For once I had the advantage of Florrie. Her curiosity, and the fact that she had stayed at home, made her weak. “I got my fortune told,” I said.
“By the doctor?”
“By his wife, I reckon.” I stacked dried dishes on the shelf.
“And what did she say?” Florrie said.
“She said I would have a lot of joy, and then a terrible sadness in my life. And finally a great happiness.”
“That’s an easy prediction to make,” Florrie said. “For it will be years and years before you know if it’s true.”
I almost told Florrie about the secret thought of the pigeon, and the secret name. But I stopped myself. There was plenty about me that Florrie didn’t need to know.
“He give me some medicine,” I said.
“I should hope so,” Florrie said. She got the broom and swept crumbs and ashes from around the cookstove. I showed her the little pot with the wooden stopper.
“That’s a toy,” she said. “That’s something for a playhouse.”
I told her about the pottery shed and the kiln and the clay pit, and the jars and jugs just like mine except they stood waist high. “Why would they make pots so big?” I said.
“To store corn in, and to hold water, I reckon,” she said.
I remembered reading somewhere that they buried people in big jars in some countries, and that they placed offerings to their gods in big urns on altars.
“How much did this doctor charge?” Florrie said.
But I decided not to tell her anything else. She could ask Pa how much he paid Dr. Match if she wanted to.
That evening I took a spoonful of medicine from the little pot. It looked like the tonic Dr. Johns had give me. But it tasted different. I don’t think there was much alcohol in Dr. Match’s medicine. It was so strong it burned my tongue. It tasted like he had put the extract and concentrate of hundreds of plants in the mixture. The liquid had been boiled down and distilled, and boiled down again like an essential oil. As soon as the jar was opened its scent filled the room. I don’t know what give it such a smell. The fumes flared up in a ghost that filled the air. I thought of the story of the genie in the bottle.
“That’s just a little bottle,” Florrie said. “What will you do when it’s all gone?”
“If this don’t work I guess I’m hopeless,” I said.
But even that night I felt things happening inside me. Maybe it wasn’t the medicine, and it was just time for things to change. But the effect was so quick I think it was the medicine. It was like little doors and hallways started opening inside me, and weights in my body begun shifting around. I don’t know how else to describe it. I felt like some busy freight yard inside where cargoes was being sorted and loaded.
Next day I got itchy all over. It was a stinging itch and made me want to laugh. I laughed at my own jokes and at silly things Florrie said. And I just laughed to myself over nothing at all.
“I don’t think you are at yourself, Ginny,” Florrie said.
“I’m fine,” I said.
“It must be the Indian juice,” Florrie said. “I’d sure like to know what he put in that.”
“You can try it yourself,” I said.
The itchiness turned into a kind of soreness all over after three or four days. My chest was sore, and my belly. It was a raw humming kind of soreness. And I started to feel heavy. After several days I felt full of lead, and the humming kept on.
“Do you feel bad?” Florrie said.
“I’m fine,” I said.
“That medicine ain’t working,” she said.
But it was working. It was stirring things in me like some gas pain or heartburn had got hold of me. I wanted to be still, yet couldn’t stay still. I wanted to set by the fire, yet it was too hot. I put a cool cloth on my forehead, but it made me shiver.
“What are you doing?” Florrie said.
“I’m going out to the Sunset Rock,” I said.
“Better stay in the house,” she said, “out of that wind.”
There was a wind in the pasture. Even the trees on the ridge across the river was beginning to get green. Big clouds eased up over the top of the hill. It felt as if there was going to be a storm. I set on the rock but the wind was too cold. The grass was dark and trout lilies and trilliums bright along the edge of the woods. I climbed off the rock and walked to the river.
There must have been some hatch of flies that morning, for the air above the river was filled with sparkling things. They hovered in mist above the pool, until a gust swept them away. They returned glittering, like some visitation. Trash was caught in the brush showing how high the spring flood had been. I stood by the river and prayed, “Jesus, if you will let this happen to me I will always serve you. I will be faithful in your service.”
