Simple Jess

by Pamela Morsi

  Jesse is a man.

  He squeezed his eyes shut. There was something else. Another thought. It was there. It was there, somewhere in his head. Something else. Something else he was trying to remember. It was something important. It was . . .It was . . .

  "Autumn," he said aloud.

  With a puff of air, he released the breath he'd been holding. It was autumn. He looked down at the mushrooms again. In the springtime, morels were the best mushrooms. So sweet and tasty even his sister Meggie's bad cooking couldn't ruin them. But it was not springtime. It was autumn. In autumn, morels were bitter to the taste and could make a person sick.

  "It's autumn," he said again and hurried to his feet. "Don't dawdle!" he admonished himself.

  Jesse hurried down the path as if to make up for the careless minute he had spent beside it. He had almost made a mistake. He hated making mistakes. But it was so hard to keep everything in his head at the same time. It was so hard to be able to think of everything at once.

  "Sugar, coffee, cartridges," he reminded himself.

  It wouldn't have been a big mistake. He would have simply carried the bad mushrooms home in his pack and Meggie would have thrown them out. His sister Meggie wasn't like him. Meggie was smart. Smart people didn't make mistakes. Jesse wasn't smart. He didn't mind that so much. But he hated making mistakes.

  The path before him widened and Jesse could see the church and the school. Phillips Store was just a ways past and downhill all the way. Jesse slowed his step. He mustn't dawdle, but he didn't need to hurry, either.

  As Jesse made his way across the clearing he saw Pastor Jay sitting on the Marrying Stone, the big piece of bright white quartz that jutted out of the ground and gave the mountain its name.

  "Morning, Pastor Jay," he called out.

  The old man didn't answer, he just continued to stare out into the nothingness of the heavens, talking. Jesse's feelings weren't hurt. The old man probably didn't even know that Jesse had called out to him. Pastor Jay wasn't the pastor anymore. Folks still called him that, because they had for so long. But Tom McNees was pastor now. He did all the preaching and marrying and burying.

  Pastor Jay just sat around on the Marrying Stone mostly, reading the Bible and talking to himself. Pastor Jay had lost his mind. That's what people said. Jesse didn't understand that. He could see how a man might lose his socks or his knife. But he didn't know how someone could lose his mind. Jesse's mind didn't work very well, but he'd never lost it. And since Pastor Jay could still read and talk and get his trousers on without help, Jesse figured he still had his mind, too.

  It was hard to understand. But then, most everything was.

  "Sugar, coffee, cartridges," he whispered to himself once more.

  From the churchyard on, the pathway widened to a degree that it was generally referred to as "the road." It was a simple track through the trees, broadened by timber cutting, the remaining stumps had been sawed off as close to ground level as possible. Uneven and treacherous, "the road" was no fine thoroughfare. But then it didn't get a lot of traffic. Buell Phillips, the owner of the store, possessed the only wagon on the mountain. Wheels were just not that useful on the steep terrain. A mule-drawn skid was much more typical of local transportation. Most folks, like Jesse this morning, made their way along on their own two feet.

  When he reached the curve that brought the store into view, the young man's steps hurried.

  "Sugar, coffee, cartridges."

  He increased his pace to an excited trot as he came closer to his destination.

  The store was a rough-hewn barnlike structure that was poised almost precariously upon the side of the mountain. The back of the building was cut into the ground like a cellar. There was a porch entrance to the second floor at the back. It was where the Phillipses lived. The front rose nearly shoulder high from the slope and was supported by a half dozen thick maple poles that served to firm its foundation. In the cool shade beneath the overhang, enjoyed in summer by dogs, hogs, and varmints innumerable, the pale dusting of last night's frost still lingered.

  Jesse took the steps two at a time. Sitting on a barrel beside the front door was a rheumy-eyed old man with a scraggly gray beard that hung down to his chest.

  "Morning, Uncle Pigg," Jesse called out to him.

  The old man let loose a powerful wad of tobacco that cleared the porch easily before he glanced up at the young man beside him.

  "Morning, boy," he acknowledged.

  Jesse grinned in admiration at the distance traveled by the tobacco spittle. "That was a dang good shot," he said proudly.

