Simple Jess

by Pamela Morsi

  She gave him what passed for a clenched tooth smile and reached over to run a gnarled hand through his thick blond hair.

  "Don't pay it no mind then," she said lovingly. "In this world, boy, such as that don't matter a flit."

  Jesse nodded solemnly and leaned forward as if to whisper a secret. "There ain't no snake with legs, Granny," he said.

  The old woman hooted with laughter, causing a slight disruption of the proceeding and several people to turn and look.

  "I'm believing like you, Jesse," Granny said. "And I've had plenty of years to think about both sides of the argument. What you got in that sack? You carrying your own vittles with ye?"

  "I brung my fiddle," he answered. "I thought I'd play for some dancing, but Oather Phillips says there probably ain't going to be time."

  Granny snorted. "Dancing is just what we need."

  Turning her attention back to the speakers on the porch and the crowd gathered around them, Granny determinedly took her pipe out of her mouth.

  "I've had about all this yammering I can tolerate!" she interrupted.

  Labin Trace had not even finished his opening statement, and appeared momentarily dumbstruck by the unexpected interruption. He looked helplessly to Buell Phillips, who immediately stepped up on the schoolhouse porch once more.

  "Granny, we're having a debate here," he said.

  "Lord, don't I know it," she answered tartly. "And a bigger noise of foolishness I never heard. I didn't live all these years just to be kilt with boredom."

  Titters of laughter scattered among the crowd.

  "Jesse here done brought his fiddle," she went on. "I'd sure druther hear him play us some music than to hear these two drone on endlessly on something that we cain't know the truth of 'til we've been called to heaven."

  A murmur of agreement began to make its way through the crowd. Of course, it didn't really matter if they agreed or not. Jesse knew that Granny got her way no matter what.

  Without anybody's dictum, Jesse rose to his feet and began undoing the knot tied in his pillowcase. Jesse's fiddle had belonged to his father, who at one time had made his living as an itinerant fiddler. It was a beautiful instrument with a small neck and a fine scroll, but more than that, the fiddle had perfect tone and a purity of sound that was rare. Onery Best had given it to his son with a great deal of pride.

  "You've got a way with the music," his father had said. "You're the better fiddler. By that right the fiddle should belong to you."

  With that instrument in his hands, Jesse made his way through the crowd and up to the porch. With reluctance and a good deal of muttering, Buell, Orv, and Labin slipped back into the crowd.

  Propping the chin piece against his collarbone, Jesse drew the bow down slowly across the e-string. He adjusted the solid brass keys slightly, then let his gaze drift across the crowd. He knew them, each and every one. And they knew him. But it wasn't until he saw Althea Winsloe's face that he stopped his perusal. He closed his eyes and let the sweet scent drift into his nostrils. Pine tar. Rosin. And Althea Winsloe.

  Jesse began to play.

  * * *

  The music was joyous and the dancing looked fun. But Eben Baxley kept himself on the edge of the merriment and didn't bother to join in. The woman he was supposed to dance with, Althea Winsloe, was not exclusively dancing with Oather Phillips, but Phillips was keeping a close eye upon her. Eben wasn't concerned. He was confident of winning her. He had a plan being put in effect this very night. Let Phillips twirl her around on the dance floor. He wouldn't have much opportunity for that in the future.

  Leisurely, Eben made his way over to Granny Piggott's rocking chair. He'd yet to greet the old woman and although he suspected she didn't altogether approve of him, he knew that it would be a grievous breach of mountain etiquette to ignore her. Granny was the one woman he'd never been quite able to charm. He had no ideas as to why that was so. But his mother had once hinted that the old woman had no use for her either.

  Tonight as he approached. Granny was totally absorbed in watching Jesse Best play the fiddle. Squinty-eyed and scrutinizing, she was obviously unaware that Eben was even there. He loudly cleared his throat to get her attention.

  "Evening, Granny," he said.

  "What? Oh, Baxley, I seen you here earlier," she said vaguely and once more turned back to contemplate the schoolhouse porch.

  Her rudeness was somewhat daunting, but Eben didn't allow it to unsettle him. He followed her lead and focused his attention upon the music being played.