That night the pain in my belly got worse. I was sore inside and something terrible was pressing against me. I wanted a hot drink and made myself coffee before going to bed. More than I wanted to sleep I wanted to ease the pain.
It was like the worst indigestion I had ever felt. I got in bed and laid curled up on one side. And then I turned over on the other, looking for a fresh cool place in the sheets. But the pain kept growing. I curled myself up tighter and it helped a little. It was like I had this cold in my head and all over.
I turned the other way in the bed. And then I remembered what Dr. Match had told me about the pigeon. I tried to think of a pigeon, of the noise it makes ruffling its feathers, of the lavender and green rainbows on its neck. I saw a pigeon leap off the gable of a barn and fly out over the valley. It flapped across the river and up over the mountain, so high the trees was like weeds below. And beyond the peak I saw the plunging hollers of South Carolina. The jumpoffs and valleys looked miles deep. I saw apple trees in bloom, and peach trees. I saw the old woman, Madame Sparrow, doing her wash, and smoke coming from the kiln.
And while I thought of the pigeon soaring I said the secret name Dr. Match had told me. I said it over and over, and looked out across the vast expanse of the foothills and mountains all the way to Caesar’s Head and Table Rock. I saw Old Callahan Mountain, and Tryon Mountain to the east, stretching away into the spring haze above the flat country.
When I woke there was this stickiness between my legs and under my hip. The pain was gone and I smelled blood. It was just daylight and I saw what a mess I had made when I pulled the covers back. My gown had blood on it and the sheets had a stain of blood. Some places the blood had dried and stuck to my skin.
It was such a mess I shuddered, thinking how much washing in cold water the sheets and gown would take. And I would have to do it with Pa and Joe and Locke watching. Everyone would see the blood stains and know what had happened. I got up and poured water into my washbasin. The napkins Florrie had give me was folded fresh and clean in the dresser.
It was awful to be in such a fix. And yet I felt wonderful too. I had come through to a new place. “Thank you, Jesus,” I said as I washed the gown and sheets. It seemed I had achieved something, and I could touch the future again. I placed the little jug in the drawer with my clean linen.
CHAPTER SIX
Like most big things that happen to me, my marriage just seemed to take place on its own. Though I must have made thousands of choices it felt like I didn’t choose at all. Everything come to me. I know people like to say marriage isn’t what it’s cracked up to be and loving isn’t anything like what people brag. But when it went good it was more than I could ever have expected. I have never felt better than when I was with Tom and we was getting along. I looked forward to the end of the day and going to bed. No matter how hard I had worked or tired I was, it was restful to be loved by Tom. No matter what has happened since I wouldn’t trade those nights for anything.
Tom and me got married at the house. Preacher Jolly come down and pronounced the ceremony, and we took our vows. Wasn’t any of Tom’s family there. They wasn’t sociable people. My brother Joe and his wife Lily come down, and my sister Florrie and her
husband David, and we had fried chicken and watermelon later. Wasn’t any infare party or dancing like some people have.
First thing Pa discovered about Tom was all the things he didn’t do. He didn’t hunt much, and he never did trap for mink and muskrat. He never fished except a little bit in spring. He went to meeting on Sunday but never did attend prayer meetings during the week. He never did read books or magazines, and he almost never read the newspaper. He didn’t like to talk politics, and he never did stay up late at night if he could help it. He never took a drink of liquor for pleasure, and he never smoked or chewed tobacco. He worked on holidays same as other days unless they fell on a Sunday. Nothing bored him as much as Sundays.
After the preacher was gone and I had cleared away the dishes we set around the table. Joe and Lily had brought us a lamp for a wedding present. It had crystal hangings that looked like big snowflakes. When it was lit the lamp appeared hung with ice. Pa give me a hundred dollars, and Florrie had made me a quilt. The house was quiet. I guess Pa decided it was best to leave us alone. “Time to go milk,” he said, pushing back his chair.
“I’ll help you soon as I change,” Tom said. It was clear Tom wanted to get out of his dress clothes and find some work to do. He rubbed his hands together like he was washing them. They looked dry and powdered they had been scrubbed so clean.