  The old man shrugged off the intended compliment. "What brings you to the store this day?" he asked.

  Momentarily he hesitated. "Sugar, coffee, cartridges," he answered solemnly.

  Pigg Broody laughed heartily as if he'd told a great joke. "No use reciting fer me, boy. It's Buell what'll take yer order."

  "Yessir," Jesse answered.

  "Go on in there, but stay outer trouble. Got a drummer from the city come up," he warned. "It's best to keep your guard up when they's strangers about."

  Jesse nodded. But he didn't take Pigg Broody's word much to heart. His sister's husband, Roe, had been a stranger when he'd come to Marrying Stone. Jesse didn't see that folks you don't know were much different than those that you do.

  Pigg took another long shot off the end of the porch. Jesse was shaking his head in admiration as he crossed the threshold into the cool darkness of the store.

  He stopped just inside the door and took a deep breath, drawing in with pleasure the unique odor of the Phillips General Store. It was part spice and part cotton cloth. Salty pickles and horse-mouth salve. Camphor and meal. Leather and kerosene. Jesse closed his eyes, savoring it. The store had near every smell and at once a smell all its own. And the memory of it was painted upon the young man's memory with indelible accuracy.

  He smiled to himself. Mr. Phillips was busy talking with the drummer Pigg had mentioned. So Jesse began strolling the long length of the store. Allowing himself the luxury of letting his eyes wander where they may, gazing at the vast array of things to see.

  "Don't touch nothing," he reminded himself quietly. That was the rule at the store. The storekeeper was an in-law of the Piggotts and therefore family, but Mr. Phillips—and Jesse never thought to call him anything else—made no allowances for his relations. He got mad if Jesse touched anything.

  "You'll break it!" he would always shout angrily, usually startling Jesse into doing just that. He hated for folks to raise their voices at him. He might not be smart, but he could hear real well.

  He would just have to remember to do what he was told and stay out of trouble. That way there would be no cause for anyone to holler.

  Jesse let his eyes roam among the enameled buckets and the scythe blades. He examined the lady's picture on the front of the bluing bottle. And pressed his nose against the glass to look at the pocket watches and fancy buttons in the display case.

  It was a fact that the Phillips General Store was as close to paradise as Jesse Best had ever been. He had seen, admired, and awed over every whatnot, thingamajig, and gewgaw in the place. Still, for Jesse, it was all perpetually new and absorbing.

  The city man held the storekeeper's attention as Jesse wandered through the last array of goods for sale. He paid no heed to their talk, but noted that the drummer was talking louder and louder and that Mr. Phillips said little or nothing, but continued to shake his head.

  Jesse moved closer to the two as he admired the selection of pipes on the shelf with the tobacco. His pa had a pipe and Jesse could smoke it when he wanted. That is, if he smoked it outside. His sister Meggie didn't tolerate any manly vices inside her home. But Pa's pipe was simply a reed stem set into a hollowed corncob. These pipes were applewood and brier root, fancy carved. Some had real Chinese amber at the mouthpiece. Others were tipped with India rubber. So entranced was Jesse that he moved up closer. Completely forgetting the no-touch rule, he reached out
his hand toward a particularly handsome bulldog bent brier with a covered nickel top.

  His hand never touched the pipe, however. The sound of excited footsteps on the porch drew his attention.

  "Good momin', Mr. Bwoody!" Jesse heard a small voice call out.

  "Hey there, youngun," was the answer returned.

  "Good morning, Mr. Broody."

  The voice was feminine and familiar.

  Jesse heard the scrape of the chair against the porch boards as gray haired Pigg rose gallantly to his feet in greeting to the young woman.

  "And a beautiful morning it is, Miz Winsloe," he said.

  Jesse moved away from the shelf and nearer to the doorway of the store. His curiosity of a few moments earlier slipped his mind as easily as a hog on ice. A woman was coming into the store. Jesse Best liked women.

  "Can I have a candy, Mama? Can I? Can I?" the young boy was asking excitedly as he came through the door.

  "We'll see," was his mother's answer.

  By the delighted grin that swept the child's face, it was clear that "we'll see" was an answer in the affirmative.

