Paul looked at the family seated against the tree. They were pale and poor. Paul wished he’d never met this family, for there was nothing half as burdensome as women and children. They made everything complicated. Children needed too much money; women needed too much attention. They weighed a man down, stole his food, and crippled him. These were tough times. No man could afford women and children.
Paul sighed. He crushed his cigarette and walked toward the family. He squatted on his heels and said, “I can’t take you with us, Pete. Now you can cry about it all you want, and you can hate me for it, but you’re just gonna have to face the hard truth. Life ain’t fair.”
Eulah looked at Paul with sad eyes. “Mister, you don’t owe us no explanation.”
Pete dropped his head.
“I been trying to explain it to Pete,” Eulah went on. “We’ll be okay, we’ll figure something out. Y’all done enough to help us already, and we’re grateful. Ain’t we, Pete?”
Pete glared at Paul.
“Pete,” she said. “Did you hear what I said, boy?”
“Thank you,” said Pete, even though his eyes said something else.
“You can cuss me, call me names,” Paul said. “And you have every right to do that, because you’re right. I’m a low-down, no-good man for turning his back on a good woman and her young’uns.” Pete wiped his face with his forearm.
“Son, we’re barely making it. We got a baby we don’t need, who we ain’t even named yet. We don’t need no fussy children clinging to us.”
His carefully chosen words hung in the air and did no good. The boy still wore a grave face.
“But,” Paul added. “Now you listen to me carefully, Miss Eulah. Just ’cause I’m turning you away, and that’s exactly what I’m doing, it don’t mean that you and your family can’t follow us. It’s a free country, you know.”
The boy’s face broke, like sunlight poking through clouds.
“If you was to travel behind us,” said Paul, “seeing as how there ain’t no law against it, I couldn’t do nothing to stop you.”
Pete threw his arms around Paul and squeezed hard enough to cut off his wind. Paul could smell the boy’s musty clothes and body odor.
“I’m a good worker,” said Pete. “You won’t regret this, sir.”
Eulah covered her mouth and bowed her head.
Paul looked back at Vern, who wore a faint smile. Vern reached into his chest pocket and pulled out yet another candy bar.
“You’re a glutton, you know that?” said Paul.
“No,” said Vern with a mouthful of chocolate. “I’m Baptist.” He wandered over to them, removed two more candy bars from his chest pocket, and gave them to the kids.
The boy looked at the candy in his hands. He stared at it long and hard. “Hey,” Pete said. “I know what you can name your baby.”
The boy showed the candy bar to Paul. “Baby Ruth.”
Twenty-Two
Railcars of Ill Repute
Marigold sat on the ragged porch behind Cowikee’s railcar. The pines behind the place grew so high they almost blocked the sunlight. The sounds of birds were everywhere. A short fence ran through the woods in a crooked line, headed toward the horizon. On the fence, Marigold saw the carcass of a snake hanging from a post. There was a single nail driven through its head, its remains were bleached from the sun, and the ribs showed. Flies swarmed the snake. Marigold could hear the vibrations from them.
Helen stepped onto the porch. “Are you hungry again?” asked Helen. “I got some stew cooking. Got plenty of carrots in it. Carrots will give you strength.”
“No thanks,” said Marigold. “I’m still full from breakfast.”
Helen had been practically force-feeding Marigold since she’d taken her in. And in that short time, Helen had managed to help Marigold gain some weight. Marigold’s old dress was beginning to fit like it had before she lost her baby fat.
Helen had introduced her to the other girls who lived at Cowikee’s. They were all so much like each other they were practically sisters. These women wore makeup and nice dresses, and they walked differently from other girls Marigold had known. But above all, they were kind to Marigold. They treated Marigold like she belonged to them. It was the first time since Marigold’s family had expelled her from home that she’d felt the warmth of family.
At night, the girls often sat beside Marigold. And they weren’t afraid to touch her or embrace her or dote on her or call her “pretty.” And it had been a long time since anyone had touched Marigold or called her that.
