“What would a young lady be going to Rockford all by herself for?” the baggage agent had inquired. He had bright black eyes like a crow and hopped around shoving boxes and freight onto a cart as he talked.
“Oh, just a trip,” Violet had said. She had hesitated, then said, “If a body went in a car, how would he get to Chicago?”
“Well, first of all, he would cross the river at Van Buren . . . over to Missouri . . .” The agent had given complicated instructions, for the road system in 1931 was patchy, and especially so in Arkansas and Missouri. Finally he shook his head. “It ain’t easy to get there from here. You’d better take the good ol’ Missouri Pacific.”
Now as she walked along, Violet wished again that she had been able to take the train. She looked behind her from time to time, but during the next hour only two automobiles passed by her. She did not know how to ask for a ride and had merely stepped to one side wistfully as the cars sailed by. It was almost noon when she came to a farmhouse and decided to ask how far it was to the next town.
As she stepped up on the porch, a woman came to the door and eyed her carefully. “What do you want?” she asked sharply.
“I just want to know how far it is to the next town.”
“More than thirty miles.” Curiosity got the better of the woman. She had a round face, smallish eyes, and a mouth that puckered as she spoke. “You ain’t gonna make that before dark,” she said. “What’s a young’un doing out by herself, anyhow?”
Violet hesitated, tempted to tell her story, but decided it was useless. “Thank you very much,” she said. “Could I have a drink of water, please?”
“I guess so. There’s the well over there. Help yourself.” The woman seemed to relent as Violet turned. “I hate to be sharp, but I can’t feed everybody that comes along. The road’s filled up with tramps all day with their hands out for something to eat.”
Violet was offended. “All I want is a drink of water.”
“Well, that just may be. Some of ’em are just no good, you can tell that.” She hesitated slightly, then turned away into the house. “Get your drink and I’ll fix you something to eat.”
Violet marched over to the pump, set her suitcase down, and rubbed her aching palm. The leather had worn off around the handle and now the wires that composed the strap were exposed and cutting into her flesh. She began to pump and when the water came, she simply tilted her head underneath the spout. The water was full of iron so that it set her teeth on edge, but she was thirsty so she drank her fill. Standing up, she pulled her handkerchief out and wiped her mouth, just as the woman came out of the house and poked a small paper sack at her. “There—’tain’t much, but maybe it’ll help a little. Better get off the road before dark and don’t be taking any rides from men, especially those in automobiles. They’re up to no good!”
“Thank you, ma’am.” Violet took the sack and managed a smile. “I appreciate it.” She picked up the suitcase and turned to walk back to the road and when she’d gone fifty yards, she looked back to see that the woman was still standing on the front porch, hugging herself from the cold, and watching her.
I guess she does have to be careful with so many strangers going by, she thought. She remembered suddenly how many men had come by their farm, as far off the beaten path as it was. Almost every day it seemed, one came by looking to work for a bit of food. Usually either she or Logan fed them, allowing them to split a little wood to keep their self-respect. Now as she plodded along, a keener sympathy for them came to her. “When I get back,” she said aloud, “I’ll be careful to be a little more cheerful to them.”
A little after noon, a wagon came along driven by a man with his family. The couple had two small children, a boy and a girl, in the back, and the man drew the mules to a halt beside her.
“Well, get in, young lady,” the woman said. “Reckon you’d rather ride as walk, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am, I sure would!” Violet lifted her suitcase into the bed of the wagon and smiled at the two youngsters. At the woman’s bidding, she clambered up into the seat. The woman scooted over and gave her room. When Violet uttered a deep sigh of relief, the woman said, “Our name’s Thompson. That’s Jimmy and Queenie in the back.”
“I’m Violet Ballard and I’m mighty grateful for the ride, Miz Thompson.”
“You’re welcome, Deary. I don’t reckon them sorry mules like it much. They hate work worse than any men I ever saw.”
