Into the Free

by Julie Cantrell

  “Incredible!” Mr. Tucker hollers, running out to meet me in the dust. “That was absolutely amazing! I can’t believe this.” He’s out of breath. Janine follows him with gentle reminders to calm down. “I should have known. Jack was right. You’re a natural with animals, all right. A real natural.”

  “Thanks,” I say, grinning from ear to ear, refusing to let memories of Jack steal this joy, “but it’s not me. It’s Firefly. She’s taught me everything I know.”

  “Hey, what about me? Don’t I get some credit round here?” Bump strides out behind Mr. Tucker, his crooked smile bigger than me.

  “Yeah,” I say, “I guess I’ve learned a few things from Bump, too.”

  “A few?” Bump protests. “Heck, this girl didn’t know the difference between Western and English when I found her. All pathetic and scared, leading poor Firefly here around in circles like she was a leashed-up puppy or something.” He looks at me, smiles that warm smile, and I know he’s only teasing.

  “Well, if you ask me, you could be a big star,” Mr. Tucker beams. “Let’s get you an outfit and work out a routine. You can join us for the next rodeo. Trick Riding. One month from today. In Dallas.”

  “Dallas?” I blink. Compete? I think of the women in the pictures on the arena walls. Could I be one of them? But then my mind transitions to River. Spring is only two weeks away. “Mr. Tucker,” I say, bracing to turn him down. “I would love to compete, but I’m still catching up with school. I’ve missed so much this year, with Mama being sick, and then my fall. I can’t possibly miss any more.”

  By now, Camille has noticed the commotion and enters the conversation. “Don’t be silly, Millie. He can talk to your teachers. Explain the situation.”

  “Diana would never allow that, and besides,” I improvise, “who would look after you?” I smile at Camille.

  “I’ll go with you!” she beams.

  “Right,” I say. “Like Diana would ever agree to that idea.”

  I am only making excuses. I can’t admit the real reason I’m reluctant to go. The seasons will be changing soon. In only two weeks, I’ll celebrate my seventeenth birthday and the return of spring. As much as I would love to go to Texas, ride Firefly, become a rodeo star, I can’t risk being in Dallas when River comes back to Iti Taloa. When he comes back for me.

  “It’s only one event, little lady,” Mr. Tucker presses. He’s sweating and fanning himself. Janine fans him too. “It’ll be a huge showcase. You’ll put those sponsor girls to shame, I tell you.” If we were cartoon characters, money signs would be flashing in his eyes. I’m tempted. It’s something I’ve always wanted. But I want River more. It’s not worth the risk.

  “I think I’ll have to wait until summer, Mr. Tucker. I’m so sorry. I’m honored by the offer. More than you know. And I’d love to ride with your rodeo. Just not yet.”

  Camille shoots me a What the heck is wrong with you? look. I shift away.

  “Sure thing, gal. I don’t want to be taking you out of school. Smart choice,” he turns to Bump. “She’s a smart one, case you haven’t noticed.”

  Bump smiles. “I’ve noticed.”

  CHAPTER 32

  Each day, I fidget through hours at school, counting the seconds until I can get back to the arena. With Camille as my sidekick, I continue to spend every spare minute in the saddle. Even though Bump stays busy training other horses for the big Dallas showcase, he doesn’t seem to mind making Firefly and me his primary obligation. If I am even a minute late, he guilts me about it. “You owe me three minutes,” he says, waiting in the arena with Firefly at the ready. He never scares me though. He’s not the kind of guy to put fear in someone.

  He shows just as much patience out of the ring as in, so I’m not surprised when he looks out into the parking lot where Jack’s truck has been parked since the funeral and says, “Seems like a waste to have a truck you can’t drive. Wanna learn?”

  “You bet!” I don’t hesitate. It’s Friday but the town leaders are preparing the school for a weekend ceremony so we have no class. I climb behind the wheel and remember Jack peeling in and out of our lives. The power he must have felt, squealing away whenever he felt the notion. Leaving Mama and me spinning in circles, like flies in a dust storm.