“You sure you don’t want any stew?” Helen asked. “How about I just bring you a little cup to sip on?”
“No thanks, I’m stuffed.”
“You need to keep eating, sweetie. You’re still skin and bones.”
There were five girls at Cowikee’s altogether. And from the best Marigold could tell, they all seemed to understand the world around them better than Marigold did. Helen was older than the others. Her long, lean figure and dark hair made her look like she’d walked out of a picture show.
But Rachel was Marigold’s favorite. She was blonde, with gaunt features and a sharp nose. In the weeks Marigold had been there, she noticed that the male customers all fawned over Rachel because she was the youngest.
Earlier that morning, a redheaded young man had come to visit Rachel. He was more boy than man, closer to Rachel’s age. Rachel behaved differently toward him than the girls behaved to the other men. She kissed him with her eyes closed. And she talked to him in a soft voice. Marigold asked Rachel about him, but Rachel refused to talk about it. There were some things women did not dare discuss for fear they would not come true if they did.
The weather was god-awful hot. The ground seemed to be softer than normal because of the heat. Marigold thought it felt like the whole world was melting, or maybe the whole world was dying.
Marigold’s red-and-white cotton dress had holes in the seams. She poked her finger through one of the seams. She was falling apart, she thought. Inside and out.
She thought of Maggie every moment. She remembered the way the baby trusted her. That’s what babies did. They trusted people. Maggie was the only creature who had ever trusted her. Marigold saw Maggie in her dreams every night. And in her dreams, she saw Maggie’s purple eyes and round face.
A back door swung open, then slapped shut.
The redheaded young man walked out of Rachel’s room. He was shirtless and barefoot, with a wad of clothes beneath his arm. His cropped hair was the color of a new penny. He pulled suspenders over his white shoulders and stomped past Marigold.
“Don’t go, Lawrence,” Rachel called to him. “Please don’t go.”
But the young man was obviously upset. He clomped off the porch, then crawled into a car with chrome fenders.
“I’m sorry,” said Rachel, walking after him. “I didn’t mean it! I’m sorry!”
Rachel walked barefoot on the gravel toward his car, gathering her skirt in her hands. “Please don’t leave, not like this.”
But the redhead paid Rachel no mind. He fired his motor and sped away, leaving a puff of brown dust in the air behind his bumper.
Rachel stood in the center of the road behind Cowikee’s. She was too upset to even make tears. Or maybe women like Rachel had lost the ability to make tears. Maybe a girl can only make so many before she uses them all up.
Marigold came behind Rachel and observed her porcelain face—sad but dry. Marigold said, “Is everything okay?”
Rachel said nothing. Moments passed between them, and only the distant sound of cicadas could be heard. Marigold rested her hand on Rachel’s shoulder. She sensed a weight of sadness. The weight became so heavy, Marigold could not even remove her hand from beneath it.
Rachel pulled away from her. She gave Marigold a bewildered look but said nothing.
“It’s hot,” Rachel finally said. “Someone needs to hang another rattlesnake on the fence.” Then she walked to her room and left Marigol
d standing in the road.
Helen was reclining on the porch railing, smoking a cigarette, watching the whole thing. Rachel brushed past her and buried her face in her hands.
“What’s it mean to hang a rattlesnake on a fence?” asked Marigold.
Helen smiled. “It’s what old farmers used to do when they needed rain. They’d hang rattlesnakes on fences.”
“Why?” asked Marigold.
“Don’t know, sweetie. Folks always seem to be trying to make something happen that just won’t.”
Twenty-Three
Wichita Dust
A black-and-brown cloud hung over the outskirts of Wichita, Kansas. It terrified Coot to even look at it. In the rear window of the speeding car, it looked like it was only a few miles behind them, and getting closer.
