Stars of Alabama

by Sean Dietrich

  Blake swore.

  “What now?” asked Coot.

  “I’m thinking, Coot.”

  They backtracked through the stadium and found the nosebleed seats again, then they crouched low. They stayed there for a few hours, until the park emptied and the sun went down. Neither of them spoke a word. Finally Coot fell asleep, using the brown leather bag for a pillow.

  When the sky was black, they climbed the fence on the east edge of the park. They walked back toward the motel room through the darkness until Coot had developed blisters on his feet. When they reached the motor inn parking lot, Blake stopped walking and squatted beneath a delivery truck tire. He swore again.

  “What is it?” Coot said. But no sooner had he said it than he saw what Blake was cussing at. It was a man in the distance, wearing a badge, standing beside their motel door.

  “Those rabbit-chasing grunts ain’t got nothing better to do than go after an old man.”

  “Are we done for?” said Coot.

  But Blake was in no mood to answer. He remained quiet, letting his mind work overtime. After several moments, Blake finally flashed a flimsy smile and said, “We ain’t licked yet.”

  And Coot knew that even though Blake had promised he never would, he was lying.

  Twenty-Nine

  The Long Green

  “No thanks, I got all the tobacco pickers I can stand,” said Mister Harrison. “If it’s work you’re looking for, go ask my competitor for a job. They probably pay worse than I do, though.”

  “I know you already got you plenty of pickers,” said Paul. “But you ain’t got five pickers for the price of two.”

  Mister Harrison leaned against the dry barn and removed his hat. He used a handkerchief to dab his black hair. He was a short man, broad shouldered and stout. He let out a colossal sigh, then studied Pete, Vern, Eulah, Reese, and Baby Ruth with hard eyes.

  “Can them two young’uns work?” Mister Harrison asked.

  Paul scoffed. “Why, those two can pull their own weight better ’n any two young’uns you ever saw.”

  “How about the bull?” said Mister Harrison, nodding toward Vern.

  “He’s got him a name,” said Paul.

  Mister Harrison let out a demeaning chuckle. Then Harrison looked into the distance at the long green fields of tobacco leaves. Harrison’s workers labored in the sunlight, wearing straw hats and canvas sacks slung around their shoulders. They picked weeds from between the wide, leafy rows, placing the field daisies and the jimsonweed into bags a handful at a time. Harrison whistled at two workers who were close by.

  Two men came running. They were wiry, with long necks and leathery skin. They stood before Mister Harrison with bent backs and humble faces.

  Mister Harrison rubbed his chin, staring at them. He seemed to be thinking. Finally he announced, “One of you’s fired.”

  His words didn’t resonate right away. It took a few moments before they settled on the men. The faces of the young men became long and serious. They looked at Harrison, waiting for more words, but there were none. Mister Harrison was only wearing a strange smirk.

  One man answered, “Boss? You’re firing us?”

  “No,” said Mister Harrison. “Just one of you.”

  The men wore confused faces.

  “Which one of us?” said the other man.

  Mister Harrison crossed his arms. “Whichever one of you beats the other.”

  The men looked at each other in what was obviously disbelief. They removed their hats and let out nervous laughs. “But, Boss, Clarence is my friend. We’s been friends since we’s kids.”

  “Don’t make me repeat myself, you two,” said Mister Harrison. “I got a man to fire, and one of you better get to kicking the other one’s tail, or you’ll both be out of a job.”

  The men grew uncomfortable on their feet. One man threw down his weed sack and his hat.

  But Paul had already had enough. He grabbed the hands of Pete and Eulah and said, “We don’t need jobs that bad. Good day to you, sir—”

  “No!” shouted Mister Harrison, keeping his attention on the two fieldmen. “Now I just gave you boys an order . . .” His voice was low and threatening. “You gonna sit there and defy me? Or is you gonna listen to your boss man?”

  The men pleaded. They begged. Mister Harrison swore in a voice that rang throughout the county, then removed his hat. He shot forward and threw his heel into the back of one man’s knee. The man fell face-first onto the dirt.

