by Jan Watson
“Well, the fog had thinned a right smart—”
“Did you cut it all to tatters with that knife of yours?” Jay interrupted.
“Hush up, Jay,” Dance said.
“That’s all right, boy.” Big Boy reached in his overall’s pocket. “Do you want to hold the knife while I finish?”
Jay knelt on the floor, unfolding and folding the knife’s many blades. Wilton sidled up beside him.
Ace handed Jay a boiled potato to practice on. “Keep your fingers free of the sharp edge,” he instructed.
“Now where was I?” Big Boy asked.
“Pancake was a-smiling,” Wilton said.
“That’s right; he was. And do you fellers want to know why?”
“Yes, yes,” Jay and Wilton sang as Cara’s voice caught in her throat because she knew the only reason Pancake ever smiled.
“As the sun popped up over the high prison wall,” Big Boy continued, “the gates flew open and a short round man dressed like a preacher on Sunday came high-stepping out. ‘Here, you men,’ he hollered. ‘Wait now.’ Well, I aim to tell you the barrels of those guns dropped like dead ducks.”
Big Boy’s hands relayed the story as colorfully as did he. First they pictured a belly round as a keg, then gun barrels falling and finally flailing wings. Cara didn’t hurry him along.
“Now, here’s the best part. Pancake’s grin split ear to ear and I just let him go. The prison guards parted like Pancake was Moses at the Red Sea, for behind the man I took to be the warden came Dimmert Whitt himself. I could see he was limping bad, but he was on his own two feet.”
“Oh,” Cara said, “I wish I could have been there.”
“Me too,” Jay said.
“Me three,” Wilton said.
“If you boys don’t stop cutting in, you’re going to the porch,” Dance said.
“It was a welcome sight,” Big Boy said. “It was certain to my eyes that Dimmert Whitt was well thought of by all. Soon as I was sure nobody was going to fill my hide full of buckshot, I handed Dimm your lard bucket, Cara.”
“Was he hungry? Did they let him eat?” Cara asked.
“Well, now, you know Dimm. Soon as he pried the lid off, he started passing out chicken and biscuits. Next thing you know we’re the same as having a picnic right outside the prison gates.” Big Boy laughed and slapped his thigh. “Don’t that beat all?”
Cara laughed along with everyone else. It was so Dimm. “Thank you, Big Boy. It’s almost like I was there. Now tell us the hard part. How did Dimm get hurt? Why was he limping?”
Suddenly Big Boy got serious. “It is a strange and miraculous story. Dimm has been making wagon wheels and also caring for the horses and mules in the prison stables. The guards learned right quick that Dimm is a natural with animals. It seems that selfsame warden I done told you about has a little daughter about your age, Jay. The warden, Mr. Matthew, keeps a gentle pony stabled there at the prison for her. The warden’s family lives on the prison grounds in a fine brick house. Women prisoners keep the house, do the laundry, and mind the Matthews’ children. Prisoners too old to be a threat tend the yards and garden.”
Jay pulled Big Boy’s sleeve. “What’s her name?”
“The warden’s daughter?” Big Boy asked.
Jay nodded.
“Delphinia.”
“That’s real pretty,” Jay said.
“I never saw the girl,” Big Boy said, “but can’t you picture big blue eyes and long yellow hair to go with a name like Delphinia? Anyway, the girl was watched over real close, being as she the same as lived with thieves and scoundrels. That’s why it was such a shock when one day a prisoner assigned to the stable comes flying out the door into the prison yard yelling for help. Soon the stable was full of guards and prisoners all witnessing a frightful scene. There was little Delphinia backed into the corner of a stall by a powerful stallion. Each time a man tried to get in there with them, the horse reared and struck out with hooves sharp as ax blades.
“‘Get back. You men get back,’ a guard shouted as Mr. Matthew made his way to the scene only to find his sweet Delphinia about to be trampled to death. Of course, Mr. Matthew plunged right in and was flung backward by the horse’s well-positioned kick.
“They say he collapsed like a sack of flour. ‘Go get Whitt,’ Mr. Matthew wheezed from his position on the ground.
“In no time, there was Dimm still carrying the wagon wheel he’d been working on. Dimm sized up the situation and turned to where Mr. Matthew slumped, supported by two guards. ‘Get everybody out,’ Dimm said.