  "That dumb Simple Jess is one hell of a good fiddler," he commented.

  "Don't you curse in my presence, boy, or I'll wash yer mouth out with soap." The old woman's scold was automatic, but halfhearted. She didn't even turn to look at him. "Can ye hear that?" she asked more quietly. "Can ye hear it and do ye know what it is?"

  "What?"

  "The boy's playing," she answered impatiently.

  "I just said that he played good," Eben replied.

  "Jesse's always been able to fiddle. He's the best I ever heard. And I heard plenty of fiddlers in my time," she said. "But I ain't never heared him play like this. There's something . . . something new about it."

  Eben raised an eyebrow. He had no idea what the old woman was hearing. His brow furrowed and he listened closely. He was no expert on music and it had been years since he'd heard Jesse play. There was little chance he would notice any subtle change. Deliberately, however, he began to lend an ear to the spirited sound of the fiddle. Inexplicably, as he listened his mind conjured up the image of Mavis Phillips, her eyes dreamy and her hair tousled. There was a warm, sweet softening for her inside his heart and he wanted just to hold her, safe and secure in his arms.

  Silently he cursed himself. What idiocy? Holding Mavis Phillips safe and secure? What he really wanted to do, he assured himself, was to hold her down against a nice soft place, pump her pretty body until he was limp as a dishrag, and get her out of his thoughts forever. That woman was far too often on his mind these days. He needed to concentrate on getting himself married to Althea Winsloe. When that farm was his 'til death to part, then he could take his fill of Mavis at his leisure. Determinedly, he pushed all thoughts of her to the back of his mind, though he could not dispel her image completely.

  "I don't hear nothing," he said to Granny. "Just good fiddle."

  "It's like . . ." The old woman's voice was almost dreamy. "It makes me think like . . . like I was young again."

  Eben watched, puzzled, as she stroked the blue clay pipe in her hand lovingly, as if it were a living creature.

  Her words continued quietly. "It makes me think of my man, Piggott. Something in that playing puts me in mind of him. Lordy, I miss that man. After all this time, I miss him now almost like the loss is fresh upon me. Yet, I'm not sad. No, it's a sweet kind of feeling."

  She looked anxiously toward the source of the sweet music. Granny shook her head, puzzled. "I swear he has never played like that before. It's almost something kindy magical. Do you feel it?"

  She turned to look at him and her expression turned wry. "No, I don't suppose you do."

  Eben eyed the old woman curiously once more and then politely took his leave. The old gal was slipping, he suspected. At her age he supposed it was highly likely that a bit of good music could make her fanciful.

  He walked around the clearing once more. Though he had been raised elsewhere, these folks were still his people. His mother was a McNees. And though his father was raised in the Caintuck, he'd come to this mountain first to settle. These folks were his, and yet he had never been quite a part of them.

  The evening was almost full dark now and pine-knot torches lighted the area around the schoolhouse. In the shadows there were youngsters playing and folks eating. A pile of sleeping children lay together on quilts, watched over by Eda Trace, one baby still at her breast and another already hinted in the broad curve of her stomach. She waved at him as he passed and he smiled back. Eda Piggott, that's who she had
been four years ago, before she'd married Tuck Trace. She'd been the prettiest girl on the mountain and had known it, too. Eben had given her a good long look back then. He might have tried to spoon her, but Mavis had distracted him. Mavis. Mavis was one distracting woman.

  He pushed his thoughts of her as far away as he could and contented himself to survey the dancing. Most folks had found new dash in their feet and were cavorting around as if they never had to plow or chop or haul. They were enjoying the chance for frolic. And as he looked on, Eben couldn't help but enjoy it, too.

  The Broody twins were having a little friendly competition between brothers on who could swing his partner faster. The young ladies involved were dizzy with more than excitement as the laughing, charming young men twirled them in turn. The purpose of the competition was obvious to Eben and other onlookers, but unfortunately not the young ladies. The faster a girl was twirled, the higher her skirt rose in the back. The pretty young victims were dazzled and giggling as the fresh pair of scallywags viewed with impunity their lower limbs.