  The boy skipped delightedly two paces and then stopped dead still in front of Jesse.

  "Hello," Jesse said warmly, smiling down at the small fellow at his feet.

  "Gar," the little boy said as he swallowed nervously.

  He gazed up in wonder and fright at the huge man. The child was only knee high to Jesse. But there was more than a difference in size that caused the youngster to back up a pace and edge around Jesse with a wide berth. His big eyes were wide with fear as if he expected any moment for the man to grab him and eat him alive.

  "Good morning, Simple Jess," Althea Winsloe said as she followed her son into the store. Clearly she had seen the strange manner in which her son greeted their neighbor. "How are you?" she asked. Her smile was exceptionally bright as if she hoped to lighten the sting of her son's rudeness.

  Her effort worked quite well as Jesse gazed back at her, his expression near worshipful.

  ”Tolerable, ma'am," Jesse answered. "Right tolerable."

  He bowed slightly as he made room for her to step by. Jesse closed his eyes as she passed beside him and inhaled deeply, a dreamy smile upon his face.

  Jesse loved the smell of women. Old women, young women, women who'd spent the morning laboring over a tub of laundry, or women who were dressed up for Sunday with dabs of rose water behind their ears, Jesse relished the sweet redolence of them. And Althea Winsloe had an aroma that Jesse much admired. It was a mixture, of course. Not that he couldn't sort them out perfectly. And he didn't consciously even try. But he did take another deep breath, merely to enjoy it. There was the clean fragrance of yellow soap, the smooth sweetness of fresh-churned butter, wood-smoke and sage, yarrow and hobblebush. All smells that were very familiar to him. And there was something more, some underlying scent that was almost beyond his detection. He couldn't describe it as sweet or spicy. It wasn't balmy or savorous, perfumy or yarbish. But it was there. It was always there. And no other woman on the mountain smelled that way.

  "Good morning, Mr. Phillips," she said, greeting the storekeeper. She nodded politely to the stranger.

  "Ah . . . dear Mrs. Winsloe," Buell Phillips said effusively. "You are a pretty sight as always. Oather will be so sorry that he missed you."

  Jesse's brow furrowed slightly with curiosity. Why his cousin Oather would be sorry to miss Althea Winsloe, he didn't know. But there were lots of things that he didn't understand.

  Miss Althea was speaking very firmly about being a grown woman and the owner of her farm. Jesse was a little surprised that Mr. Phillips didn't know that. He seemed to know pretty much everything.

  Mr. Phillips ignored what Miss Althea was saying and began talking about his son, Oather. Jesse figured he must be talking to the drummer, because Miss Althea already knew everything there was to know about Oather, everybody on the mountain did.

  His mind wandering due to the foolish nature of the conversation, Jesse's attention was captured by Baby-Paisley. The little boy was wistfully eyeing the licorice sticks in the big jar on the counter.

  "Can I have my candy now, Mama?" he pleaded, pulling on his mother's skirt. "Pleese, Mama, can I have my candy?"

  Miss Althea, whose voice, to Jesse's surprise, was a little bit shrill as she talked to Mr. Phillips, didn't answer him. She was very caught up in the conversation about her farm and Oather and didn't pay the little boy any attention.

  The little fellow persisted more loudly and eventually had the storekeeper himself staring down at him.

  Mr. Phillips, somehow seemingly unaware of Miss Althea's raised voice and ill humor, smiled broadly at the little boy and to Jesse's near complete dumbfoundment opened the jar and handed the child a fistful of the fancy candy.

  At two for a penny, licorice was dear. That last time Jesse had worked for Mr. Phillips, unloading a mule train carrying hundred pound sacks of flour from the mill, the storekeeper had paid him only five pieces of licorice.

  Of course, his brother-in-law had come back down the mountain with him the next day and insisted that Jesse get paid a man's wage.

  But the storekeeper had hoped to get a day's work from him for five pieces of candy. He'd just handed Baby-Paisley twice that much, and a little fellow like him couldn't do no work much at all.

  The little boy was eagerly stuffing several pieces of licorice into his mouth.

  His mother, who continued speaking sharply to Mr. Phillips, didn't even notice.