“With an effort Mr. Matthew stood alone. ‘Do as Whitt says. Leave us alone.’
“‘With respect, sir,’ Dimm said, ‘I mean everybody.’
“The guard who told me this story—you didn’t think Dimm would be a-bragging over it, did you?—said the warden’s face got red as fire, but he followed the rest out. Of course they hung right outside the doors watching Dimm’s every move and listening to his every word.
“The guard said it was the strangest thing he ever seen. Dimm didn’t even hesitate when he opened the stall door, but he went in with his hands in his pockets like it was just an ordinary day and he was kind of singing.” Big Boy paused and shook his head. “Even I can’t picture that—old closemouthed Dimmert Whitt a-singing.
“The guard told me it was so quiet there on the grounds that it didn’t seem natural. Nobody even dared to breathe. Next thing you know, there came Dimm out of the stall with Delphinia in his arms and a barn cat in hers. And there was that mighty stallion meek as a kitten following along behind.”
“What a story,” Ace said. “What a witness.”
“Ain’t it just?” Big Boy said, finishing off his tea.
Cara took a deep breath. Finally she could breathe again. “But, Big Boy, how did Dimm get hurt?”
Big Boy busted out laughing. He laughed until he wheezed. “I’m sorry. This ain’t one bit funny, but it’s so like Dimm.” He mopped his face with his napkin rag. “After it was over and Dimm was going back in the stable, he stepped on a pitchfork. The handle caught him right between the eyes, and a tine pierced the bottom of his work shoe.”
Big Boy is right, Cara thought. This is not one bit funny.
“I’m sorry, missus. Really I am,” Big Boy said, catching her eye. “But it’s another miracle that Dimm didn’t either get lockjaw from the nasty pitchfork or brain himself one. He was still limping when I left, but he’s just as smart as he ever was.”
Well, that set everyone except Cara laughing right along with Big Boy. But soon she was smiling too. The story could have been so much worse, and to think her Dimm had saved the life of a child.
“I thank you, Big Boy. I reckon Dimmert did us all proud.” Standing, Cara began scraping plates. As soon as the dishes were done, she aimed to head for home. She couldn’t wait to get alone with her thoughts of Dimm.
“You go on now,” Dance said as if she read Cara’s mind. “I’ll get these dishes.”
Big Boy pushed back from the table. “I’ll walk you home, missus. I expect Pancake will be right glad to get there.”
“Can I go with you, Aunt Cara?” Jay begged. “Can I ride Pancake to your house?”
Cara couldn’t resist his freckled face and pleading eyes. “You’ll have to ask your daddy.”
“Oh, Daddy,” Jay said, “leave me go too.”
“What do you think, Mother?” Ace asked.
“I ain’t your mother, Ace,” Dance replied, “but sure Jay can go. Wilton, don’t even start!”
“Hey, Willy-boy,” Ace interjected, “what say you and me go check out the plumbing for the springwater? I never did finish that job.”
Cara was glad for Jay’s presence when they got to the house. It kept her from tearing open the envelope as soon as Big Boy handed it to her. “I thought you’d want to read this privatelike,” he said. Having Jay there on the porch with them also kept her from throwing both arms around Big Boy’s neck and kissing his
cheek. The man had brought her such happiness.
“Listen,” he said, “I don’t want to get your hopes up, but there’s talk of a pardon for Dimm.”
“Pardon? What’s that mean?”
“It’s like forgiving a sin—like being washed white as snow. Cara, a pardon would set Dimm free. He wouldn’t even have a record.”
“You mean he could come home? Just like that?”
“Just like that,” Big Boy said. “It was no small thing Dimmert did. The warden is thankful his daughter was not trampled by that horse. There’s to be an inquiry.”
“Like a meeting? About Dimm?”
“Exactly,” he said.
Cara had to catch her breath. Could it be? Were her longing prayers for Dimm’s return about to be answered? Lord, she prayed a simple prayer, I thank You for the possibility.
After Big Boy left, Jay found the dolly Cara had made for Merky along with the whistles and spinning tops she’d carved for him and Wilton. “She looks like Pauline,” he said of the doll. “You’re sure a good woodcutter.”