  Jack’s truck is a 1939 Ford. The day he won it, he came home jiggling the keys. “Wanna go for a ride?” Mama and I jumped in and we all zipped away, my arm making waves up and down in the wind. I leaned my head out into the dust and before I knew it, I had swallowed a bug. Mama laughed. Jack did too. “Let’s test these fancy brakes,” Jack shouted over the noise, pumping the new hydraulic system in and out to give it a go. “Not bad. Not bad at all. Those Ford fellas shoulda’ done this years ago, you ask me.”

  Wooden slat-rails rattled above the back bed, and the stick shift stood tall and lean next to Mama’s knees. It shone like a crystal ball, and I couldn’t help but think of the gypsies. Even then, I was dreaming of running away with them someday. The leather seat stuck to my legs in the summer heat. I wanted to open the glove compartment, roll the window up and down. But I knew better than to touch anything in Jack’s new truck. I was lucky he was sharing the moment with me at all.

  I counted the trees flying by. The AM radio had to warm up. But between the low background buzz of the signal and the roar of the wind, none of us could understand a word the announcer was saying. Mama turned it off and started to sing. I joined her, and before we knew it, Jack was singing too. There we were, the three of us, bouncing along back county roads singing to the trees.

  Get out of town,

  Before it’s too late, my love;

  Get out of town,

  Be good to me, please

  Why wish me harm?

  Now Jack’s gone. I’m the one driving, and I can in fact get out of town. I can touch any old knob I please. Bump and Camille must think me crazy, flipping the lights on and off, beeping the horn, checking the little fan on the steering wheel that defrosts the window in winter’s worst, Click. Clip. Click. Clip. The sounds bring me joy. This truck—Jack’s truck—is mine.

  “Are we gonna just sit here all day and pretend or what?” Camille leans over into the breeze of the tiny fan.

  “Where to, my dear?”

  “Chicago! Where else?” she says. She’s heard Mabel talk for years about visiting Chicago, where some of her cousins had gone after the flood. Music, dancing, every kind of restaurant you can imagine, we’ve heard it all. I agree with Camille. Chicago seems the place to be.

  “Chicago it is, then!” I wink at Bump as Camille bounces up and down between us, clapping and cheering with her usual pep. We haven’t moved an inch, but I swear we feel like we’re on the journey of a lifetime. “Which way do I go?” I ask Bump.

  He points out his passenger window and shouts, “North!”

  After Bump’s less-than-precise directions, I try to release the parking brake. He leans in, puts his hand over mine and guides me as I release the brake handle and push the lever forward. I try to ignore the chillbumps rising on my arms, so I mash the clutch and put the truck into first gear. I slowly press on the accelerator. The engine revs. My heart does too.

  “Here we go!” Camille cheers.

  We lunge forward in the gravel lot. But before we even make it to the road, the engine sputters. Then dies. We all start laughing, as if we are the biggest fools in the world. Of course we couldn’t make it to Chicago, even for pretend.

  Bump senses my disappointment. “Happens to the best of us,” he says. “Probably just got a little water in the engine. Hadn’t been run in a while. Never good to sit idle too long.” He hops out of the truck and opens the hood. After examining every valve and container, he takes a look in the fuel tank. “Well, heck, Millie. You ain’t got no fuel in this thing.” I can hardly hear him over Camille, laughing so loud.

  “Couldn’t a picked an easier problem to solve. Just gimme a minute,” he says, dusting his hands on the legs of his jeans. “I’m coming with you!” Cami
lle yells, climbing out before he has a second to protest.

  “Why, of course,” he nods, holding the door open for Camille. “I wouldn’t have it no other way, my lady.”

  I playfully roll my eyes and lean back in the seat, thinking how typical it is of Jack to leave with an empty tank.

  Bump never loses his temper. Not when I run off the road into a ditch full of water near the factories, not when I nearly get us flattened by a train, not when I stall at every intersection in town, not even when I turn the wrong way and land us in the quarters.

  Camille loves the entire adventure. She pokes her head out the window and waves to all the children who run shouting and laughing behind the truck like a parade. I honk the horn for good measure, which draws curious stares from cautious old women on their porches. Bump just laughs, taking it all in, and before I know it, I am driving. Not stalling. Not crashing. Not getting flustered or turning the wrong way. Really and truly driving my 1939 black Ford pickup through Iti Taloa. Queen of the world.

