Simple Jess

by Pamela Morsi

  "Do you want him to leave?" Buell asked incredulously.

  "It doesn't matter what I want," Lessy answered. "It's his life, Buell. It's what he wants that matters now."

  "But—"

  'There are no buts about it," she insisted. "We raised him the best we could. You did your best. I did my best. Now he's grown and is what he is. It's time we simply got out of his way."

  Buell looked over at his son. The two men were equal in height and could look each other straight in the eye. They did that for one long moment.

  "I think it's too late for me to get out of his way," Buell said finally. "I think he's already gone around me."

  Oather nodded almost imperceptibly.

  Buell looked toward his wife. She was silent, but her expression showed agreement.

  "Then there isn't any reason why I shouldn't stay," she said.

  Mavis sat down too and stared at her father. Buell looked from one to the other. His gaze then swiveled to the young man these two women of his had sworn to protect. He sighed heavily in frustration, deflated.

  "You win," he said finally. "All of you, you win." He dropped into a chair himself, as if too tired and worn to fight another minute.

  The signs of dejection did not sit well on the man's features. He sat and stared at the work-callused hands on the table before him. Oather could not bring to mind a time when his father looked this way. His usual powerful personality and strong vitality seemed to have fled him. He looked suddenly to be old.

  Buell Phillips raised his head, defeated, to watch his only son as he continued to pack his personal belongings.

  "You say that you are different," he began finally. "Well, that's not news to me, son. I knew that long before you did."

  Oather stopped his packing in mid-motion. He stared, almost disbelieving, as his father continued.

  "I could see it when you was just a little boy. I didn't know where it came from or what it was, but I knew it was there."

  Oather's expression registered surprise, confusion, wariness. His father went on.

  "I knew it, son, and I railed against it." Buell clenched his fists, emphasizing the words. "Later, as you grew, I began to suspect that I did know what it was. What manner of man my boy was going to be. I may have lived all my life on this mountain, but I ain't ignorant of the ways of the world."

  He turned his head then, to look at Oather.

  "I began to know and I fought against it," he said. "I did everything I could do to make it not so. But people just don't stop being what they are. I know that, I've always known it, just as you have."

  Buell Phillips and his son Oather stared at each other. Both felt pain. Both felt suffering, and saw it in the eyes of the other. But something more could also be seen. Honesty. For the first time between them, honesty.

  "You and I, we've always known it," Buell said. "Just like we've both known that you would have to leave this mountain. That you would have to find another place."

  Oather nodded.

  Buell studied his hands once more.

  "I worked all my life to make something to give you, son. But the only legacy I can offer you that might make you happy is to give you your freedom."

  Lessy Phillips began to cry.

  "I have to go, Papa," Oather whispered with a pained glance toward his mother. "I hate to leave, but I have to go."

  His father sighed heavily. "You're right, son. Your mama and your sister are bound to grieve a bit over it. Don't fret about that. We can expect no less from the women that love you. But you do have to go. You're right about that."

  Buell Phillips looked old at that moment, an old man, tired and beaten. He looked around the table at the woman he'd taken to wife nearly thirty years earlier and the two strong healthy children that she'd birthed for him.

  "You're right about most everything," he said. "But there is one thing that you aren't right about, Oather."

  His son's expression was curious.

  "You seem to think I'm ashamed of you and that I don't love you. In that you are dead wrong."

  "Oh, Papa."

  "You are my firstborn, my only son, my flesh and blood. I loved you, son, from the first minute I heard your baby's cry. And I've loved you every minute since. You think you haven't been the boy that I wanted." Buell shrugged. "Well, I know I ain't been the father that you wanted neither. But please, son, wherever you go, whatever you do, please know that I love you and that I always have and that I always will."

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Christmas Eve was crisp and cold. Snow was falling sporadically in light fluffy flakes. The fire in the hearth had been banked, but the loft of the Winsloe cabin was still plenty warm. Althea wrapped a warming rock in soft cotton flannel and placed it in the bottom of Baby-Paisley's shakedown cot.