“Then I’ll run up to the spring,” Pa said. “When I get back we can do the milking.” Pa often said he was walking to the spring when he had to relieve hisself. By the time he got back Tom had already changed clothes and took the buckets to the milkgap.
“Pa, you might as well set down,” I said. “Tom’s done gone to milk.” Pa went out and set on the porch. After that he let Tom and me do all the milking.
That night it got chilly and Tom built a fire in the fireplace. I think he did it mostly to have something to do. There was kindling already in the box in the kitchen, but he took the lantern out to the woodpile and split some more. He carried in several sticks of oak that had been seasoning in the shed.
“We don’t need too big a fire,” I said.
“I’ll just make a scrap of fire to take the chill,” he said.
“A fire feels friendly after dark,” Pa said.
I took longer than usual cleaning up the dishes and drying them. I wiped every single spoon and fork and placed them in the drawer. I set the dishes in the cupboard and placed the rest of the cake in the safe. After throwing out the dishwater I swept the kitchen and mopped it with the last of the hot water.
By the time I set down the fire in the living room was trotting like a fox. The flames danced on the grate and the house was fragrant with seasoned oak. The late summer coolness had gone.
“A fire relaxes you,” Pa said, “whether you’re inside or out.”
“A fire makes you feel at home,” I said.
Tom poked at the logs and made the flames leap higher. “People will naturally gather to a fire,” he said.
I thought how true that was. People will locate theirselves around a fire, and feel confident and comforted. That’s why altars in the Bible always had fires. That’s why the hearth is the center of the household. Building a fire was Tom’s way of establishing hisself in our house. It was his fire.
“I noticed in the war you never feel like fighting when you are standing or setting by a fire,” Pa said. “At night we would camp in sight of the Yankees and cook our sloosh and warm ourselves while they done the same. We’d even holler back and forth at them and tease them and trade playing cards and liquor and such. Once the fires was lit everything got peaceful.”
“A fire is a sign of respect,” I said. “The Romans believed that gods lived on the hearth.”
“That don’t make sense,” Tom said. “A hearth is in plain sight and you can see no god lives on it.”
“Maybe the flames looked like little gods,” Pa said.
“Or maybe the gods seemed to live in the draft, or the warm bricks,” I said.
“People believe what they want to,” Tom said. He had took off his tie and collar before, and his sunburned skin shone gold in the firelight. His hair was gold and his eyes sparkled. His shirt was dappled rose and peach-colored. He looks like a golden god and don’t even know it, I thought.
“A fire is always interesting to look at,” Tom said.
Pa pulled his watch out. “Time to wind up the cat and throw the clock out,” he said. It was a joke Pa had been saying since I was a little girl.
“We should say a prayer,” I said.
Pa and me got down on our knees by our chairs, and when Tom saw what we done he dropped to his knees too. I put my cheek against the chair and saw the moon through the window. It was in the first quarter and appeared to lean looking into the house.
“Lord, we ask your blessings on this family, and on our new member,” Pa said. “As Ginny and Tom start out on their life together, we ask that you look down on them and protect them. And we ask that they dedicate their lives to your work.”
When Pa finished we all stood and Pa took a lamp off the mantel. “I’ll leave you all to lock up,” he said. He reached out his hand to Tom. “Mighty good to have you in the house,” he said.
After Pa was gone Tom set down and looked right into the flames. I wondered what he was seeing there. Some people claim to read the future in a fire. “Would you like some popcorn?” I said.
“Don’t reckon so,” he said.
“I could make some coffee and hot biscuits,” I said.
“No, I’m still full from supper,” he said.
He set closer to the fire and light stirred and swayed over his features. I shivered, as if it was cold. He stretched his boots out toward the flames.
“Whenever you get sleepy we can go to bed,” I said.
“Pretty soon,” he said. “I never was one to stay up late.”
“I will go turn down the bed,” I said.
“Ain’t no hurry,” Tom said.
I looked into the fire where he was watching and saw flames arching from either side toward the middle.