“You were pretty good yourself with Mr. Big Boy’s knife and that potato.”
Jay’s chest swelled with little boy pride. “Could you tell it was a horse I whittled from that tater?”
“I could tell. I got a quick look before Wilton ate it.” Cara fiddled with the letter in her apron pocket. She couldn’t wait much longer to read it.
“Where’d Mr. Big Boy go?”
“His brother Shacklett Randall lives up Crook-Neck Holler, and Big Boy has gone to visit. It was sure good of him to bring us news of your uncle Dimmert, wasn’t it?”
Jay twirled a wooden play-pretty and sent it spinning across the porch floor. “Yeah, and he brought old Pancake home too. That was real good.” With an agile hop he caught the top just before it went over the side. “Man, I can’t wait for Wilton to see these tops.” Taking a whistle from his pocket, he gave a mighty blow. “Ma ain’t gonna like these whistles much, though.”
Cara laughed. “Maybe you’d better play with them here.”
“Good idea. I’m gonna go check on Pancake,” he said, the man of the house. “You need anything before I go?”
“No. Thank you for asking, though.” Cara settled into the rocking chair. “Why don’t you get a biscuit from the kitchen to take to Pancake?”
The screen door squeaked open. Jay was in and out before it closed. He was almost to the barn before she had Dimmert’s letter out. She wondered not for the first time if boys ever walked.
Her eyes blurred for a moment to see Dimm’s words on paper—another thing to thank Big Boy for.
Cara-mine,
I hope this don’t embarrass you, me giving my feelings to Big Boy for him to put down and carry to you, sweetheart.
It was sure good to see Pancake. Except for the missing you part, it ain’t so bad here. I make wagon wheels and long-sided wooden slats for wagon beds. I am fat and healthy. We eat twice a day and have meat once, usually fatback in beans. But it ain’t like your cooking. I hope you are well and taking good care.
I thank you for the little heart. Mine beats ever for you.
Your loyal husband,
Dimmert Whitt
(Hereby set down by Big Boy Randall, July 1, 1893)
Cara blotted a teary streak from the single page of stationery. She was overwhelmed to find her husband captured there on the written page. Dimm could just as well be sitting here beside her the words rang so true. Holding the page to her nose, she breathed in the hope of the scent of her husband.
What will Dimm think of me now? He left a girl afraid of so many things, really just afraid to live for fear of death. I’m so much stronger now. What if he misses that scaredy girl? A southwest wind ruffled the leaves in the ash trees that shadowed the yard. They flipped on their spindly stems, showing their silvery undersides. She welcomed the breeze. It would be raining by morning.
Neatly she folded the letter, being careful to keep the same creases, and slipped it back in the envelope. She would put it in her Bible before she went to bed. It was amazing to think she could get it out anytime and reread Dimmert’s thoughts. Maybe she’d go ahead in the house and get the Bible. She could read a little bit before the light failed. Jay would enjoy hearing about the spider spinning in palaces and about the rock rabbits.
And when Dimm came home—her heart leaped and raced at the thought—she would read the Bible to him every night. It would be her gift.
CHAPTER 23
SUNDAY MORNING DAWNED with the promise of a scorcher. It rained during the night, leaving an overcast but muggy footprint on the day. Henry opened the back door into the fenced yard and let Daisy out. Like a puppy full of play, she fetched a length of knotted rope and begged a game of tug. A mug of strong black coffee sloshed in his hand as he sat on the wooden stoop and halfheartedly yanked on the free end of the dog’s toy.
Daisy would have none of it. With a teasing growl, she flung the rope into Henry’s lap, then stood back hopefully. Giving in, Henry sat the mug aside and threw the rope across the yard. Daisy ran half-speed, pounced, and shook the knotted rope between her teeth. If it had been a rabbit, Henry thought, she would have snapped its neck.
“Good girl,” he said when she dropped the toy at his feet. The game repeated until Daisy couldn’t hold his interest anymore. He had been in a black funk ever since he buried Lester.