  “I give you an order, son!” shouted Mister Harrison through clenched teeth. “An order, you hear me?”

  The other man rushed toward Mister Harrison and tackled him. The three men rolled in the dust together until Mister Harrison was on top of one of the men. But before he could take a swing, Vern handed Baby Ruth to Paul and strode toward the men with a calm gait. Vern picked up Harrison with both hands. He lifted the man’s body high above his head.

  Onlookers who had started to gather wore big eyes at the giant who held Mister Harrison in the air. Vern walked slowly toward a barn, holding Harrison with massive arms. Paul had never seen such a display of strength.

  Vern set the man on the ground easily. He straightened the man’s collar. Then he glared at Harrison and said, “Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.”

  Paul and Vern took the children and Eulah and left.

  Thirty

  Heartbreak

  It was a magnificent Saturday. The crickets were making such a loud noise it seemed as though they were singing. The tavern at Cowikee’s was empty, and so were the rooms. The girls reclined on the porch, listening to the tranquilizing sounds of the piney forest.

  Then came the sound of tires on gravel.

  A chrome-fendered car rushed into the drive, and the doors flew open. A woman, a sophisticated woman with pearls on and matching earrings, jumped out. Her hair was done. Her shoes matched her green dress. The woman walked onto Cowikee’s back porch uninvited and unannounced. Her shoes made loud noises on the floorboards, like a log drum.

  And she had children with her. One child was balanced on her hip. The other, a toddler, was standing beside her, holding the woman’s hand. The woman looked out of place on a porch like this. The girls, barefoot, wearing silk robes, became uncomfortable.

  Helen approached the woman first. The woman, however, did not move or give Helen a smile. She only cut Helen off before she could ask anything.

  “I’m looking for Rachel,” the woman said.

  The girls stiffened. They stabbed cigarettes into the coffee tin filled with sand and looked at each other. One by one they stood and wandered into their rooms.

  “Okay,” said Helen. “Just calm down. What’s this about?”

  The woman’s face was not getting calmer, but red. She adjusted the child on her hip and said, “I am calm. I want to see Rachel. Please.”

  Helen didn’t move her body. She only nodded toward Marigold. “Go inside and get Rachel.”

  In a few minutes, Rachel stood on the porch before the woman in green. Marigold noted how the two couldn’t have looked more different. Rachel looked younger than the woman and less sophisticated. The woman set her child on the porch. She smoothed her dress and stepped toward Rachel with slow steps. She placed inches between their noses and made her eyes small.

  “So you’re the one?” the woman said.

  Marigold could see the faces of the others looking through the windowpanes.

  “It’s you?” the woman went on. “You’re the one Lawrence keeps coming to see?”

  Rachel looked embarrassed.

  The woman took another stride forward. Then she reared back and slapped Rachel. The loud sound made Marigold cringe.

  But Rachel only looked at the woman. Silence passed between them. Then Rachel touched her own face and started to cry.

  The woman pointed to the children who stood behind her. “You see those children?” she said. “They belong to Lawrence. And me. I want you to have a good
look at them.”

  The children stood motionless, wide-eyed.

  “Look at them,” the woman said. “Do you see them?”

  Rachel nodded.

  “Now you listen to me,” the woman said. “You’re nothing to him. Nothing. And that ain’t even the saddest part. The sad part is Lawrence don’t even have the guts to tell you what a nothing you are to him, and he sent me to do it for him.”

  The woman held her gaze, almost as if she were daring Rachel to do something. Finally she lifted a child onto her hip and gripped the other by the hand. And then she was gone.

  Marigold stepped toward her. She let Rachel collapse into her arms. Rachel began to sob with groans that were too deep for words. Marigold felt the heat build in her palms, like it had before when she’d laid her hand on the hairy man in the bar. This time her hand was so hot it stung. It frightened Marigold, but with an unexplained urge, she touched Rachel’s face. When she did, she felt a sharp pain in her chest, just below her breastbone. The sensation was so piercing, it made her moan. Rachel touched Marigold’s hand and pressed it harder into her own cheek.