“Oh, they ain’t bad mules.” The man turned his face, leaning to look around his wife. “You going far, Missy?” He was a thick-bodied man with square, sunburned hands and a catfish mouth.
“Quite a ways—all the way to Rockford, Illinois.”
The woman’s eyes flew open and she put her hand over her mouth. “Land sakes! That’s a fur piece. What in the world you goin’ there for?”
Violet explained that she was going to see her brother, not going into detail. Mrs. Thompson was as curious as a coon, and Violet paid for her ride by going through her life story almost from birth. Finally, Mr. Thompson said, “Aw, give her a break, Ma. She’ll be too tired to walk after answering all your questions.”
“Well, a body can be neighborly, can’t they?” Apparently Mrs. Thompson was not impressed by her husband’s advice, for she kept up a barrage of questions until the wagon pulled up and she said, “Well, we turn off here, Deary. If you’re goin’ north, it’s that away.” A kindness came to her eyes. “We live four miles down this here road. Come and spend the night. You can start early in the morning. My husband can bring you back to this here crossroad.”
Violet looked up. The sky was growing darker and she was weary. It had been a long day. With a thankful nod, she said, “That would be kind of you, Miz Thompson. I’d be glad to work for a place to sleep.”
Impatiently, the man slapped the mules. “I don’t reckon it’s come to that—where a guest has to work at my house!”
“I didn’t mean to offend you,” Violet said quickly. “It’s the same way at our house. My pa would about die if anybody offered to pay him for hospitality.”
“Well, I should think so! Them Yankees may be like that, but not us.” The war was not over in this part of the South in the 1930s. “Yankees” were still viewed with suspicion. A Yankee, according to Mr. Thompson, was anyone who came from north of Missouri—and even St. Louis folks were suspect.
But that night, Violet got a good meal and slept on a good cornshuck mattress in the attic. The next morning, she got up to a breakfast of corn mush, biscuits, and eggs, along with plenty of fresh milk. She ate all she could, knowing that it would have to do her till the next stop. When it was time to leave she thanked them shyly. “I wish there were more folks like you in the world,” she said. “I wouldn’t worry about getting to Rockford if there were.”
“Your menfolks—they let you go off like this?” Mr. Thompson demanded. “You’re not running away, are you?”
Violet hesitated for a moment, then said, “My brother’s in trouble in Rockford. He’s sick and someone’s got to go take care of him. I’ll be all right though.”
Mrs. Thompson said, “Well, we’re praying folks here, Holiness people. I don’t guess you’re Holiness, are you?”
“My folks are Baptist,” she said. “But most of our neighbors are Holiness folks.”
Without further ado, Mrs. Thompson reached out and laid her hand on Violet’s shoulder. She began to pray rather loudly, and her husband laid his massive ham of a hand on Violet’s other shoulder. The volume of their prayers frightened the girl, but there was a warmth in their hands that seemed to cheer her. When they were through, she blinked, whispering, “Thank you very much. I guess I’ll be on my way now.”
“Don’t you never forget to trust the Lord Jesus,” Mrs. Thompson said, walking out on the porch with Violet. “He ain’t never gonna let you down.”
The experience warmed Violet. These were her kind of people—mountain folks who had been cut off from the mainstream of
American life. They still had some of the habits of their Scotch-Irish ancestors who had settled in the Ozarks years before. Until the coming of the radio, only a few years ago, they had lived almost on another planet from the rest of America. The men had gone off to fight in the war and had returned to their lives in the hidden, remote villages and farms of the region. They were sometimes hot-tempered, often intolerant, and could hold grudges for a millennium—but there was a good streak in them, Violet thought as she walked along the road. They’re good people. I wouldn’t mind having them for neighbors back home.