  "Now if your feet get cold, you just warm them down here on this rock," she said.

  "Yes, Mama," he answered. "Do you think Santy Claus is gonna come here, Mama?"

  "I suspect so," she told him. "But you'd best go to sleep. If he thinks you're still awake he'll head out to some other little boy's front door."

  "He doan come by the front door, Mama," Baby-Paisley explained. "He comes down the chimley."

  "Oh, yes, I think I heard that," Althea admitted.

  "And, Mama," he said, "doan you worry if Santy Claus doan bring you no present. He brings for children mostly."

  "Yes, I heard that, too."

  "I think you're gonna get a present from somebody else," he hinted.

  "Oh?" Althea smiled at him. "Well, that would be really nice. Now you go to sleep."

  She kissed her handsome little son on the forehead and watched him close his eyes.

  "Good night, Mama," he said.

  "Good night, Baby-Paisley."

  Althea made her way down the ladder. The house smelled like Christmas already. She'd spent all day making sweet cakes. Baby-Paisley's sock hung from the ledge of the fireplace. Smiling at the sight, she retrieved the new voyageur's cap from her sewing bag. It had proved to be a good choice. With the deer tail ripped from his glove hat, the headgear had lost all of its former appeal.

  Althea shook her head. She could just be grateful that the deer tail hat was the only casualty of the hunting disaster.

  She had been frantic when she'd come back to the cabin to find Baby-Paisley gone. She'd known immediately that he'd followed the hunters. But she hadn't listened to their plans. She'd had no idea in which direction they had headed.

  She had wandered around aimlessly calling his name for close to an hour when she heard the shot fired up the mountain. Her heart had gone straight into her throat and she'd hurried in that direction.

  She'd met Jesse and Baby-Paisley coming down. Her boy's cheeks were tearstained and his expression sober. Althea had no idea what Jesse had said to the child, but whatever it was, somehow it had soaked in.

  She didn't get the whole frightening story until later that day. By the time she did, she was more able to control the fear that shuddered through her with an unholy coldness.

  "I know you doan believe in whippin' me, Mama," Baby-Paisley said with sincere sobriety. "But I sure done earned a lickin' and I'm willing to take it if you wanna give it to me."

  Althea was rendered speechless by this declaration. Jesse came to her rescue.

  "I suspect if the boy knows he deserves a licking," he said, "then he's already learned the lesson the licking was meant to teach."

  "Yes, yes, I suppose so," Althea agreed.

  Baby-Paisley had certainly been on his best behavior since. Althea folded the cap as tiny as she could and stuffed it into the bottom of the stocking. Then she pulled out a shiny red apple she'd been secretly saving in the soap barrel.

  She added it to the booty, being careful that the weight of it didn't pull the sock to the floor.

  It worked, she was proud. She was glad Baby-Paisley believed in Santy Claus. Althea never remembered any such person visiting her as a little girl. Not much was made of Ch
ristmas and there were never any presents. Occasionally someone would suggest that her father might return for the holiday. He never did. That story was no more real to Althea than Santy Claus.

  The dogs set up to barking out in the yard. Althea's brow furrowed curiously. She heard a light tap on the door.

  Althea expected no one at that time of night. It had to be bad news. Concerned, she hurried to the door. She opened it and was surprised to discover Eben Baxley standing there.

  Althea folded her arms across her chest and glared at him, unhappily.

  "What are you doing here this time of night?" she asked.

  "I have to talk to you," he said. He appeared thoughtful, his brow furrowed in concern.

  Althea sighed heavily and shook her head. "No," she said. "I'm not talking about it, not tonight. I've made up my mind, all right. I know who I'm going to marry, but you'll have to wait and hear it tomorrow at the Marrying Stone like everybody else."

  "Let me in, Althea," Eben said. "Things have happened. Things you can't know."

  His tone was sincere and compelling. Curiously and with resignation she opened the door wider and allowed him to pass.

  Eben wandered around the room for a minute, ill at ease. He seemed different, less certain of himself. It was, Althea thought, a change for the better.

