Crossing Tinker's Knob

by Cooper, Inglath

  “Oh, come on,” Jacob said, grinning. “We know you’re not here on a charity tour.”

  “DUI,” he tossed out, telling himself he didn’t care what either of them thought. He would have bet they didn’t even know what it was.

  “What were you drinking?” Jacob asked, one hand on the steering wheel, his smile wide enough to indicate he was enjoying himself. “Ballard County moonshine?”

  “Budweiser,” he said, looking straight ahead, aware of Becca looking at him.

  “And Judge Angle’s hoping we can reform you?” Jacob slapped the dashboard with his right hand and laughed. “What do you think about that, Becca? Think we can turn Matt around?”

  “I don’t think that job was put to you,” Becca said, chastising. “And it’s a good thing.”

  Jacob took another drag off his cigarette, flicked the ash out his window. “Yep. I expect you’re right about that.”

  Matt’s stomach protested again, loudly enough to be heard over the truck’s roaring engine.

  They were headed through town now, and he was about ready to put aside his pride and ask if they had time to grab something to eat when Becca leaned toward Jacob and said, “Why don’t we stop and get some gas? The needle’s just about on empty.”

  Jacob shrugged. “You know that thing’s never right.”

  “Yeah,” she said, “and that explains all the times you’ve run out on the side of the road.”

  He flipped the turn signal and side wheeled the big truck into the Franklin Minute Market, pulling up at a pump. He opened the door to get out, reaching for his wallet on the dashboard.

  “Need some help?” Matt asked.

  “Nah. I got it,” he said.

  Becca slid over a bit, widening the distance between them.

  “I think I’ll grab a snack,” Matt said. “Want anything?”

  “No. Thanks. I’m fine.”

  He nodded once, popped the handle and slid out. They looked at each other, straight on for the first time that day, and he knew as well as he knew his own name that Becca Miller had guessed how miserable he was. And for whatever reason, chose not to draw attention to it. Maybe she didn’t want him to look like a wimp in front of her brother.

  Once Jacob finished filling up the truck, they headed out of Ballard and down Route 40 to the sawmill. Matt whistled between his teeth, while he worked on his second bag of peanuts, a bag of Fritos and a pint of chocolate ice cream still lined up on his lap.

  From the corner of his eye, he saw the smile on Becca’s face. He looked at her and said, “What?”

  She shook her head, and then, “Where do you put all that?”

  “Growing boy,” he said, tossing back another handful of nuts.

  “Hm,” she said, still smiling.

  They drove through Gainer Hill, past the Quickette and the Elementary school. At the road marked 842, Jacob hit the blinker to turn left.

  “Jacob,” Becca said, surprise in her voice. “Daddy said we need to get back.”

  “I won’t stay but a minute,” he said.

  “I know how long your minute will be,” she complained.

  “Okay, maybe two,” he said, grinning.

  At this point, Matt was more than curious about this unexpected side to Jacob. They drove on another mile or two, then turned right onto a gravel road, dark red cows grazing in the pasture beside a ranch style brick house. A girl in jean shorts and a halter top ran to meet them, braids of dark hair flying out from either side of her head. Matt recognized her from school and thought she might have graduated the year before.

  Jacob turned off the truck, then hopped out, swooping her up against him and twirling her around, her giggles echoing across the yard, his straw hat falling to the ground. She glanced over his shoulder, waved at them, then took his hand and pulled him around to the side of the house.

  Matt stared at Becca. “She’s. . . .”

  “Black?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m sure she’s noticed,” Becca said, surprising him with the pluck in her voice.

  Matt dropped his empty ice cream container into a paper bag. “I thought you people didn’t mix with the rest of us.”

  She looked at him then. “You people?”

  Realizing none of this was coming out right, Matt said, “What I meant is I thought members of the Brethren Church only dated other members.”

  “We’re not like the Amish,” she said, her voice suddenly stiff. “The Church doesn’t shun those who marry outside the faith.”