Two days later, in late afternoon, Violet caught sight of a farmhouse almost hidden behind a grove of trees. The night was falling fast and she was exhausted. It had been a hard two days punctuated by short rides from farmers in wagons, but mostly she had walked. She had eaten very little, hoarding the money in her suitcase as much as possible. A winding road overgrown with weeds cut off from the main highway and she followed it, finding a ramshackle farmhouse. It was about as dreary a place as she had ever seen. The yard around it was nothing but hard-packed dirt and was filled with junk of all kinds—piles of rotting boards, cracked dishes, an old baby buggy with no wheels, and other ruined implements of the very poor. She glanced up at a ragged-looking black rooster that watched her with an evil eye as she approached the house.
“Anybody here?” she called out. When she stepped up on the porch, a board collapsed, rotted by long disuse. It scratched her leg and she cried out involuntarily. Carefully she pulled her leg back and took another route. Stepping inside the door, which swung open, she saw that it was a deserted house. There was nothing in it—except a rusty kitchen range. Instantly, Violet’s mind put the two together—a kitchen stove and a rooster. She spoke the words aloud and the sound of her voice seemed to stir a ghostly presence. At once, she went outside and eyed the rooster. He was, she saw, an old bird, but that mattered little. Reaching down, she got some stones and began to toss them down, calling, “Chick, chick, chick.”
The rooster made some sort of clucking noise and ruffled his wings. He came down off the remaining section of fence, where he had been perched, and moved up to her feet, pecking at the stones. Instantly, Violet stooped down and captured him. For one moment, she held his head in her right hand, feeling his scrawny body. As always, she hated killing anything, but she knew she had to do it. She released the body, swung it around in an expert fashion, and the head came off in her hand. She quickly threw it away with a gesture of disgust. The headless chicken hit the ground and, as chickens always do, began fluttering wildly, legs pumping and wings pounding. This rooster hadn’t shown this much life in a long time, she knew. Suddenly she remembered the pastor of the Baptist church talking about people who made a lot of noise in the church but didn’t contribute much. Brother Barnham had said, “The most active chicken in the barnyard is the one that just got its neck wrung off!” Everyone in that congregation understood that that brief spasm of life was exhibited in every chicken in that condition and had made the application perfectly to converts who went at top speed for a while—then seemed to just fade away.
Violet had brought matches with her, along with a knife and fork, thinking that she might have to camp out. She broke up small sticks and soon got a fire going. Someone had left a few chunks of oak that had already begun to rot, but it made a hot fire. She discovered a large pot with a hole near the top, which had been jettisoned. The well had no bucket, but she was able to rig one out of an old tomato can. It took several trips to fill the pot but soon she had water boiling. She scalded the chicken, plucked it, and then, using her pocketknife, she dressed the chicken out. “You’re going to be good, rooster,” she nodded confidently. She put the rooster in the pot and, while it was cooking, read from an old magazine she found. From time to time, she would go over and poke the rooster.
It got to be discouraging. “This old rooster’s got to be the toughest bird ever hatched!” she complained. She boiled it until late that night and finally in despair, pulled it out and cut it up. It was tough and unyielding, but she had good, sharp teeth and tore the flesh from the bones. The liver, at least, was good and tender. All in all she enjoyed it thoroughly. She was very tired, so after she had eaten she rolled up her coat to make a pillow and laid down close to the stove. The fire would hold till morning, she knew, and she went to sleep at once.
At dawn the next day, she was on the road again. She had not worn a cap, but wore a scarf over her head. The wind was rising now and she was apprehensive. Snow could come at any moment and in these unknown hills there was something ominous about the wind that gusted through the trees. From time to time she saw animals along the road. Once a fox trotted out smartly in front of her, gave her a bold look, then went on its way apparently unperturbed. Squirrels barked at her from the trees and she wished she had Ray’s gun. I’d have squirrel soup tonight, she thought wistfully. But she couldn’t bring a gun on the trip to Rockford, Illinois.
The weather worsened as she went along, the temperature dropping. She was grateful for the mittens and shifted the suitcase from one hand to the other. She did get a ride in a truck with a man and two women, but it was only for three miles. They had not asked her destination or anything else, and had let her off with scarcely a word.