  We pass a woman sitting on the porch of a small dogtrot cabin. She is rocking a baby, and she wears a peaceful look on her face. “That’s Mabel!” Camille says. “Let’s stop!”

  I pull the truck to the side of the road, careful not to hit the ditch. Camille has opened the door and run to the porch before I can even cut the engine. Bump slides out behind Camille. Comes around to open my door.

  “This reminds me of home,” he says, taking a long look at the scrapboard house with a tin roof. “Right down to the oak trees.”

  He’s told me he’s from the Delta. That his parents were sharecroppers, barely making ends meet. Was proud that his father worked his way up to be a tenant farmer. “Not much better,” Bump had said, “but every step counts.”

  Bump has scrimped and saved and worked his way through school. He’s almost finished the state program to be a veterinarian. A big accomplishment by any means, but nearly unheard of for a sharecropper’s son.

  “I’d like to see it one day,” I say. “I’d like to meet your family.”

  “Really?” he asks, in a tone of authentic surprise.

  “Of course,” I say. “I need to meet the woman who raises this kind of son.”

  “And what kind would that be?” he asks, a little worried.

  “The kind who takes time to remove the thorns,” I say, looking directly into his eyes for the first time since we’ve met. They are blue. The color of hydrangeas. A color that reminds me of big happy blooms and secret childhood hideaways. The color of sweetness. And of safety.

  Camille interrupts the moment. Yells, “Y’all hurry!”

  Mabel has left the rocking chair and is coming out to the truck to meet us, holding a baby on her hip. “Well, you just won’t give me one single day off, now will you?” She smiles warmly. “Come on in and let me fix you a glass of water.”

  She places the baby down on a blanket in the middle of the floor. “My niece came up from Willow Bend,” she says. “She’s in the hospital. Had no one else to watch the baby. I told Diana I’d come in as soon as I can. I’ll do the cooking here, and I’ll bring supper over at the very least.”

  We join Mabel in the two-room house. It is as clean and organized as Diana’s fancy home, filled with some nice things that must have been Diana’s discards. “What on earth are y’all doing out in these parts?” Mabel asks, handing me a cold glass of water, fresh from her well.

  I look around the room, remembering nights when I’d get Mabel to tell me stories about her husband. Her son. Both gone.

  “Any word from your nephews?” I ask, hoping they’ve sent letters home by now. Both have gone to Germany, eager to join the war.

  “Nothing in two months,” she says, pulling a family photo from the wall. “This is Jasmer. Here’s Jeff. This is Jeff’s baby I’m keeping.” She points to the pallet on the floor where she’s laid the baby. “His wife is pregnant, but she’s having some trouble. Hoping it’ll all be okay. Lord be with us,” she says. Then she kisses the frame and hangs it back on the nail in the wall.

  “Is that your husband?” I ask, pointing to a photo of a gap-toothed man with a dimpled chin.

  “Oh, yes,” Mabel says, smiling. “That’s James. World don’t make too many a man as good as that one.”

  “He worked the rails, right?”

  “Yes he did,” Mabel says. “Twenty-six years. Till a drunk engineer forgot to pull the brake in time.” She rubs her hand across the picture. Camille, Bump, and I all stand still and wait in the silence. The baby sleeps.

  “He might not have been the prettiest bird in the flock,” Mabel laughs, “but I’d choose him all over again, given the chance.”

  “Oh, don’t be so hard on him, Mabel. Look at those eyes. He’s handsome,” I say.

  “Well, I think so too, Millie. But there was a time when I thought he was the ugliest boy on the block.” She laughs. Camille does too.

  “Then why’d you marry him?” Camille asks. I’d kick her if I could. She never thinks before she speaks.

  I give her a look, and she adds, “I mean, you’re so pretty, Mabel. You should have chosen a looker. Like Garrett Jenkins.”