  “So your family has no problem with the two of them dating?”

  She was quiet for several moments, and then, “I didn’t say that.”

  “Do you have a problem with it?”

  She glanced at him, then back at the house where a Border Collie lay snoozing on the front porch. “Jacob’s life has been very different from hers.”

  “Maybe that just makes the combining of the two more interesting.”

  She lifted both shoulders, neither conceding nor disagreeing. “It also makes it very difficult.”

  “How long have they been seeing each other?” he asked.

  “About a year,” she said.

  “Your folks know about it?”

  She shook her head.

  “Just you, huh?”

  “Just me.”

  “That’s a pretty heavy secret.”

  “It’s Jacob’s life. He’s got to figure out what to do with it.”

  “But you think he’s doing the wrong thing.”

  “It’s not for me to decide.”

  “Uh-huh,” he said, then leaned forward for another glance at Jacob and Linda.

  “You’ve never seen two people kiss before?” she asked, disapproving.

  “Once or twice,” he said, amused. A few seconds passed before he added, “Have you?”

  She gave him a look. Rolled her eyes.

  “That’s hardly an answer,” he said.

  “Of course I have,” she answered quickly.

  “Ever been kissed yourself?”

  At this, her face lit up bright red. “I don’t think that’s any of your business.”

  “No, huh?” he said, openly flirting now.

  “I see your reputation is mostly accurate.”

  “And what exactly is my reputation?”

  “It’s yours. You should at least be aware of it.”

  Matt laughed, unable to stop himself. “Well, you’re sure not what I expected.”

  She looked him in the eyes. “And what exactly was that? The little Dunkard girl who might look good in a bikini but lives such a sheltered life that she’ll never get the chance to find out?”

  Matt leaned back, stared at her for a few moments. “So you did hear that?”

  “I heard it.”

  “Sorry.”

  “For what? It’s not as if I lost any sleep over it.”

  “Wilks can be—”

  “Don’t, okay?” she said, folding her arms across her chest.

  “Okay. So what do you go swimming in?” he teased.

  She jerked her head up, eyes flashing.

  He grinned. “No impertinence intended. Just a cultural curiosity question.”

  She tucked her hair behind her ears and lifted her chin. “Do I look like an encyclopedia?”

  A short snort of laughter escaped him. “As a matter of fact, no. You don’t look anything at all like one,” he said, letting his gaze fall from her face down the front of her dress and then lower still to her bare legs.

  She sat up straighter and tugged at the hem. “Could we change the subject, please?”

  “I make you uncomfortable, don’t I?” he said, somehow pleased by the thought.

  She leaned over and stuck her head out the driver’s window. “Jacob!”

  “Oh, is that how it works? Big brother saves you from guys like me?”

  Becca sat back, looking at him again. “There are no guys like you.”

  “I know that wasn’t a complimen
t, but there’s something to be said for being the first.”

  “Is this what you do when you’re bored?”

  “I’m not bored,” he said, all the teasing now gone from his voice, surprising even to him.

  They looked at each other then, eyes locked, an awareness he’d never felt for anyone in his life taking up all the air between them.

  Becca started to say something, but Jacob was suddenly back, leaping into the cab as if he’d been renewed with some kind of wonder drug.

  “Did somebody say we needed sawdust?” he asked with a big grin, cranking the truck and backing up, then jamming the gear into first and tearing up the driveway.

  Becca looked relieved at her brother’s timing and made a point of not looking at Matt again. But he wasn’t ready to let her off the hook. As soon as he had the opportunity, he planned to ask her about that kiss again.

  14

  Wishes

  A kindness may be repaid

  In the most unexpected of ways.

  - Author Unknown

  Now

  Becca was on her way out of the kitchen with Emmy’s breakfast tray when the phone rang. Aaron had long since left for the barn and Abby for school. Martha had gone out to the hen house to collect the eggs.

  Becca turned around and set the tray on the counter, picking up the wall phone with a quick hello.