Scrubbing his eyes with his knuckles, Henry let out a weary sigh. Last night he’d tossed and turned through a tormented series of nightmares all featuring his own rapid slide into ruin. Toward morning, he’d dreamed a herd of snorting hogs tore into his safe, gorging on gold and silver coins, trampling stacks of paper money under their cloven hooves. From the corner of the room, where the wall met the ceiling, Mr. Sam Follett’s singularly brilliant eyes cast a searchlight over the rampaging swine. Suspended under those soul-bearing eyes was a ledger book made from gold with The Lamb’s Book of Life scribed in emeralds and sapphires and rubies. The gilt-edged pages turned slowly by an unseen hand.
“Where were you last night when I needed you?” he asked Daisy.
With one paw on his knee and one on the step, the dog stared him down with her liquid brown eyes.
“What do you know about the Lamb’s Book of Life?” he asked. Then it dawned on him. It was that parable about the Prodigal Son. That was where the nightmare came from. Of course, it made perfect sense. It had taken him half an hour last evening to find the passage in Luke about the rich man’s lost son. Personally, Henry identified with the other son, the one who was never appreciated.
Daisy went for the coffee cup he’d set aside. Henry let her have it. Her long tongue lapped the rich brew hopefully. With a puzzled look, she stopped and snorted. Backing away, she barked at the cup like it had offended her in some way.
Henry laughed. With understanding, his bad dream began to fade. It was no more than a ghost story told to a child who then discovers goblins under his bed. He stood and stretched, kneading the small of his back with his fists. He was master of his own fate. That was all he needed to know. True, he had not been able to find anyone he could bribe to turn against Ace Shelton, but there were more ways than one to choke a cat.
Actually Henry was surprised to find out how well thought of Ace Shelton was. Seemed everyone knew him personally. He’d presided at this one’s granddaddy’s funeral and baptized that one’s errant son, never charging a red cent. People acted like Ace’s head was strung with gold. What a load of manure.
Henry wondered what Ace got out of it—traipsing up and down the hollers in his two-dollar suit, spreading cheer among the home folk. While Henry, who had actually done something with his life, was treated little warmer than a tax collector.
The sun beat down on his bare head. He poured the cold coffee over the side of the stoop. It must be nine o’clock, for the church bell was clanging—calling the sheep to Sunday service, calling the prodigals home. The secret, Henry surmised, was to make your own home, s
tock your own shelves, bank your own money. You’d never be a lost son if you drew your own map.
“Daisy,” he said, “what say we take a trip up to the Sheltons’ while Ace and his brood are busy at church? I want to look over that piece of property.”
That’s the ticket. Stay busy; make plans. He’d get the tomahawk from the glass-topped case and take it along. He’d been meaning to have a practice session for the longest time. Whistling, Henry went to saddle up. He felt better already.
The sun had begun its slow descent from straight up before Henry got to Ace’s place. His horse had thrown a shoe. The farrier, along with everyone else it seemed, was at church, so Henry had to fix it himself. But he was not concerned. Odds were against Ace coming here today. He was probably at old lady Whitt’s, filling his plate with fried chicken. Henry took a piece of beef jerky from his saddlebag. After slicing a piece for Daisy, he found a seat and had a bite himself. It should be easy enough to find a spring and refill his canteen.
The place Henry chose for his repast was about halfway between the boundaries of the Sheltons’ land. Mixed hardwood stands of maple, beech, black walnut, and oak marched tall and proud as royalty up the mountain. The ground was spongy with moss, and great masses of maidenhair fern trembled in the breeze. Their waving fronds whispered against each other like girls telling secrets. Henry was thrilled with the place. He’d stepped off a goodly portion of the acreage and each step was golden. The forest alone was worth a fortune.
Following the sound of water, he was dumbfounded to find a strange setup of wooden barrels and pipes. It appeared Ace had rigged a plumbing system to run springwater down the mountain. The very sight of it irked Henry. “Stupid do-gooder. Ignorant hillbilly.”
Retrieving the ceremonial tomahawk from his saddlebag, Henry smacked the hilt of it against his palm several times before winding up and letting fly. The weapon sailed through the air, its eagle feather adornment fluttering, seeking and finding the target with a hearty, wood-splitting thunk. Henry worked the tomahawk free of the elevated keg, watching with satisfaction as water sprayed out. He didn’t stop his assault until the cask leaked like a sieve.