  "May I sit down?" he asked.

  Althea raised an eyebrow. "You usually just make yourself at home," she pointed out.

  "Not anymore," he said.

  Eben seated himself at the table. Althea sat across from him. His unexpected visit was puzzling and his unusual behavior more so. Things had happened, he'd said. Althea waited patiently to hear what those things might be.

  "Oather has left," Eben said finally.

  "What?"

  "Yesterday. Oather left the mountain. He and his father had a row about what happened with Baby-Paisley, about the deer, about life, I guess about everything. They made up, or at least that's the way Mavis tells it. But Oather left anyway."

  "I can't believe it," Althea admitted.

  "Those two are just oil and water," Eben said. "They don't understand each other, never have and never will. Buell has such set ideas about what a son of his should be. And Oather just hasn't ever been able to live up to that."

  "Oather's a different kind of man," Althea agreed.

  "That poor feller has been under his daddy's thumb forever, and this, well, this was the last straw, I guess maybe for both of them."

  "Maybe it's for the best," Althea said thoughtfully. "Oather's different. He's always been different from folks here on the mountain. Maybe somewhere else he'll find folks that are more like him."

  "That's what Mavis said. She said that she wants Oather to be happy and that he has a better chance to be happy living somewhere else."

  "Mavis is a wise young woman," Althea said.

  "I hope so," Eben replied. "And I think she and Mrs. Phillips are resigned to his leaving, though they are both pretty torn up about it."

  "It must be so hard to watch your son walk away and wonder if you'll ever see him again."

  Eben nodded. "He promised he'd write them a post. Maybe if they hear that he's happy somewhere else, it will ease their minds a lot."

  "Yes, it probably will."

  "Anyway," Eben said evenly. "The fact remains that Oather is gone." He swallowed nervously. "If you've chosen Oather for your husband, well . . ." He raised his hands helplessly.

  Althea nodded, realizing his point. "I didn't choose Oather," she said simply.

  "Oh."

  The silence in the room was thick. Eben ran a hand through his hair, mussing it. Then his concentration seemed to be completely devoted to a tiny line in the crocheted Christmas tablecloth that Aunt Ada had given Althea for a wedding present. He ran his fingernail over it again and again, gathering the words to speak.

  "Mrs. Winsloe," he said, finally. "I hate to have to say this."

  He hesitated. Clearly he did hate saying it.

  "I really admire you a great deal. I haven't always, but I do now."

  "Thank you, Eben."

  "When Paisley told me he was going to marry you, well, truth to tell, I didn't think much of it at first," he admitted. "I thought he just wanted a wife and a house of his own away from his mama. I understood that really clear. I guess because my mama is just a whole lot like his. I suspect it runs in the family."

  He said the words jokingly. Althea shared the humor with him.

  "I never thought you were too special a woman or anything," Eben continued. "Just somebody to marry up with when no one else was around."

  Althea looked at him. Eben was obviously chagrined at his own words.

  "Over these last weeks," he tried more formally, "I've got to know you a good bit. You're a hardworking woman, Mrs. Winsloe. And a loving and caring one. That little boy of yours is as fine a little feller as I've ever met. He's a better legacy than Paisley Winsloe even deserves to have. Anyway, what I'm trying to say is that I do admire you and I believe you would be a fine woman for a man to wife. But, I . . ." He stumbled momentarily over the words. "I don't love you, Mrs. Winsloe, and I don't think that I ever will."

  "I don't love you either, Eben," Althea told him.

  That statement seemed to offer him some relief. "I didn't used to believe that love was so all-fired important," he admitted. "But lately I've come to the conclusion that it is. It's more important than approval or prosperity or even pride. I think you're a fine woman, ma'am, but I cain't marry you."

  "Eben," Althea said quietly, reaching across the table to pat his hand comfortingly. "I didn't choose you either."

  "What?"

  "I didn't choose you either," she repeated.

  "You didn't choose . . . but . . . who . . . ?"