These dusty clouds didn’t swirl like cyclones did, and they didn’t have flat bottoms like rain clouds. These were dark, evil clouds that were black. Only a few days before, a cloud had settled on Kansas that turned the world into midnight. It had poisoned the air so that breathing could give a man dust pneumonia. All the kids Coot knew had suffered from it at one time or another. Coot had dust pneumonia twice before. Once, it got so bad he couldn’t get out of bed for three weeks and had to breathe through a wet rag.
The dust in the rear window stretched for miles and had covered the sun, making it look like a reddish ball, dimming the light above Wichita. It made the town look like something from the book of Revelation. Wind kicked against the Hudson, knocking the car from side to side. The sounds of sand and dust whizzed against the window and covered the highway.
Blake gripped the wheel and made the car go faster. “I can’t see the road,” he said.
“You think we can outrun it?” Coot said.
Blake didn’t answer.
They drove on the bumpy highway through the outskirts of Wichita and into the town. Dozens of cars were pulled onto the sides of the roads, abandoned, already half covered in sand. Coot saw people running into barns, sheds, and homes with boarded windows.
The cloud moved closer. The wind took the roof off a tin building in the distance. Coot saw the roof spin in the air and land in a hayfield, then tumble end over end.
“We’re not gonna make it!” hollered Coot.
Blake hit the gas. The dust was getting so close, Coot couldn’t see the horizon anymore. He only saw blackness. It seemed as though the buildings, houses, and highways had been swallowed by the Devil.
Blake swerved into a filling station and slammed the car into park. The car jumped the curb and rocked in the violent wind. They leapt out of the vehicle and jogged toward the front door. The wind gust knocked Coot from his feet. His shoes slid on the sand beneath him and he fell face forward. Dust and grit stung his cheeks and eyes. He covered his face. Blake lifted him and shoved him through the door of the service station.
Inside were people, lots of them, seated on the floor in clumps. They were listening to a radio on the counter. It was the unmistakable sound of preaching. Coot could hear the familiar cadence of words, a singsong-like delivery. He was drawn to the sound. He found a place near the radio so he could hear it better. Through the static and crackles, he heard the voice breaking through the dust.
The people welcomed Coot and Blake inside and gave them wet rags to hold over their faces. A boy who was Coot’s age held a polka-dot rag over his nose and mouth. He coughed now and then. “This is a bad one,” said the boy.
Coot pressed the cloth over his face. His cheeks stung from the sand, and his eyes were dry and scratched with debris.
The voice on the radio was delivering words in a way that Coot had never heard before. The man wasn’t just yelling, he was firing his words like a sharpshooting rifle. He never paused to think of what he would say next. He never broke the rhythm of his words. His sentences flowed from his mouth like a steady current that could not be stopped.
The people in the room hallelujahed and yes-Lorded in quiet voices.
“Amen, J. Wilbur,” said one man. “Say it.”
“Amen,” said a woman’s muffled voice from behind a rag.
The voice on the radio belonged to J. Wilbur Chaplain. The words, the delivery, the fury made Coot forget all about the storm and feel nothing but wonder. He was mesmerized by the evangelist. He hadn’t expected this. It was like nothing he’d ever heard. And when he looked at the people’s faces, he could tell they were listening just as closely as he was.
When the preaching ended, an organ played, and a few people hummed along.
“Lose all their guilty stains . . . ,” sang one woman. “Lose all their guilty stains.”
“They keep getting worse,” said one old man, clicking off the radio. “You heard what the preacher just said. It’s the Judgment.”
“Worst storm this year,” said another. “Ain’t had no rain since October.”
“God’s wrath,” said another old man.
“Wrath poured out without mixture upon the wicket,” said another.
“All that’s missing is the brimstone,” said Blake.
Twenty-Four
Summer Showers
The two vehicles crept forward on a dirt highway in the middle of the night. The stars were so bright they cut through the thin clouds. Pete looked out the car window at the stars and felt lost in them while Vern drove the Model T coupe behind Paul’s truck.