  Onery Best was dancing like a fool. And the folks around him gave him a wide berth. His lame leg gave him a strange tilt to his gait and it seemed at any moment he might fall down flat upon his face. But he executed both the double shuffle and the pigeon wing after a fashion and the other dancers rewarded him with a smattering of applause.

  Roe Farley, the city man from the Bay State, had his wife upon his arm. Farley couldn't jig for beans, but moved in a strange rocking motion that looked like drawing water from a well. He called it the One-Step and claimed it was very popular where he came from.

  Two of Gid Weston's boys, obviously liquored up, were dancing with each other, as none of the ladies chose to partner them. They were not doing very well as each insisted on leading. Only their shared ineptness kept them on the floor.

  Eben was grinning broadly when he caught sight of Mavis. His smile vanished. She was dancing with Doward Pease. Jealousy zinged through Eben's veins and he tightened his fists. Pease was old enough to be her father, he thought angrily. Deliberately he took a deep breath and allowed more rational notions to penetrate his incomprehensible wrath. Pease was in fact the father of one of her friends. And the man's wife was not fifty yards away, in the circle of gossipers surrounding Beulah Winsloe. There was nothing wrong in Mavis being the old man's partner. Still, if Eben wasn't dancing, somehow he didn't want her to be either. It was sheer foolishness on his part. Tonight he was going to maneuver Althea Winsloe into marrying him. He had to stop wasting his thoughts and emotions on Mavis Phillips.

  “The boy has found love at last."

  The words were spoken behind him and Eben turned to find Pastor Jay standing there. The wizened old man was bent and gray and his eyes were dreamy. Yet there was a solidness about the man that was somehow comforting.

  "Evening, Pastor," Eben said politely.

  The title no longer was a true one, of course. Pastor Jay, whose mind had been slipping for nearly a decade, had retired from his position at the church nearly four years earlier. Now the pastor's flock, Eben supposed, was the invisible congregation that he talked aloud to day after day as he sat alone on the Marrying Stone gazing up into the heavens.

  "He's finally found true love," Jay continued. "And I thank the Lord Almighty for it."

  "What? Who's found true love?" Eben asked, both startled and amused.

  "Why, Jesse," Pastor Jay answered. "Don't you hear him playing it? Jesse's always spoke to us most clearly through that fiddle. Ah, he's speaking it plain. I'm in love. I'm in love. That's what his fiddle is saying."

  Eben raised a skeptical brow. "A talking fiddle and Simple Jess in love?" He shook his head. "I think you're mistaken, Pastor."

  "Truth oft looks suspect and lies are believed," he told Eben sagely.

  "Perhaps so, but who on earth could Jesse be in love with?" Eben asked.

  Thoughtfully the old man tapped a finger against his chin. "Now there, right you are, that's a puzzle," he said. "Heaven wouldn't send just any gal for Jesse. He's a favorite, you know."

  Eben smiled more kindly. "No, I didn't know. So he's a favorite of yours is he, Pastor?" Eben glanced back at Jesse, who was bowing his instrument rapidly in the yellow glow of the torches.

  The old man's eyes widened in surprise. "Oh, not mine. He's not a favorite of mine. I have no favorites," the pastor proclaimed. "All the lambs on this mountain are equal in this herder's care." He sighed with pleasure as he gestured toward the handsome young fiddler once more. "Jesse is a favorite of Heaven."

  Eben grinned, incredulous. "Simple Jess is God's favorite?"

  Pastor Jay nodded with animation. "That's what they say and of course it makes perfect sense. The Good Lord did command to 'come unto me like a little child.' Our Jesse sure always does that."

  "That's what who says?" Eben asked him with puzzled amusement.

  "Why, the angels."

  "You talk to angels?"

  Pastor Jay put his hands on his hips and looked at Eben with genuine annoyance. "Well, who else am I going to talk to around here? I spend all day, ever' day, up there on that stone. Why, if I didn't have the angels to talk to, I'd have to just blabber on to myself."

  Eben's grin broadened, but his words were soft as he patted the daft old man on the shoulder. "You just talk to whoever you've got a mind to, Pastor. And you give them my best regards."

  The aged preacher smiled kindly at him. "That I'll do, son," he said.