  "I told you that I made up my mind," she said. "But I'm not telling a soul until tomorrow morning at the Marrying Stone. I appreciate you coming here. I appreciate your honesty. But it's late and I'll be saying good night."

  Eben rose to his feet, clearly stunned by her words. His expression was still puzzled as he stopped at the door.

  "Who?"

  "Good night, Eben."

  He was still shaking his head as she watched him disappear into the cold snowy night. She hugged herself and grinned. It was all working out better than she expected. She shook her head. She should have trusted her instincts a long time ago.

  She glanced once more at Eben walking in the distance. That man was going to turn into a real genuine human being. Althea thought she could see all the signs for sure.

  * * *

  Althea was awakened from a deep sleep by a sound that wasn't familiar. She waited in the dark, still and listening. There was somebody on the roof.

  The name Santy Claus came first to her thoughts and she pushed it away. There was something, some varmint or somebody very real, up on her roof. The dogs weren't barking. Surely they couldn't sleep through that racket. Did they not sense danger?

  Althea threw back the covers and jumped out of bed. Without bothering to stop for clothes or shoes she hurried out the door. In truth she didn't sense any danger either. Just curiosity. The snow had stopped falling. There was about two inches of the fresh white stuff on the ground as she stood in the yard in her flannel josie and barefeet.

  She stared up at the roof of the cabin, startled to see Jesse Best climbing down the outside of the chimney.

  "What are you doing?" she asked.

  "Shhhhhh!" he hushed her.

  She came closer as he reached the ground. She saw that his hands and feet were covered in dirty black soot.

  "What are you doing?" she asked again.

  "I'm leaving proof that Santy Claus was here," he answered.

  "What?"

  "Gobby Weston told Baby-Paisley that there wasn't any real Santy Claus. I thought it might be nice for him to believe a little while longer. So I told him that to find out for sure, he should check the chimney Christmas morning to see if someone had been up and in
there."

  Althea laughed and shook her head. "Jesse Best, you are going to make some lucky boy the most wonderful father," she said.

  Jesse shrugged. Then he looked at her and his expression grew puzzled. "Aren't you cold?" he asked. "You ain't got on no shoes and hardly any clothes."

  "I'm freezing," she admitted. "Come on."

  "Oh, no. Miss Althea. It's late and night and all."

  "You've got that soot all over you," she pointed out. "Come inside and wash up."

  Hesitantly he followed her into the dark cabin. She lit one tallow candle on the kitchen table and found a dishpan that she filled with tepid water.

  "I've already banked the fire," she explained.

  "This is fine," he said, pulling off his coat and hanging it on the nail by the door.

  Jesse started to roll up his sleeves.

  "Here," Althea said. "You've got soot on your cuffs, too. Take your shirt off and I'll brush it out."

  A little uneasily Jesse removed his shirt and handed it to her. His ribbed woolen union suit clung to his upper body like a second skin and he acted a little shy as if he felt exposed standing in front of Althea that way.

  She examined the dirty cuff for a moment and then walked over to the water bucket and dipped the shirt in it.

  "Don't get it wet," Jesse pleaded in an astonished whisper. "I got to wear that home. If it's wet, it'll freeze."

  "The sleeves were dirty, Jesse," she told him. "There's no way to get them clean except with water. Here, I'll hang it up and you can just wait here until it dries."

  Jesse's expression was more than a little concerned. Deliberately he turned his attention back to the dishpan of water.

  Althea hung the damp shirt in front of the fireplace. It was a big shirt that belonged to a big man. The blaze in the fireplace was banked. Althea knew full well that it would be nearing morning before the shirt could possibly be dry.

  She turned back to Jesse who washed and washed. His expression was a bit suspicious and it was as if he had no idea what else to do.

  When it was obvious that there was nothing left to wash off but his skin, Althea walked to his side carrying a dry towel. He reached out to take it, but instead of handing it to him, she proceeded to dry his hands. They were big, muscular hands that had left bear-size prints on the sides of her chimney. They were hands that had tended her stock, slaughtered her meat, and carried her son. Althea Winsloe wanted those hands.