  Mabel laughs. “Oh, dear child. You’ve got a lot to learn about marriage,” she says. “Any fool can choose the boy who sends her heart into a flurry. But there’s a big deep divide between desire and devotion. You better not choose the boy who makes you dizzy. No, ma’am. You have to choose the one who is steady. Stable. Safe. Choose the one who loves you, through and through, for who you really are. The one who wouldn’t change a single thing about you, even if he could.”

  “So that’s why you married him?” Camille pesters, more serious now than before. “Because he loved you through and through?”

  “Yes, ma’am. And I would do it again tomorrow. I made the right choice.”

  Camille puts her glass in the sink and moves over to stare at the baby. I hope she doesn’t wake him up.

  Mabel turns from the photo and changes the subject. “Surprised y’all aren’t up at the arena,” she says. “Seems like all you ever do these days.”

  “Millie’s amazing,” Bump answers. “You should come out. See her ride. You’ve never seen anything like it.”

  I blush.

  “It’s true,” Camille chimes in. “She rides that horse backwards. Standing up. With her eyes closed. Mother would die if she knew what was really going on down there!” It’s obvious that the very thought of breaking her mother’s rules excites her.

  “I’d love to come,” Mabel says. “Maybe I can make it out for your first competition.”

  “Really?” I ask. “That’d make me so happy!” I’m honored beyond belief that Mabel would want to see me compete. I think back to Mama telling me that rodeo people do better when they stick to their own kind. I don’t think she was right.

  The baby stirs, cries, and Mabel jumps to tend to its needs. I take that as a cue and say we’d better hit the road.

  “I’ll see y’all home for supper,” Mabel says. “I may be bringing the baby.”

  As we drive back to the arena, I decide to test the wiper blade. The driver’s side is operated by a vacuum pump, so when I let up on the gas, the wiper runs like crazy. But when I press on the gas to move up a grade, it barely moves at all. The best part is when we go downhill. The little blade slaps back and forth like an old lady’s funeral fan on a hot summer day. Camille shouts, “Again! Again!” So I circle through the square to head back downhill. Here we are, cruising the square, honking and hollering like a bunch of hillbillies, when who should we see? Diana! She’s with a few ladies, and I assume they’ve walked over for lunch at Tino’s.

  She raises her hand to her mouth in shock and gives us a look that makes me crunch the brakes. Then she marches right over to the truck, trying to mask her anger, and whispers, with more of a hiss than a purr, “What on earth do you think you’re doing, Millie Reynolds? Camille, get out of there this instant.”

  Camille sits between Bump a
nd me and doesn’t move. She looks at her mama like a cat stuck high in a tree. Not knowing whether to climb up or down. “I said, now!” Diana orders, turning to offer a smile to the two suited ladies, who can’t peel their eyes away from us despite their best efforts.

  For the first time since I’ve met her, Camille has nothing to say. Bump steps out of the truck and helps Camille climb down to her mother. “You, young lady, will have to speak to Bill Miller about this when he gets home.”

  “And you,” Diana turns to me. “I’m just not sure how much more I can take of you.” She teeters off with Camille tethered to her side and quickly pretends not to know me. Too ashamed in front of her friends. Too afraid of losing everything she has. Too threatened by the fact that she’s only one step away from being just like Mama.

  Maybe it’s because I’ve already lost just about everything and everyone I’ve ever cared about. Maybe it’s because, deep down, I have been expecting Diana to break at any moment. Maybe it’s because I knew all along that living with a family like theirs was too good to be true, that someone like me would never fit into their kind of world. For whatever reason, Diana’s response doesn’t faze me. As Camille and Diana walk away, I offer Bump a shrug of my shoulders and say, “Where to now?”

  Bump and I spend the rest of the day driving and talking. I show him all my favorite places: my home, Sweetie, the old sycamore tree where Mama buried her box. I show him the river, out by East, where I used to fish and swim. I show him Hope Hill, and we get out to visit my brother’s grave for the very first time. I show him the gypsy graves. But I don’t mention River.

  “How long would it take us to drive to your hometown?” I ask.

  “Little less than three hours,” he answers. “You really want to go?”

  “Absolutely!” I say. “I’d love to!”

  “I’ve got to get back to the barn tonight,” he says, “but first chance I have to get away, we’re taking a road trip.”