  “May I speak to Becca Brubaker, please?”

  “This is she.”

  “Mrs. Brubaker. This is Tom Williams, the attorney for Mrs. Millicent Griffith’s estate. I wondered if you would have time to come by my office this afternoon around three o’clock.”

  She was silent for a moment, her heart kicking a beat. “May I ask in regard to what?”

  “I’ll be happy to discuss all of it with you here at my office, Mrs. Brubaker. Can you make it today?”

  “I don’t know,” she said.

  “This won’t take long,” he assured her.

  “I’ll have to get back with you a little later.”

  “Certainly,” he said and gave her his number.

  Becca hung up, her hand shaking on the receiver. She had no idea what to make of the call. Or why Mrs. Griffith’s attorney could possibly need to see her. She did know, though, that to go would only create more tension between her and Aaron and her mother as well. In the interest of peace, she would call back and say she couldn’t come.

  She picked up the tray from the counter and climbed the stairs to her sister’s room. The door stood ajar, and she slipped inside. Emmy lay with her back to Becca. She seemed to be sleeping more and more, and this worried Becca. For the past two weeks, she hadn’t opened one of the books Becca had brought her from the library. Normally, she would have finished them all by now. “Emmy?”

  Without responding to the greeting, Emmy turned over to face her, her eyes devoid of light.

  “I made pancakes this morning,” Becca said, putting the tray down on the table next to her bed and busying herself with adding the butter and syrup.

  Emmy eyed the plate with skepticism and sat up. Becca cut up the pancakes with the fork and knife she’d brought with the hope that Emmy would use them. She offered Emmy the fork with a bite-size pancake portion.

  “There’s juice here, too,” Becca said. “Orange. You go ahead and eat while I get your clothes out.”

  Emmy took the fork and another bite of the pancakes, chewing slowly, dutifully. Becca walked to the closet and pulled out a white dress with tiny green flowers that did nice things for Emmy’s coloring. She reached for Emmy’s shoes on the floor below, and after placing the clothes at the foot of the bed, began to tidy up the room.

  A few minutes later, she checked her sister’s plate only to find she’d eaten little. “Aren’t you hungry, Emmy?”

  Emmy pushed the plate away, the gesture resonating with Becca as so much more than lack of hunger. She stacked the dishes back on the tray, trying not to notice her sister’s thin arms beneath her white nightgown.

  Emmy put her legs over the side of the bed, and Becca unwound her hair from its bun and brushed it one hundred strokes. Gray had woven its way into the dark strands. Emmy was two years younger than Becca, and yet they’d switched places, the lines in her face depicting a much older woman.

  She rewound Emmy’s hair into a bun, put her white bonnet on and tied the strings under her chin. She helped her put on her dress, then slipped her sister’s feet into her shoes and tied the laces. She glanced up at Emmy’s face, something small and tight catching in her throat. She tried not to let herself wonder whether Emmy felt the restriction of her days or how far past the immediate her thoughts went. To do so, draped Becca in a curtain of guilt so heavy it felt as though she might smother beneath it.

  “It’s a beautiful day,” Becca said. “I’ll take you outside and come back for the tray.”

  They took the stairs with care, Emmy’s steps slow and measured as if her body had little energy for the trek. Becca made hers equal to her sister’s. Outside, Martha pulled weeds from the base of an old rose bush. She smiled at the sight of her youngest daughter, wincing a little as she got up to give her a hug.

  “You’re looking mighty pretty this morning, Emmy,” Martha said.

  Emmy looked off into the distance, the compliment not visibly registering.

  “She didn’t eat very much, and I think she’s losing weight,” Becca said, trying to keep the worry from her voice. “Maybe we should make an appointment with the doctor.”

  “She doesn’t need a doctor,” Martha said, straightening Emmy’s cape, then glancing down at her shoes. She knelt and retied one of the laces. “Be sure you knot these good and tight. She could fall coming down those stairs.”