In the car were Pete, his sister, Reese, Vern, and the bloodhound named Louisville—who sat between Pete and Vern, snoring and making smells that even hardened war criminals couldn’t endure without begging for mercy.
Pete petted the dog while he stared at the night sky. Vern had the dashboard radio playing. The preacherman on the radio hollered. Vern paid close attention while he drove.
“Why do you like this preacher so much?” asked Pete.
“J. Wilbur? Just do, I guess. I like to hear him get all riled up. He can sure get mad at the Devil.”
Pete continued to pet Louisville. The fur between her eyes was soft as silk. She had white around her snout and beneath her eyes.
“Is Louise an old dog?” Pete asked Vern.
“Yep,” said Vern. “She an old woman.”
For most of the ride, Pete had met his equal with Vern. The two talked so little that they didn’t make enough words to fill up a teacup. Pete was miles above the car, caught in the blue night and the stars. Ahead of them, he could see the silhouette of his mother in the truck cab.
The highway seemed to go on for hours. They hadn’t passed a single car all night, and none of the rural houses had lights on. It was cool outside, and Pete thanked the stars for that. The unforgiving heat of day, coupled with the drought, made the world feel merciless.
“You been on the road with your mama a long time?” asked Vern.
“Yeah,” said Pete. “A long time.”
“Us too.”
More silence.
“Where you sleep?” asked Vern.
“Oh, anywhere. Most times we sleep in the car.”
“Us too.”
Silence again.
“Do it make you tired? All this traveling ’round?”
“Yeah, my mama’s tired. I can tell. She’s tired all the time.”
“Us too.”
Pete let out a big sigh, then leaned back into his seat. He let his hand rest on the dog.
“You ever get scared?” said Vern.
“Yeah.”
“Is you scared now?”
Pete had to think about this for a moment. “A little.”
“Me too. But you know what J. Wilbur say? Blessed are the meek who shall inherit the whole earth.”
“Meek? What’s that mean?”
“Don’t know, but I prays God makes me good and meek-like so maybe I can get all sorta land I can call my own one day.”
“Me too.”
Silence passed between them.
“Where’re we going?” Pete asked.
“Butler County, Paul said.”
“What’s in Butler County?”
“Work.”
“What kind?”
Vern shrugged. “Don’t really know. I just goes where Paul goes.”
Pete cranked the window down before he became dizzy from the fumes.
Vern grinned at Pete. It was the first time the big man’s friendly eyes had really inspected Pete. “That’s a real nice hat you wear.”
Pete removed the big hat and observed it. It was buckskin, with a leather strip of rawhide tied around the crown. The hatband had been stuffed with newspaper so that it would fit his boyish head. “It was my daddy’s.”
“Where’s your daddy?”
Pete looked at the night sky. “Way up there somewhere.”
Vern looked at the stars through the windshield. “Mine too.”
Twenty-Five
Judgment Days
Paul glanced into the rearview mirror. Vern and Pete were close behind. He checked his speedometer, careful to keep the needle three ticks above the number twenty. Twenty-three was his lucky number when it came to gas mileage. Whenever the truck went too far over that speed, the old thing started burning oil and making strange noises that sounded like someone was hiding beneath the hood with a short-barrel shotgun.
Paul reached for a cigarette and found that the pack in his shirt pocket was empty. He almost swore, but the woman was in the passenger seat next to him. He tossed the carton out the window and looked at Baby Ruth, bouncing in the woman’s arms. He forced a smile.
Baby Ruth wasn’t crying anymore, but she wasn’t calm either. She was fidgety but lethargic. Much like he was feeling.
“You know,” said the woman. “I realized I don’t even know your full name.”
But Paul didn’t answer. He wasn’t trying to be rude, he simply was too busy patting his pockets for a cigarette. He was certain he had one lying around somewhere. He looked on the dashboard and between the seats. He searched the floorboards and found nothing. He finally gave up searching. He pulled in a breath of air and mumbled an ugly word through gritted teeth in a whisper.
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