  Jesse's mouth watered. The smell of licorice was strong, almost like actually tasting it himself. It was Jesse's favorite candy, but candy wasn't like wages. Men don't get paid with candy.

  Baby-Paisley turned slightly, glancing in his direction. The little boy's eyes widened and he clutched his licorice more tightly as if he feared Jesse might steal it.

  Smiling, Jesse wanted to reassure him. But the child was not comforted. It seemed that he was genuinely afraid of Jesse. Because he was so big, and because he was different, boys and girls were often afraid of him. The older ones sometimes made up stories to scare the youngers. They made Jesse out to be the bogeyman of the mountain. That was sad. Jesse liked children a lot. He had a niece about the same age as the little boy. But his niece loved him. Baby-Paisley clearly did not.

  The word dogs captured Jesse's attention and he glanced up to Miss Althea and Mr. Phillips. The storekeeper's expression was preachy and self-righteous. From his position, Jesse couldn't see Miss Althea's face, but the stiffness in her shoulders was evident. When she spoke, her words were crisp and cold.

  "There does seem to be a great deal of interest in my late husband's dogs," she said. "Why don't you, Mr. Phillips, be so good as to get the word out to the men on the mountain that as of today, that pack of dogs is for sale to the highest bidder."

  "You're selling Paisley's dogs?" Phillips sounded horrified. "You cain't do that."

  "They are mine to sell, sir," she snapped. "I most certainly can."

  "But your new husband—"

  "I do not intend to remarry," she interrupted. "I have said that several times, but no one seems to listen. Just so that there is no misunderstanding, please let everyone know that I am selling those dogs."

  She turned then, her eyes blazing with anger and her head held high.

  "Come along, Baby-Paisley," she said. "I don't believe that there is a thing we want to buy in the store today."

  Chapter Two

  Dogs. Paisley Winsloe's dogs.

  Jesse Best's mind was reeling.

  "She's going to sell Paisley's dogs," he whispered aloud and then repeated the words once more in his head.

  He furrowed his brow in concentration. There was something about those words that he should consider, something about them that was important. His breathing accelerated and he bit down on his lip, thinking. She was selling the dogs. The dogs were for sale. That meant that a man could buy the dogs. A man could buy the dogs. Any man could buy the do
gs. Jesse was a man.

  His eyes widened. Without another thought for his errand or the enormous array of wonders within the store, Jesse Best hurried toward the doorway of Phillips Store as if he was being chased by a skunk.

  It had been his ambition for several years to own his own dog. A dog wasn't like a house or a farm. A man had to be smart to own those things. Even a simple man like Jesse could own a dog. And the dogs that Paisley Winsloe had were the best on the mountain.

  "Simple Jess? Where you going?"

  The storekeeper's words caught him in midstride. Jesse opened his mouth to explain but the words didn't come easily. It was too much to say out loud. It was too hard to bring the unfinished thoughts into words and phrases.

  "I'm leaving," he answered.

  Mr. Phillips raised an eyebrow and shook his head. "You cain't go running off," he said. "What did you come here to get?"

  "Huh?"

  "Your family sent you here to buy supplies, didn't they?"

  Jesse nodded.

  "So what do they want?"

  Jesse stared at him mutely.

  "Come on, boy. I haven't got all day."

  Almost angrily, Jesse screwed up his forehead in deep concentration.

  Don't dawdle.

  Don't touch.

  Be wary of strangers.

  Poison mushrooms in autumn.

  Dogs.

  Paisley Winsloe's dogs.

  They were for sale. A man could buy them.

  Dogs.

  "Spit it out, boy!" the storekeeper said with annoyance.

  Jesse gritted his teeth against the frustration. He knew. He knew. But, but what was it?

  "Your sister probably put a list in your pocket," Mr. Phillips told him.

  Jess nodded in defeat and pulled out the list and handed it to Mr. Phillips.

  The storekeeper held it up to the dim light of the coal oil lamp.

  "Sugar, coffee, cartridges," he read.

  Jesse nodded. Sugar, coffee, cartridges. He could remember it now. He gritted his teeth and shook his head. He hated having to show the note. There was nothing to do for it. He got overset and forgot to remember.