  “I’ll finish the dishes,” Becca said, her voice deliberately neutral as she turned for the house.

  At the back door, she stopped and looked out at Tinker’s Knob where it rose up from the back of the farm. She thought about Mr. Williams’ phone call then and the knot of indecision that had sat in her stomach ever since.

  She had checked the lettuce in her garden early this morning, deciding she would pick several bags today and deliver them to Asher’s, a restaurant on Tinker’s Knob Lake that had started calling two weeks ago to get on her list. Maybe she would go by the attorney’s office afterward just to hear what the man had to say. What harm could there be in it?

  15

  Mending and Judging

  Rutrough Death Declared “Tragic Accident”

  Ballard County Times

  The Ballard County Sheriff’s Department has declared fifteen year old John Rutrough’s death a “tragic accident.”

  Sheriff Oatey Hamilton stated in an interview Monday afternoon that “Extensive invesitagtion into the boy’s death led to the conclusion that it was accidental.”

  “It is believed,” the Sheriff stated, “that the boy fell from a hayloft where he and another minor girl had met to talk. It is just an unbelievable tragedy. A waste,” Sheriff Hamilton added. “Our hearts go out to the families involved.”

  When asked if he could identify the minor girl, Sheriff Hamilton declined to comment any further due to her age.

  Now

  Martha ate lunch outside under the oak tree with Emmy, tomato sandwiches on homemade whole wheat bread with a light spread of mayonnaise. As a child, it had been one of Emmy’s favorite meals, and one of the few foods she seemed to still show some occasional pleasure in eating.

  Today, though, Emmy’s expression was distant, and she showed little to no response to Martha’s comments about the weather and plans for the upcoming summer.

  Becca had left the house shortly after noon on an errand. Martha did not ask where she was going, and Becca didn’t volunteer the information. But Martha could not shake the feeling that Becca was hiding something, and each time her thoughts settled on this suspicion, she shooed them on to something else simply because she was afraid she did not want to know the answer.

  Martha cleaned up the lunch p
lates and took them into the house, coming back outside just as a dark blue mini-van pulled into the driveway. She lifted a hand and waved at her next door neighbor, Clara Bowman, who got out of the vehicle and crossed the yard with a small basket of clothes on top of which lay a sewing kit. Clara was short and round, nearly white hair visible at the front edges of her white bonnet. Her cheeks were always bright with color, and she made her way through life with the kind of joyful, trusting spirit that Martha seemed to find herself in ever-short supply of.

  “I was hoping you could use a little company while I finish some mending,” Clara said. “It was too pretty a day to sit in the house.”

  Martha smiled and waved her over to the chairs where Emmy sat with her hands in her lap.

  “We would love some company, wouldn’t we, Emmy?” Martha said.

  “Hello, Emmy,” Clara said. “How are you today?”

  Martha and Clara had known each other since they were small girls, and Clara was one of the few people outside Martha’s own family who spoke to Emmy as if she might answer in a normal way. Martha cherished this in her friend. It had long ago become difficult to witness the questioning looks on the faces of visitors who were less sensitive.

  “Let me get my basket, and I’ll be right back,” Martha said.

  Clara sat down next to Emmy, and Martha could hear her speaking softly to her as she went into the house.

  An hour later, Martha and Clara had worked their way through half of their baskets, mending holes in socks, stitching loose dress hems, replacing missing buttons from pants and shirts. Emmy had dozed off in her chair, her head resting against the wooden back. Like this, she reminded Martha so much of the little girl she’d once been.

  “I’ve been meaning to get over here in the last few days,” Clara said, regretful. “I heard that Millie Griffith died last week.”

  Martha nodded, pausing to lift her needle from the hemline of a dress. “Yes.”

  “I suspect Becca went to the funeral.”

  “Yes, she did.”

  Clara was quiet for a few moments, and then said, “You shouldn’t worry, Martha. Becca made her choices.”