She stopped at noon at a store that was set at a crossroads and bought a box of crackers, a nickel’s worth of cheese, and a large dill pickle. Thinking she might lay in a little bit more, she bought an end of a huge chunk of bologna and two cans of beans.
She sat beside the stove in the store and ate the cheese and crackers, and the storekeeper, a jovial fellow of about sixty, gave her a Coca-Cola. “On the house,” he said when she shook her head. “Coffee’d go better, but ain’t none made.” He walked over to the window and looked outside. “It’s pretty cold out there. Snow’s a coming. Feel it in my bones.” He turned and gave her a curious look. “Ain’t much on that road for the next ten miles,” he said, “and not much then—just a little town. Be you going there?”
Skillfully, Violet avoided his questions. She finished her meal, then picked up the sack containing the food and shoved it in her suitcase. Picking up the suitcase, she said, “Thank you,” and walked out the door.
Two hours later, she was looking for some kind of shelter, but the country was barren, covered with scrub trees that offered very little break from the sharp wind. The temperature was dropping again, and suddenly she felt a touch on her cheek. “Snow!” she whispered. “I’ve got to get out of this.”
She hurried along the road, almost stumbling, but saw no shelter. Five minutes later, she heard the sound of a car coming. Standing over to one side, she waited as she usually did—not asking for a ride, but her face turned toward the vehicle. To her relief it stopped. It was a large black car driven by a man who leaned out and said, “Snow’s coming! You all alone?”
“Yes, sir. I’m headed for the next town.”
“Well, you’d better get in. It’s five more miles down the road and the snow’s going to be coming quick.”
Thankful, Violet got in the door, which the man shoved open, and sat down. “Late for a young lady to be out!” The man was bundled up in a heavy coat. He turned to look at her and grinned in a friendly fashion. His face was round and flushed. He had a short, stubby nose and eyes that were set a little too close together.
“Yes, sir, I just need to get to the next town.”
“Well, it’s getting cold.” He reached down on the seat beside him and held out something to her. When she looked closer, she saw that it was a bottle of clear liquid. “This will warm you up a little bit. It’s good stuff!”
Violet had already smelled the liquor that was in the car. She had not been around it much, only at parties and dances where the young men sometimes drank homemade brew. Alarm rose in her and she said, “Oh, no, sir, I couldn’t do that!”
“Well, it’s good for keeping the cold out.” Tilting the bottle, the man took two swallows. He held his breath, then expel
led it with a sigh of pleasure. Shoving the cork back in, he put the bottle on the seat and said, “Where you from? What’s your name?”
“I’m Violet Ballard and I come from Arkansas.”
“That’s a long way. Where you headed for?”
“Rockford, Illinois.” Violet grew apprehensive as the man started pumping questions at her about where was she going, and didn’t her folks care. She answered shortly and noticed that the car was slowing down. She fell against the man when he made a sudden right-hand turn. “Where are you going?” she cried in alarm.
“Shortcut,” he said. “Road’s washed out up ahead and this will get us there quicker.”
Alarm ran through Violet. “Just let me out,” she said, “and I’ll walk.”
But the man laughed roughly and sent the car plunging over a rutted road. It was apparently deserted and very narrow, for branches slapped the sides of the car. “Stay where you are, Girlie,” he said. “We’re gonna have a good time.”
Violet had known fear in her life—of snakes, of almost drowning, and when she’d fallen down an abandoned well—but nothing like this. Terror clawed at her like a cornered animal as she fumbled with the car door. Sensing what she was doing, the man reached over, grabbed her left arm, and yanked her over. She was nearly powerless in his strong grasp. His voice was guttural. He said, “You just stay put, Sweetie! I’m going to show you a few things.”
Violet tried to pull away from him, but his fingers bit into her arm until she cried aloud. The car bucked and plunged down the rutted road as she tried to hit him with her right hand. Her blow caught him on the neck. He released her arm long enough to strike her in the temple with a hard fist. The blow drove her against the car door, and bright lights seemed to spin in front of her eyes.
A Season of Dreams Page 3
