had time for the same. Sometimes her grandmother could try the patience of a saint.

  Darcy’s face flamed. A saint wouldn’t be sneaking around, and a saint definitely wouldn’t have entertained the thoughts she’d had all week. But I’m not really sneaking, Darcy consoled herself. I have to go to town anyway to get Mrs. Upchurch�
�s order to the post office. It’s not by my design that Henry’s office is just down the street.

  She wrapped a bit of newspaper around her index finger and wiped a streak from a pane. Standing back, she admired her handiwork. “Clean as a whistle,” she said, untying the apron strings from behind her neck.

  “Ain’t you going to do the outside?” Mammaw asked from her wheeled chair. “Seems to me a window ain’t really clean if ye only do the one side.”

  “Remy will be here any second, and I need to get to the post office early this morning.”

  Mammaw sighed. “All right then, honey. I don’t want to hold you back.”

  Darcy hung her apron on the peg behind the door, picked up the jar of vinegar water, and started toward the pantry to put it back on the shelf.

  “That window glass puts me in mind of a half-baked pie,” she heard Mammaw’s quiet lament.

  Darcy jerked her apron from the peg and opened the door. “Maybe I’ll just finish this window before I go,” she said through clenched teeth.

  “Well, if it ain’t too much trouble,” Mammaw answered.

  Just as she was twisting the zinc lid back onto the glass jar of window wash, she heard Remy’s crutch hit the porch floor.

  “Morning,” Remy said in her strange, rusty voice.

  “Am I glad to see you,” Darcy replied, then dropped her voice. “Mammaw’s in a mood.”

  Remy was not one to waste words. “Warranted, I reckon.”

  Thank Remy to cut to the crux of the matter. After hobbling all the way here with the aid of a crutch, she put Darcy in her place.

  Darcy held the door and Remy hitched inside. Mammaw had nodded off. Her double chin rested on her chest, which rose and fell with faint snores. Remy took a seat in a nearby chair.