  “Oh, Marigold,” said Rachel. “I feel like my heart is bleeding inside me.”

  “I know,” said Marigold. “I feel it too.”

  And the crickets sang all night long.

  Thirty-One

  Best Friends

  The morning light spread across the uneven cobblestones. Coot stood before a bus holding a brown leather bag containing the money box, a few sets of clothes, and the collection of trinkets he held dear.

  The bus engine before him spit gray exhaust into the morning air. There were men in suits carrying duffel bags, and women in skirts with handbags. They all boarded the bus in a horde. They seemed busy, hurried, and they behaved like their lives were more important than they truly were.

  The sign on the front of the large silver vehicle read Birmingham, Ala.

  Coot waited on the sidewalk, observing his own reflection in a shop window. Behind his reflection were mannequin torsos wearing suits. In the reflection he looked awkward. His long, skinny neck. His puny shoulders. He thought himself to be an ugly kid. Maybe the ugliest who ever lived.

  Blake was several yards away, speaking to the bus driver. Their voices were drowned out by the sound of the heavy engine. But Coot could see the driver nodding and listening to whatever Blake was saying.

  Coot looked at his own reflection again. Why couldn’t God have made his ears a little bit smaller? Or at least God could’ve made his neck shorter.

  “We’re all set,” said Blake, appearing in the shop window reflection behind Coot. “Nice-lookin’ men, ain’t we?”

  Coot shrugged.

  Blake tousled Coot’s hair. “You’ll grow into your paws. Give it time.”

  Then Blake squatted on his heels before Coot and fixed his collar. “Gosh, Coot. I’m sorry I couldn’t get your baseball bat. Too many cops around the car.”

  “It’s okay.”

  Blake shook his head. “No, it ain’t okay. That was your bat.”

  Coot was indeed sorry he didn’t have the bat. It was the most impressive thing he had ever owned. But the truth was, he’d forgotten about it ever since they’d been running from dust and hiding from deputies in dark corners of a foreign city.

  Blake placed his hand on Coot’s head. The hand weighed more than Coot thought. “One day you’re gonna forget all about me, you know that?”

  “No, I won’t.”

  “Yes, you will, and you should forget. You know I ain’t brought you nothing but trouble. I shoulda taken you away from E. P. a long time ago. I hold myself personally responsible for all you went through.”

  “Stop it, Blake.”

  “I’m bad luck, buddy.” Blake cleared his throat and flashed a big smile. “But hey, we’re gonna start a new life, you ’n’ me, right? We’ll have big fun together. This bus is gonna take us straight to the promised land, and maybe, once you finally see Alabama, you’ll forgive me.”

  “Blake, you ain’t done nothing wrong.”

  Blake brought himself eye level with Coot and looked both ways. Coot noticed the old man’s eyes were pink and wet. Blake said in a whisper, “I’m putting you in charge of our money, hear me?”

  Coot nodded.

  Blake made his voice soft. “Now, the first rule of carrying money is always be touching your money. Always. Understand?”

  “Why do you want me to carry it?”

  “Repeat the first rule back to me, Coot.”

  “Always be touching your money.”

  Blake cupped his ear. “How often should you be touching it?”

  “Always.”

  Blake grinned. “Second rule is don’t let nobody else touch it, never. Especially not a friend. Lotta friends in this life will do you wrong, Coot. It’s just human nature. They don’t mean nothing by it. People is just people, and people can be so cruel.”

  Then Blake smacked Coot’s shoulders. He gave Coot a big look, with the weight of pride behind it. “I love you, Coot. And you deserved that blamed bat. I’m only sorry I couldn’t get it for you.”

  “Blake, shouldn’t you be the one to carry the money? I don’t think I’m—”

  “You’re a brave kid, brother. Bravest I ever knowed . . .”

  Something was very wrong, Coot could feel it in the air.

  The bus driver stepped off the bus and hollered. People fit in last goodbyes. Men kissed women, children hugged mothers. People hurried onto the bus.