“People say they can read fortunes in a fire,” I said.
“A fire is just a fire,” Tom said and looked into the flames.
“I’ll go on then,” I said.
“Might as well,” he said.
I had not touched Tom since the ceremony, when we kissed after Preacher Jolly pronounced us man and wife. I took a lamp off the mantelpiece to carry, and I placed a hand on Tom’s shoulder as I walked by. Under the white shirt his muscles was hard as steel.
That morning I had cleaned the bedroom as it had never been cleaned in my lifetime. I had hung curtains made that summer and spread a new quilt on the bed. I dusted in corners and carried magazines and books to the attic. I made room in the wardrobe for Tom’s clothes and I put a crocheted mat on the night table. With a broom I chased cobwebs from the ceiling. The bedroom was on the north side and was always the coolest room. I washed the window and polished the cedar chest and chest of drawers with oil.
After the heat of the fireplace, the cool bedroom felt good. I set the lamp on the night table and turned up the flame. The room was mostly in shadow, and the wardrobe loomed like a great empty door. It was the room I had been born in. It was right that it would be the room for my married life.
I turned down the bed as neat as I could so the fresh sheets was showing. The many colored squares on the quilt sparkled and looked shivery. I will never have this room to myself again, I thought. I had laid out my nightgown across the chest of drawers earlier, one I had made that summer of sateen with lace sleeves and collar. I took off my clothes and hung them in the wardrobe.
A door closed and I listened to see if it was Tom or Pa. But Pa was snoring in the next room. I stepped to the window and pulled the curtain back. All I could see was the quarter moon over the hemlocks and arborvitae. Men always go out to relieve theirselves before bed. I wondered how long Tom would be.
Once in bed I saw how bright the lamp was. I didn�
�t want Tom to be blinded by the light when he come back inside. I turned down the wick and the room got soft in the yellow glow. My hair fell over my eyes and I pushed it aside.
It took forever for Tom to come back in. Finally I heard him close the kitchen door and slide the bolt, and then he poked the fire. He must have took off his boots by the fireplace and walked quiet down the hall for I started when the bedroom door opened.
“I left the lamp so you could see to hang your clothes,” I said.
“No need to,” Tom said. He walked to the table and blowed out the lamp. In the dark I heard him take off his pants. I wondered what he was going to do with them. Was he going to drop them on the floor to get wrinkled and stepped on? And then I felt him brush the frame of the bed and knowed he was hanging his trousers on the bedpost. I guess that was what he had always done at the Powell house and the Lewis place.
When Tom got under the quilt I moved over to make room for him, but I scooted too far and had to shift back. His skin was a little cool from being outside. The bed tilted to his side as he laid down, making the mattress feel different.
“What time do you get up?” I said. But he didn’t answer. I thought maybe he hadn’t heard. “What do you like for breakfast?”
“Shhhhh,” he said, like he was afraid of waking Pa.
Tom was completely still, though he was close against me. He brushed my lips with his and his mustache tickled my nose. I giggled a little, and he giggled too. It was the first time I had heard him laugh all day.
“Shhhhh,” I said, and put a hand on his hard shoulder.
It is strange to have someone else in your bed, I thought. But it didn’t feel strange in the way I expected. I felt curious as a little girl. What is going to happen? I thought.
And then I felt my gown moving. It was sliding up under the covers. The soft sateen slipped over my knees and over my upper legs. It was tickling, but it was a good feeling. The cloth slipped over my skin whispering as it rubbed and pulled away. It was like I was sliding free as I had not been in a long time. The gown slipped over my hips and I thought, I haven’t felt this free since before I can remember. Long ago I had that kind of naked freedom, maybe. My belly felt the center around which everything moved. And I thought, This pleasure is me. It is mine. For some reason I thought of tomatoes in the sun and fresh chips from chopped oak. Tom moved so slow he made me wait for every touch until it seemed like I couldn’t hardly wait any longer. Easy does it, I could hear him thinking. And I kept smelling those warm tomatoes in the sun. What I felt was both less and more than I expected.
The Truest Pleasure Page 7