  "I see Tom and Orv over there," Eben continued, pointing them out. "I have some business with them and I'd best be at it."

  It was a polite dismissal and Pastor Jay nodded. "Right so, you go on about your business. You're a fine young man, son. You remind me so much of your father."

  Eben had just stepped away when he stopped in his tracks and turned back to the preacher.

  "What did you say?"

  "I said you put me in mind of your father. You are much like him, you know. Good man down at the core. A real good man at the core."

  Eben laughed, but there was no humor in it. His words were hard-edged and steely. "You've got me confused with some other fellow, Pastor," he said.

  "You're Baxley, ain't ye? Clyde and Dora's boy. I married them, you know," the old man said. "It weren't the best match I ever saw, but good come of it, I suppose. They had you."

  Eben nodded. "I'm their son."

  The pastor smiled and continued to ruminate. "I remembered you, I did. I remembered you from the funeral. It was me that spoke the words when your daddy was put in his grave. He was a fine, good man."

  "My father was weak. I am nothing like him. I despise him. He was a weak man and worthless," Eben whispered harshly.

  "Oh, no," Pastor Jay corrected, almost with humor. "That's what people thought him to be. But it was not the truth about him at all." The old man wagged a finger at Eben as if correcting a schoolboy error. "Didn't I just explain to you that truth oft looks suspect and lies are believed?"

  "I remember my father, Pastor," Eben said firmly. "I remember him very well."

  "But you only knew him when he was in prison."

  "In prison? My father was never in prison."

  "Oh, yes," the old man continued. "It was a prison all right. Drink was his prison. It held him fettered and fast."

  Pastor Jay's tone softened to consolation. "Don't grieve so, son. He's free now."

  Eben's eyes widened with shock and then narrowed with anger. He cursed vividly. "Crazy old fool!" He scowled, storming away.

  Chapter Twelve

  Jesse Best had never fiddled better. That's what everyone was saying and Althea Winsloe couldn't help but agree. Like a house afire he'd played everything from "Molly Lockett" to "Ryestraw," and "Fisher's Hornpipe." It was all wonderfully executed and without Jesse even hesitating to catch his breath.

  Althea had hardly had time to catch her own. She'd danced every dance, stopping only on two occasions to assure herself that Baby-Paisley had not gotten himself into any tr
ouble. After an exciting evening of play, the little fellow lay spent and sleeping in a pile of quilts and like-minded toddlers near the edge of the clearing.

  Althea herself was nearly breathless with exhaustion. Surely Jesse, who had played full tilt all night, must be nearly ready to drop.

  Observing Jesse, however, he did not appear overly fatigued. He looked so strong and tall and masculine standing in the glow of the pine-knot torches. His fingers moved with such dexterity upon the fiddle's fine curved neck, and when he drew the bow, it was as if his body, all of it, were a part of what made the sound. He was handsome, very handsome. And he seemed so whole. That was it, Althea realized. When he played the fiddle, none could tell that he was simple, slow witted, less than other men. Perhaps, Althea thought, that was because when he played he was not. She glanced at him once more as Oather Phillips twirled her in that direction. Jesse fiddled music from his heart, not from his mind. So when he played it, you couldn't tell that he was feebleminded. She couldn't tell it when he'd kissed her either.

  The thought brought a guilty blush to her cheeks. She'd spent much time pushing away the traitorous feelings that had come upon her when Simple Jesse Best had held her in his arms. She trembled even now at the memory of it. For that one wonderful moment she'd felt safe, desired, beloved. One sweet moment, and she was so ashamed!

  She had never shirked Paisley's touch, but it had never thrilled her as Jesse's had. That was because of the illicitness of it, she assured herself. Paisley had been her husband. He'd had a legal and moral right to her body and she'd had a legal and moral obligation to make it available to him. There was nothing legal or moral about kissing Jesse Best. It had been sin, plain as day. Breathless, heart stopping sin. And one of the worst kind. The sin of taking advantage of a lesser creature. As the set ended, she glanced up at him on the porch. His eyes were bright, his smile was wide, and a thin sheen of sweat plastered his thin cotton shirt to the masculine contours of his body. He did not look at all like a lesser creature, and certainly not one that had been sinned against.