  The driver exchanged a look with Blake. Blake only nodded at the man.

  “C’mon,” said Blake. “We gotta bus to catch.”

  When they reached the door, Blake stopped walking. He tousled Coot’s hair and said, “Coot, you go ahead and get us a good seat. I gotta use the john.”

  The engine fired. The bus brakes creaked.

  “Hurry, Blake.”

  Blake winked at Coot. “I’m right behind you.”

  Coot boarded the bus. He walked the narrow aisle toward a seat in the rear. He placed the brown bag beside himself. An old man walked by and tried to sit next to Coot, but Coot waved him off. The old man mumbled something when he walked away. Another passenger tried to sit beside Coot. A woman with a toddler.

  “Sorry,” said Coot. “Seat’s taken.”

  The woman said, “You can’t reserve seats on a bus, kid. Ain’t the way it works.”

  “My friend’s in the bathroom.”

  The woman stormed off and took her toddler to the back of the bus.

  After a few moments, the bus driver threw the vehicle into gear.

  “Wait,” Coot shouted. “My friend is still in the bathroom!”

  Coot could see the driver’s face in the large rearview mirror. The bus driver’s eyes were solemn. “I’m really sorry, kid,” he said. “Really sorry.” He pulled the doors shut and gunned the engine.

  Coot shot forward, toting the leather bag in both hands, stomping down the center aisle. He fumbled past the passengers, knocking the bag against them on his way to the front. “Stop! My friend’s still out there!”

  But the mammoth vehicle was already rolling forward. Coot froze in his tracks and realized what was happening. He looked out the narrow glass doors. He could see Blake standing on the pavement in the rear window.

  “Please!” shouted Coot. “Look! He’s right there. Back up and let him on the bus!”

  The bus did not stop.

  Blake’s figure was getting smaller in the distance. The tall, wiry man with the mustache stood on the curb.

  “Blake!” Coot said through tears. “Don’t do this!”

  Coot could feel the bus engine beneath his feet. The driver changed gears and picked up speed. Soon they were on the highway. Blake’s figure was a pinpoint on the far-off landscape.

  The driver gave Coot a look. “He told me it was for your own good, son,” he said. “But he told me to give you this.” The bus driver removed something from behind his own seat.

&n
bsp; A hickory baseball bat, brand-new, wrapped in ribbon.

  Book II

  Thirty-Two

  Babies into Girls

  Paul watched the sun rise over the tobacco field. Whenever sun spread itself on the leaves, it looked like the backyard of heaven, dotted with the first colors of a coming autumn. The fading green color of the world was overwhelming, the scent clean smelling. The aroma of wet dirt and earth was strong enough to taste.

  The sound of a radio nearby cut through the rural morning. It was blasting an official voice into the air, one that talked about a war and the invasion at Pearl Harbor. The voices on the radio had changed since the war began. Men talked a little louder and more staccato. They had anxiety in their words, and fear.

  Paul’s family had worked on four tobacco farms in three years before they finally found work with Mister Pettigrew. And in those years of uncertainty, Paul had never found a man who was as kind as Pettigrew. Most men in tobacco farming were bitter, looking for fast money, and treated their mostly black field workers with cruelty. The hateful things Paul had heard and seen done had changed the way he viewed the human race.

  But Mister Pettigrew was not like this. He hired Paul, Vern, Eulah, and Pete and had paid them the wages of three workers. Even though they did the work of eight workers, it was steady money. Pettigrew treated them like his own family. During holidays he invited workers to his own home to celebrate. He gave gifts to the children of the field workers. He served mountains of food. Long tables were filled with casseroles, pies, and dishes of all kinds. And his men worked hard for Mister Pettigrew because of it.

  In the early sun, Paul watched the morning’s first workers move through the crops before the midday heat got too strong.

  Paul had not cared for tobacco work when he first arrived. This work wasn’t at all like cotton picking, peanut picking, plowing, timber framing, roofing, or dog training. Tobacco work was careful work, slow moving and downright boring. But somehow he’d changed the way he felt about it. He’d come to love the easy rhythms.